“You’ve been shelving too many romance novels,” I called after her, then turned back to my phone.
I decided to give more context.Our library ladder is about 8 feet tall, wooden, with wheels that no longer roll properly. The top rung cracked, and several others feel iffy. My bullheaded boss refuses to replace it until the new fiscal year, but I need to reach the top shelves this week.
I hesitated, then added.I appreciate any advice, but please don’t feel obligated to help a random librarian with her ladder crisis!
I sent the message, tucked my phone away, and returned to organizing mythological creatures by region of origin. The centaurs couldn’t logically be next to the kappas, after all.
Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzed again:
I’m not bullheaded.
I stared at the three words, confusion creasing my brow. Why would he think I was calling him bullheaded? I’d clearly been referring to my boss, hadn’t I?
Unless…
Oh.
Oh no.
Had he taken my “bullheaded boss” comment personally? Did he think I was making some sort of reference to him? But that made no sense—he wasn’t my boss, and I didn’t even know him.
“Problem with your mystery builder?” Brenda asked, noticing my perplexed expression.
“I think he misunderstood something I said,” I replied, showing her the message.
Brenda adjusted her glasses. “Interesting. Perhaps he’s sensitive about his appearance? Bald men sometimes get touchy about bull references.”
“But I wasn’t talking about him at all,” I protested. “I was talking about my actual boss, who is stubbornly refusing to replace the ladder.”
“Well, clarify then,” Brenda suggested. “Communication is key, even with wrong numbers.”
I nodded.Oh! I wasn’t referring to you at all. I meant my actual boss at the library, who’s being stubborn about equipment budgets. Sorry for the confusion!
The response took longer this time. I’d returned to shelving and had almost forgotten about it when my phone finally buzzed.
I see. My apologies for misinterpreting.
Such formality. Such precision in his wording. Who texted like this? It was like corresponding with someone from another century who’d been given a smartphone but no instructions on modern communication shortcuts.
Yet I found myself smiling at his message. There was something refreshing about his direct approach, his lack of emojis or “lol” or the dozen other ways people softened their digital communication. He simply said what he meant, without embellishment.
That’s quite all right. Text makes it hard to catch tone sometimes. So, about that ladder…
And just like that, we were back on track. Over the next couple of hours, between helping patrons and working on the display, I exchanged messages with my mystery correspondent. He asked precise, technical questions about the ladder’s dimensions, materials, age, and specific structural failures. I answered as best I could, occasionally taking pictures of the offending ladder from different angles.
His responses were always concise, thoughtful, and strangely formal. No small talk. No personal questions. Just focused problem-solving about library ladders, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to dive into depth about wood joinery and weight distribution with a wrong number.
By closing time, I had a growing fascination with this unknown person who’d taken such interest in my mundane problem.
“So,” Brenda said as we locked up, “are you meeting him?”
“Meeting who?” I asked, deliberately obtuse.
“Your ladder knight in shining armor,” she replied, zipping her jacket against the evening chill. “The mysterious wrong number who’s spent all day discussing wood grain and structural supports with you.”
I shook my head. “Of course not. That would be…” What? Inappropriate? Dangerous? Merely weird? “…presumptuous,” I finally settled on. “He’s just being kind.”
“Mmm, yes, men are known for spending hours texting about ladders with women they have no interest in,” Brenda deadpanned. “It’s the classic move.”
