I visited the library today—I say visited because they won't let me sleep there—and I picked up a book—the suspense!—and I went to the checkout line. I handed the gentleman my book and as I was doing so my eyes caught a glimpse of his name tag and I proceeded to do a double-take. It said "Chilly Heinz." I'm thinking, What? Is he the heir to the ketchups kept in refrigerators?
I asked him if this was his real name and he responded, "People call me that and that's what the name tag says."
Hey, nice attitude, dude. I really appreciate the sarcasm. By the way, take those headphones out of your ears; and you're right, I probably have never heard of that band.
I'm thinking, This is a library. You have a lot of Daves and Richards and Mary-Annes, but never something so strange as Chilly. Was his father tripping on acid in the late 70's in the wintertime right before he witnessed the birth?
It also doesn't help that the dude is clearly trapped in an era that hasn't happened yet. He's got the nose ring—90's, check—he's got the shirt with zippers on it—80s, check—he's got the general attitude of a jerk—the bar scene, check—and I'm sitting here wanting to say, Just pick a decade, dude. But it's not going to happen anyway because this guy will never be cool. Suit and tie, brother. Not at the library where you can brag about reading Proust in the hostel you stayed at while you were backpacking in Germany.
This post may be long but I guarantee you this happened within the span of a couple of seconds. I wasn't standing there for four minutes with a blank look on my face.
I look down at what I'm wearing: sweatpants, slip-on canvas shoes, a sweatshirt, and the general distaste for being outside right then. Immediately I know what he's thinking. "It's cool to be poor, bro. I was for a little bit. It was when I was backpacking through Berlin."