Category Archives: adventures in retail

On writing and reading

The Sun­day Times Book Review has an arti­cle about a new book– a tran­scrip­tion, really, and I’ve read the advance copy, it’s well worth the read– of an inter­view between the late, great David Fos­ter Wal­lace and the Rolling Stone reporter and writer David Lip­sky as Wal­lace is doing his book tour after Infi­nite Jest had come out.

I have a con­fes­sion to make.  I have never read Infi­nite Jest, for no par­tic­u­lar rea­son except that I was in a Dou­glas Cou­p­land phase at the time it came out.  But– I have read (and re-read, and re-read) Broom of the Sys­tem, Wallace’s very first book, in an advance copy, because my aunt designed the book when she was at Crown or Har­court or whomever first pub­lished that book.  And I have a first edi­tion hard­cover copy of Broom, prob­a­bly lit­er­ally hot off the presses, because I raved to my Aunt about what a great book it was, how it blew me away because at age 14 or what­ever I was when I read it, I was blown away by the author’s refusal to pan­der, to not avoid dif­fi­cult things, intel­lec­tual things that might make the reader take pause to look up things with which he was unfa­mil­iar.  (I spent a whole after­noon look­ing up Wittgen­stein, for exam­ple, and went out and bought an Everyman’s Library primer to get myself more acquainted with his ideas, Wal­lace had so affected me with way he’d woven the ref­er­ences inside the book.)

This arti­cle brought it all back, and reminded me again of some of the things I’ve been learn­ing and decid­ing for myself as I try out this whole writ­ing thing.  I’d men­tioned a while ago I’ve been play­ing around with fan­fic­tion– though it’s not really play­ing, because I think any writ­ing deserves to be done seri­ously, even if I’m work­ing with some­one else’s orig­i­nal char­ac­ters.  But it’s given me a chance to work with voice and nar­ra­tive struc­ture in an envi­ron­ment where peo­ple tend to be mostly sup­port­ive and there­fore have given me the courage to write some­thing orig­i­nal of my own– and what’s ref­er­enced in the arti­cle– it’s funny.

The ten­sions there between “dif­fi­cult” fic­tion– the kind that pro­vokes the reader to think, to do some work, to be chal­lenged on an emo­tional level– and the allure of escapist or pop­u­lar fic­tion, the kind of pulp guilty plea­sure we all enjoy every once in a while–it’s some­thing I’ve even come up against in writ­ing in the fan­fic­tion world (which a lot of “seri­ous authors” scorn and treat as a bunch of abom­i­na­tion vile ripoffs), and while I’ve been lucky to become a semi-popular writer in the fan­doms I write in, I’m not the most pop­u­lar of all– because I don’t write the cute easy themes, and I tend to visit dark places in some of my sto­ries.  I use big words, I play around with chronol­ogy, I switch the nar­ra­tive stream– I don’t make it easy on read­ers, in short.

I took part in a several-months con­test of late, and while my entries always placed high in the vote with my team, gar­ner­ing lots of pos­i­tive com­ments, I never won.  I’m con­vinced it’s because I wrote things that while true to the par­tic­u­lar prompts, my sub­jects tended to be harder, more emo­tion­ally honest/brutal approaches to things than some read­ers really wanted to deal with.  And they rarely were fluffy or cute– and even when they were, there was always still some larger, dark point to be made.  It didn’t make me a “worse” writer than the peo­ple who won– just less “popular.”

““If the writer does his job right, what he basi­cally does is remind the reader of how smart the reader is,” he says. Wal­lace con­trasts lit­er­a­ture with the elec­tronic media, espe­cially tele­vi­sion, an amuse­ment that is his own per­sonal weak­ness, an actual addic­tion. “One of the insid­i­ous lessons about TV is the meta-lesson that you’re dumb. This is all you can do. This is easy, and you’re the sort of per­son who really just wants to sit in a chair and have it easy.””

That’s how Wal­lace describes the ten­sion at one point in the inter­view, and while it’s a bit reduc­tion­ist– some­times we’ve had a hard day and we deserve a light laugh– his point remains true.

Every day in the store, peo­ple come to me to ask for rec­om­men­da­tions, and half the time, they’re ask­ing me if I’ve read some­thing I think is absolute trash.  I mean– Twi­light?  Dan Brown?  Come ON.

There are romance writ­ers who write bodice rip­pers who still man­age to write female hero­ines who’ve got spine, spunk and brains who I can rec­om­mend with a con­science.  Fan­tasy and sci-fi writ­ers too.  Same thing with mys­ter­ies and action.  There are pulp genre mass-market writ­ers who gen­er­ate entertainment-type beach reads that are still good writ­ers, and by that, I mean, they work in some kind of emo­tional res­o­nance, try to make their char­ac­ters peo­ple who learn some kind of intel­li­gent les­son or do some kind of good in the world, whether or not most of it’s fluff.  But there’s so much trash out there that just turns my stom­ach, and I think of all the peo­ple who read this mind­less trash and think that it’s good or just don’t think at all and just keep buy­ing it over and over with­out pay­ing any atten­tion to all the real writ­ing out there, the things that might chal­lenge them, make them do some work in their lives, do bet­ter, be bet­ter, learn some­thing about the larger world that they’d never known before then.

Scary shit, hunh?

I was talk­ing with the hus­band when we were away for the week­end, and say­ing how I thought that in some ways, rec­om­mend­ing a book was an incred­i­bly inti­mate act.  You’re telling some­one about some­thing that was impor­tant to you– that influ­enced what you thought, how you felt (even if you don’t come right out and say so)– and you’re putting into their hands a tool that has the power to affect them the same way.  Whether it does, whether it doesn’t– well, there’s no power over that except their own recep­tiv­ity and per­haps the power of your con­vic­tion at the time of your rec­om­men­da­tion, but still.  Words have power, if the per­son read­ing them is in a place to see and read them.  And while you have no power over how a per­son inter­prets those words, the mere fact that they’re read­ing and may see them the same way you do– well.  I dwell in pos­si­bil­ity (poetry or prose.)

Next week’s my extra 10% on my employee dis­count “employee appre­ci­a­tion” week.  I’ll be adding the rest of Wallace’s works to my shelf.  And feel­ing bet­ter about not tak­ing the easy way out, even if it means it takes me a while to write hard, orig­i­nal sto­ries that may take a long, good while for any­one to actu­ally like, much less want to publish.

Head Cashier Calisthenics

Some­times, she feels like an air traf­fic con­troller, and wishes that instead of the Head Cashier phone she most times does not carry (too heavy, too clunky, and most days, well, eh, she just doesn’t need it and the ring­ing of the lines she does not have to answer is just plain annoy­ing) she had a lit­tle head­set and radio, because she sure does a lot of wav­ing and point­ing and hey, she could make it look cute.

Either that, or she’s an aer­o­bics instruc­tor with a group of par­tic­u­larly recal­ci­trant stu­dents, because they just kind of stare before wan­der­ing off.

Up, way off to the left, for Bibles, New Age and biogra­phies.  (Yes, sir, mem­oirs are there, too.  Yes, they’re like auto­bi­ogra­phies.  Really.  I promise.)  Over the cafe.  Way over there?  See– where the man in the cap’s pour­ing cof­fee?  It’s right above that.  You just need to go upstairs and then head over the cafe.  How?  Well– (move arms back toward the mid­dle, point more) the stairs and esca­la­tor are here, in the mid­dle.  (Like, RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE, because it’s the first thing the unat­tended tod­dlers run for.)

Bath­room?  One arm ele­gantly (well, she thinks so, she did paint her nails) points– “between the stairs and the esca­la­tor, all the way back through the kids, to the left of the elephant.”

Percy Jack­son?  Harry Pot­ter?  War­riors?  Twi­light?  Those would be in Favorite Series or Teen, all in the kids’ sec­tion in back, straight back on the right behind the bar­gain bays– and her arm points straightly for­ward, jut­ting com­mand­ingly that way.  The inter­roga­tors look con­fused.  “Bar­gain?” ask they.

Yes.  Those signs, there, where it says ‘Bar­gain’?  Favorite series and Teen are right behind that.”

Ah.”  They head off, ignor­ing the giant dis­play areas she’s just pointed toward.  Read­ers.  Deaf, dumb and blind.

Study aids?”  Words indi­cate the use of the esca­la­tor, fol­lowed by an arm hook to the right, a hand flap walk mid­way through the free­stand­ing aisles of the store, and then stop.

Art and col­lectibles?”  The well-manicured hand points merely up.  Same thing for coins, home-improvement, photography.

Travel?”

Over the door?”  This one is funny.  Peo­ple always look up, like they’re expect­ing the whole sec­tion to come crash­ing down on them, right then and right there.  They also say “Oh, you moved it.”  Well, yes, they did– but before I came to the store, and that was last Sep­tem­ber, you see.  Appar­ently change is never allowed.  Ever, you see.

Then there’s the bus­tle of bring­ing up boxes of reg­is­ter tape, bring­ing down tills at the end of the day, the lift-one-two-three of bas­kets of books over the counter from shop­pers buy­ing lots of books and do-you-have-a-membership-sir (It’s our exer­cise mantra, repeat it in time with your breath­ing) and the wrestling of boxes of bags onto the shelves so that each register’s got enough sup­plies to suf­fo­cate a small army.

Don’t you have paper?”

God, no, we don’t have paper bags.  Do you know how much that shit would weigh to carry up the damned stairs?

Sure, we’ve got hand trucks and v-carts and other car­ry­ing carts, but one or two at a time when we need them, it’s quick­est to carry, fastest to bust her butt down to the base­ment and get that reg­is­ter paper because of course Cafe and three and five are all out at the same time so she’s got to can­ni­bal­ize six and four for paper for them to use in the mean­time and then while she’s gone, there are three peo­ple want­ing returns all stacked up in the line, so that twenty pound box she lugged up the stairs is just going to wait while she, now lightly sweaty, turns smil­ing to say– “How can I help you?”

No reciepts, sure.  No prob­lem. (Hah, hah.)

And then there’s the older fel­lows and ladies, the ones who want that one book and stop off at her cashier sta­tion rather than go on upstairs because– well– they’re frail and old and maybe they know her and then, too, there’s the fact that per­haps the per­son work­ing cus­tomer ser­vice that day is not the best one of the lot.  So the elderly-frail asks for a book and she knows just where it is and there’s no one in line.  If she calls up to the desk, there’s a 50–50 chance the assigned person’s not going to be there, regard­less, and if she does call, they’ll take a longer time than it will if she–

… she’s up the stairs and back down with the book from the New in Hard­cover Bay faster than it takes her brain to decide.  It’s a pretty small store for a chain, after all.  The desk per­son didn’t even look up from their task.

That done, it’s time to re-do the gift cards, the ones brought up in a small series of boxes because the cart they’re all on is a beast and push­ing it up on the ele­va­tor, nav­i­gat­ing it through the gaunt­let of kids (“Do you work here?” has got to be the world’s dumb­est ques­tion.  No, she’s just ran­domly push­ing a cart full of ill-balanced col­or­ful boxes of gift cards for kicks through nar­row aisles full of peo­ple who won’t get out of her way no mat­ter how many times she says excuse me, because this is what she means when she calls it the gaunt­let of kids), and those are all bal­anced on arms like jug­gling balls and other accou­trements.  The gift card dis­plays, see, they’ve got to be up to stan­dard, and that means cer­tain pat­terns and that means LOTS of selec­tions of cards which means PLEASE SIR DO NOT TOUCH HER ON THE SHOULDER WHILE SHE IS HOLDING THESE BOXES BECAUSE NOW THEY WILL SPILL ALL OVER THE FLOOR AND THEN, ESPECIALLY THEN, DO NOT LOOK AT HER LIKE THE DUMBFUCK THAT YOU ARE.

And then, please don’t ask her your ques­tion while she’s clean­ing up.  Puh-leaze.

The infor­ma­tion desk is at the top of the stairs.”

But I want to ask you,” says the unhelp­ful, gift-card spilling jerkface.

Sir, I am busy.”  Turns her back, squats, and the cal­is­then­ics begin all over again.  “The infor­ma­tion desk is at the top of the stairs.”  For good mea­sure, with good flex­i­bil­ity, and while scoop­ing some of the cards back into their boxes, she throws one arm over her shoul­der, thumb toward the esca­la­tor, point­ing in the per­fect direction.

Don’t even get her started on the bend-twist-flap-insert three-hundred-thirty-five times on aver­age of each bag insert for each book trans­ac­tion when she bends down to go get a bag and a leaflet insert, or the ten­nis– NO– cashier’s elbow she’s going to have from all the seri­ous mus­cles in her right hand from all that hand-keying and card swip­ing.  The cans she can crush with her right hand, peo­ple.  This shit is (not) seri­ous, yo.

By all rights, she should be built like Linda Hamil­ton in T2.  She’s not, but a cus­tomer did com­pli­ment her hair just the other day, so hey– she’ll take what she can get.  And in the mean­time?  Her calves are SOLID.

Please don’t lick the monies (and other tales of retail stupidity and real rewards)

I’ve come to decide that most retail cus­tomers fall into four cat­e­gories: ass­holes, nice peo­ple, needy mcneed­sters, and freaks.

Some­times the venn dia­grams over­lap.  Some­times they don’t.  There are out­liers, of course.  Aliens who land on Earth just to make you grab your hair and say OH MY GOD WHERE THE HELL DID THEY COME FROM, like the par­ents who think it’s a fun idea to walk back­wards with their kids down the esca­la­tor dur­ing the busiest time at the store, when other peo­ple are try­ing to use the esca­la­tor to oh, say, GO UP LIKE THEYRE SUPPOSED TO.

This is when I get out my mom voice, the one I didn’t once have, and say (stern look over glasses included) “Stop that right now, go up to the top of the esca­la­tor, turn around, and come down the stairs at a respectable pace, right now sir, you in the red shirt and brown pants with the red sox cap.”  The info desk per­son came out to reg­u­late and make sure they came down, so I could remind the irre­spon­si­ble par­ent that such irre­spon­si­ble bull­shit would get them banned from the store, though I said it in a way that was more “we had some­one injured just last week doing just that, I’m sure you wouldn’t want your beau­ti­ful daugh­ter hurt, would you,” instead.

I do not like to fill out injury inci­dent reports, see, even ones where every employee in the store who’s a wit­ness to the wail­ing and bleed­ing can all clearly swear on a whole stack of bibles (located upstairs, on the left, over the cafe) that IT’S ALL THE STUPID CUSTOMER’S FAULT.

Pub­lic sham­ing.  Nope, don’t mind if I do it at all.  Those Puri­tans and their stocks, they were on to some­thing, I think.  I don’t care if it’s pas­sive aggres­sive or out­right aggres­sive or bitchy or rude.  DO NOT FUCK AROUND IN MY BOOKSTOREWERE NOT A DAMNED PLAYGROUND and I WILL LEARN YOU SOME MANNERS IF IT’S THE LAST THING I DO.  Besides, I’m sick of get­ting ice for your kid’s head injury in the cafe while you’re nowhere to be found.  Yeah.  That hap­pened, too.

There was that lady at Christ­mas, fifty years old if she was a day, who blew her red snotty nose and then LEFT HER USED TISSUE right on my counter after she was done with her trans­ac­tion.  Yes, gen­tle reader, I left my reg­is­ter.  I fol­lowed her right to the end, despite the fact that it was 8 p.m. on a Fri­day and we had a line to the end of the store.  I said “Excuse me.  You left your dirty, germy tis­sue out on my counter.  I’d like you to come back and throw it out, please.”  She fol­lowed me back.  I held up my bas­ket, she threw it out, face red, and then I got out my Lysol wipes and wiped down my counter as I wished her a good day and told her I hoped she got over her cold very soon.

The next cus­tomer told me I was her hero.

Last week, I had a lady get out her money to pay.  She had a new wad of cash from the bank, lots of new bills, and I get it, I know.  I han­dle new cash all the time.  I’ve got a vat of sticky-goo in the base­ment I use to help me sep­a­rate the new bills, make them easy to count.  Bar­ring that, you crum­ple them up a bit in your hand, then count them out– it makes it all go much smoother.

But no, not she.  Instead, in slo-mo, out comes the thumb, then the wet, glis­ten­ing tongue.  She licks the thumb, a string of drool, prac­ti­cally trail­ing, as she sep­a­rates all the ones, count­ing them out until she gets the right num­ber, then hands them to me, wet side fac­ing me.  I took them dry side down, even though it was awk­ward, and so help me, I know it was rude, but man, she used a lot of spit.  I got out a tis­sue and dried them a bit before I put them in my till.  Because– EEEEEW.

There’s a rea­son the other head cashier and I keep a quart of hand san­i­tizer under the reg­is­ter at all times.  Money is filthy, you just don’t usu­ally have to see the rea­sons why enacted out in front of you so vis­cer­ally.  So please, don’t lick the monies.  At least not where I can see.  You’ll make Doris Day cry.

And then there are the peo­ple who try to get to give you the online price.  “But I reserved it online.”  We have this handy-dandy thing where you go to the web­site, look to see if it’s in store, and if it is, BAM, the store clerk picks it out of the shelf and brings it down to the reg­is­ter to hold it for you.

I try to patiently explain that reserv­ing it online to be held at the store does not get them the online price, only the con­ve­nience of in-and-out ser­vice.  If they want the online price, they don’t get the ser­vice of some­one pulling the book off the shelf for them after it’s been put on a truck from the ware­house from New Jer­sey (or wher­ever), unpacked by my receiv­ing man­ager, shelved by my shelver, zoned by my book­sellers, and then pulled by the per­son who han­dles the online reser­va­tions who checks all the emails of the peo­ple too lazy to come in and look for the book on the shelf all by them­selves.  You want the online price, you wait the two days while Joe Shmoe in the ware­house puts it in the box and into the truck and sends it directly to you.  It’s called cus­tomer ser­vice.  And same-day con­ve­nience.  Over­head.  Learn it.  Live it.  Don’t love it, but deal with it and you know what?  I’m not going to match the online price, so kindly stop ask­ing.  Just, NO.

There are peo­ple who mum­ble and cut you off when you ask them the mem­ber­ship ques­tions, tell you they won’t sign up because Ama­zon ships free, etc., when you tell them we ship free as well to mem­bers, they tell you you’re lying even though there are SIGNS ALL OVER THE STORE, peo­ple who assume you’re illit­er­ate and inter­rupt you as you’re try­ing to ask them basic ques­tions about the book that they’re look­ing for until you can’t actu­ally look up the book– “Sir/Ma’am,” I finally say, “I will be able to do this if you would let me fin­ish a basic series of ques­tions that will allow me to com­plete an inven­tory query, so if you would please lis­ten, I would appre­ci­ate it,” peo­ple who get pissed off that you don’t take OTHER STORE reward cards and gift cards when YOU AREN’T OTHER STORE, because, um, the SIGN ON THE FRONT SAYS WHAT STORE YOU ARE, and then there are the kids who get pissed when you card them when they try to buy porn, the jerks who insist that “THE SIGN SAYS 20% OFF,” and when you say the book isn’t stick­ered as dis­counted and there­fore is the reg­u­lar price, plus, the sign says “Select titles,” they go off about it being small print and their being lawyers and not to push them around, god­damnit, because they know unfair trade prac­tices when they see them.

That was hilar­i­ous.  I pulled the sign, looked it over, said, “It’s the same size as the 20%, don’t you think?” to the cashier next to me, “and by the way, I’m a lawyer, and so is he,” and he handed it to the also-a-lawyer ring­ing next to him.  She agreed, handed it back down the line, and I put the sign down on the counter, looked at him, said some­thing to the effect that I was sorry, it wasn’t small print, would he still like the book, and if he wanted to speak to a man­ager, I was the head cashier, hello, nice to meet him.  Then I smiled and asked him how he’d like to pro­ceed.  He bought the damned book.

Hint: the three judge panel wins every time.

And then there’s the needy mcneedsters.

Them, I don’t mind, even if we’re a book­store, not a psychiatrist’s office.

We all get a lit­tle bit lonely, and if a lit­tle bit of con­ver­sa­tion or a com­pli­ment on their sweater makes them feel bet­ter, hey, what the hell.  They’re in a lot, and if they mostly read mag­a­zines and occa­sion­ally buy a mass mar­ket romance or mys­tery and talk to us when it’s not busy– where the hell else are they going to go?

There are some peo­ple so dis­or­ga­nized it’s a won­der they get through the day– “I need a book, there’s a boy, and a ball, there’s the word ‘the’ in the title,” and yet some­how we find it– and I wish I had an end­less stack of note­books and pen­cils for them, because LISTS, YOU CAN HAZ THEM.  There are peo­ple so tired and depressed and sad-looking that I worry for them, even when I’m feel­ing my black­est.  We’ve got an older man, always “cheery,” who’s retired, and his inter­est in books is polit­i­cal and finan­cial, stuff I stay out of because it just makes me depressed.  But I stay up on the news, and I know how to bull­shit, so I can talk to the guy.  I don’t know if he’s blow­ing smoke up my butt, but I gather he’s wealthy and had quite the busi­ness, but his wife’s now quite ill and gets can­cer treat­ment a lot.  The store is his out­let and frankly– he can be a bit of a time-suck.  But– he’s doing no harm, and it brings a lit­tle light to his day to flirt, tell a mild dirty joke, or agree that Eliot Spitzer’s a shmuck and the mar­ket is awful. At Christ­mas he brought me a box of Frango mints that I shared with the store.  He didn’t need to know I don’t care for mint as a fla­vor, all I had to do was say thank you.  And so I did, with a kiss on the cheek, and I got an over­joyed smile.

When it’s someone’s birth­day, or some­one is leav­ing, I bake them what­ever they want.  It’s easy for me, and it makes some­one happy.  Pineap­ple upside down cake?  You got it.  One of my favorite cafe peo­ple is leav­ing to go move in with his girl­friend and start col­lege again and I said he could have what­ever he wanted– after deep thought, he said– “Um.  Oh.  Choco­late chip cook­ies.  No.  Wait.  M & M cook­ies.  No.  Wait.  Could I have both?”  When I said yep, the chor­tle of glee that I got was so pleased.  I like that it’s easy to make peo­ple happy that way.

And then there’s the nice peo­ple.  Mr. W., the retired math teacher who comes in to com­bat pol­i­tics with me because I’m a Keyn­sian and he’s Chicago school all the way.  Mrs. C., who didn’t like Eliz­a­beth Gilbert (“so self-involved in the end, I do feel sorry for her”), but loves Alice Stein­bach and any other non-fiction rec­om­men­da­tion I make, so now I can upsell prac­ti­cally any­thing and she’ll give it a try because I “have excel­lent taste.”  Mrs. W., who’s a child psy­chi­a­trist and deals with the most severely trau­ma­tized kids, who buys utter trash and pulp mags and when I had a bad cold that lasted for months offered to write me a Z-Pak if I didn’t have health insur­ance and recently com­mented with all the weight that I’d lost that I was “lovely” and “didn’t need to lose any more.”  There’s “Crazy M” as we call her, with pre-Raphaelite hair and lace sweaters and too much girl­ish makeup, always a bit scat­ter­shot, for whom we save coupons because she has to count out her pur­chase to the last dime.  She always has a com­pli­ment for either of us head cashiers– she com­ments on our hair or our sweater or just “you have a nice aura today,” and she always, always means it, full of Grace as she is.  There’s a monk from a monastery nearby, also Grace-full, and I love inter­act­ing with him, and not just because he buys really inter­est­ing books, not all reli­gious.  (Book choices, the ulti­mate intel­lec­tual voyeurism.)  One day, he was short just a dol­lar, and the monastery had appar­ently cleaned out the car, so there was no spare change in the well.  I spot­ted him a buck from my pocket because hey– he’s a reg­u­lar cus­tomer and I wasn’t going to let him go home with­out all his books.  I told him it wasn’t a prob­lem, not to worry about it, and even as he said he’d pay me back, I for­got all about it.  The next time he came in, though, he had not only my dol­lar, but a loaf of the spe­cial bread he and his broth­ers bake just for Easter, and oh, it was eggy, sweetly-spiced heaven, even though I’d expected no kind of reward.

The freaks?

Oh, that’s a whole post unto itself.  They often over­lap with the ass­holes, and we’ve got nick­names for all of them.  They make us wish we had a blender in the base­ment, so we can add vodka and rum to our icy blended cof­fee type drinks.  Some of them have worked for the store.  They’re the rea­son, moreso than the ass­holes, that a col­league and I dearly want “Inter­na­tional Talk Back to Cus­tomers Day.”

But I’ll leave you with a list of nick­names for teasers.  Miss Piggy, Twitchy, Bare­foot Guy, Manga Man, and Blue Dread­locks.  Yeah.

The Isle of Mis­fit Book­stores.  ‘Tis a won­der­ful place.  Just don’t lick the monies.  Please?

Desperate for Par (ruminations on retail)

Des­per­ate for Par

It’s a note my coworker left me on top of one of the tills in the safe,
an echo of a phrase I used once in pass­ing.
A joke.  Sort of.
We were so out of ones, fives and rolled coin
it was giggle-inducing.
Hol­i­days work­ing in retail make you punchy like that.

It’s meta, that com­ment.
She’s home­sick for the South, just a bit,
hav­ing just moved here and all.
I’ve got my usual things– life, the uni­verse,
every­thing.  (Shelved in Sci-Fi, upstairs,
to the right, straight off the esca­la­tor, under Adams.
Yes, sir.  A-D-A-M-S.  The sec­tion starts with the As.)

Aren’t we all des­per­ate for par?
They make med­ica­tion for that con­di­tion.
Some­times I even take mine.
Since right now it’s the turn of the year,
the store’s got tables full of self-help books
(and don’t get me started on all the diet and cook­book dis­plays)
to cater to that very human desire.

Equi­lib­rium.
Bal­ance.
The need to fit within some pre-set, well-defined range.

It’s not like the list in the cash­room,
the one that tells me to keep the
fives between forty-five and sixty dol­lars,
just for exam­ple.
It’d be nice to always know where the bound­aries lie.

All those books out on the floor and yet,
for all the mer­chan­dise signs,
spe­cial stick­ers and shelv­ing dis­plays,
there’s no blink­ing arrow,
no spe­cial tag that car­ries the mes­sage the cus­tomers crave.

Roadmap to Life.
Inner Peace Here.
Guara­teed Bal­ance.
Achieve and Main­tain Your Par Values.

Most days, I’m more than will­ing to fudge the num­ber of tens, so long as I’ve got enough ones, rolled quar­ters, nick­els and fives.

Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff” is a big-selling title.

The Staff Reccommends

A lot of cus­tomers– they all think they’re wags– ask if they sell any good books.  Har-dee-har, har, she wants to reply.

One of her cowork­ers– the cool artsy-school grad, female drum­mer, was in a band, if she’s describ­ing her in a screen­play, wears chi­nos and button-down shirts and worn Vans(-ish, they might be Skech­ers or some­thing, she’s not hip enough to know the dif­fer­ence among non-clog brands of footwear) that our “hero­ine,” (note that the quotes are sar­cas­tic) snarked once on the break room that instead of Inter­na­tional Talk Like a Pirate Day, there should be Talk Back to Cus­tomers Day.

That would be fuck­ing awesome.

Total, com­plete anar­chy, but awe­some, as long as it lasted.

Her own incli­na­tion, when­ever any­one asks if they sell some­thing good, is to just say “No, only trash.  All Dan Brown, Twi­light and Fat Busters diet books all the time, noth­ing else.”  The rest of the time, she just smiles and asks what they like to read.

Mis­an­thropy, thy name is retail.

The day she walked into the store and applied for a job was the first day in two– maybe three– she’d taken a shower.  She was in the midst of a slide down after an uptick fol­low­ing a fam­ily cri­sis had forced her to be pro­duc­tive again– the need for her atten­tion and ener­gies out of the house had been some­what of a boon, and that and a wed­ding had made her exter­nal­ize things for a bit, long enough to engage with mere humans and stop being so damned with­drawn.  For a bit.

Her hus­band– poor, long suf­fer­ing bas­tard, we’ll come back to him later in far fur­ther detail– had gen­tly sug­gested that if she wasn’t going to go back to the job she’d spent far too much money going to grad­u­ate school for, then she should at least try to get out of the house.

She’d liked wait­ress­ing.  (What?  She actu­ally had.)

Then again, she’d always wanted to work in a bookstore.

Some mir­a­cle of energy hap­pened, and she got in the shower, dried her hair, put on a twin­set and skirt and some san­dals and looked more than halfway pre­sentable– she’d learned quite a lot about keep­ing up fronts, and again, more on that later– and before she quite knew what had hap­pened, because the dis­so­ci­a­tion thing with this depres­sion was a new fea­ture, she’d walked into the store and filled out the form.  (She did apply at a few places besides– they never called back.  She won­ders if it was fate.)

The man­ager was around and heart in her mouth she pasted on a smile as she tracked her down to per­son­ally hand over her appli­ca­tion because as a for­mer pro­fes­sional, she knew about sell­ing her inter­est– that and the old les­son learned, smile until you mean it.  She’d told her­self that when she was a fat kid in school, and she remem­bered it once again.  She talked to the very nice woman and it seemed to go well.

Three weeks later, she had her first day at the store.

She can’t decide if the store’s more a sit­com or a genre-defying full hour.  There are enough employ­ees to take up a full hour, the cast of full and part-timers a self-writing rou­tine.  There are the shelvers who are both drum­mers, both seem­ingly quiet, both rau­cously funny once you get them going.  There’s the cafe employee who interns at the smutty book press.  There are the brother and sis­ter who kvetch and kvell until you just want to take notes– the femme minor­ity les­bian man­ager, the man­ager who’s teeny and maybe a witch.  Then, there was the one who’s obsessed with manga and all that kind of stuff– she was sus­pi­ciously perky, but she doesn’t work there any more.

Of course, there’s also the snarky weird guy, the one who seems unpre­pos­sess­ing until, as he said that day she gave him a ride home in the snow­storm, when she told him her the­ory about the store being a sit­com– “Yeah, I’m the guy who steals the show after three episodes, the one who says stuff that’s totally ran­dom and no one can fig­ure out and is all ‘what the hell?’ until some­one says– ‘His par­ents are shrinks.  World famous ones.’”

She said “Oh,” much as she imag­ined the audi­ence would, and they both laughed their asses off most of the ride home.  They also spent a lot of time jok­ing about whether super­heroes have super­tai­lors and super­clean­ers, because someone’s got to keep their clothes clean and repaired– and debated whether it’s good or it’s evil to deprive the rest of the world of bul­let­proof capes.

She was firmly of the belief that it’s evil.  He wasn’t so sure– then again, though– child of two shrinks.  Oh, indeed.

There aren’t any vil­lians, per se– but there are peo­ple who are unremit­tingly stu­pid, a few of whom work for the store.  It leads to what she’s begun to call “short­bus cashier­ing” moments, when she and some of the oth­ers who all get along (and gig­gle too much to really be all that’s com­pletely pro­fes­sional) flash the “what­ever” sign her friend’s five-year-old niece showed her, though really it’s only funny if you’re right there– but it’s good times.

It sees them through the hol­i­days, and the ridicu­lous­ness of peo­ple shop­ping at Christ­mas.  What?  You want to return some­thing and expect to get the max­i­mum price with­out a receipt?  Sure, we’ll give you back the full price.  We don’t need to make any profit.

She’s begin­ning to feel the urge to be a box­ing nun pup­pet in her next life.

There are times when she’s so tired at the end of the day, so blither­ingly sub­ver­bal and fuck­ing exhausted that she won­ders what the hell she was think­ing– not that there’s really much choice, she burned a lot of her bridges when she left her other career.  The fact remains, though, that she laughs her ass off with these peo­ple who get her ref­er­ences to Air­plane and Python and her fel­low book sell­ers all roll their eyes to one another in com­mis­er­a­tion when a cus­tomer once again acts sur­prised that they seem to know that Fagles and Lat­ti­more both are trans­la­tors of Homer.  It’s a book­store.  In the most wealthy sub­urb of Boston, the one home to how many col­lege pro­fes­sors?  They prob­a­bly have more freak­ing Homer than half the book­stores in Athens.

It just makes her want to say, utterly straight­faced, “No.  We don’t have any good books.”

The man­ager she refers to inter­nally as “Madam Drill Sergeant” (in a good way, and she makes the best fudge) says things like “Gird your damn loins, peo­ple, we’re get­tin’ ready to open” first thing in the morn­ing, and every­one gig­gles like morons down in receiv­ing when she declares that she is the Banana­grams Queen because she has a back­stock with her at the reg­is­ters thanks to the spe­cial arti­cle in the paper.  Seri­ously.  Peo­ple act like she’s grant­ing a boon when she says yes, they may have another.

It’s the lit­tle things, stu­pid stuff, really, none of it really orig­i­nal, and who’d want to watch a sit­com about a national chain book­store any­way, there’s already Chuck and the Buy More, which is excit­ing because that’s about spies.  This’d be about a washed-up lawyer hav­ing a ner­vous break­down before her thirty-fifth birthday.

Kind of bor­ing, she thinks– except that she loves all her col­leagues, her made-for-TV cowork­ers, the ones who chor­tle and gig­gle and snort when she jokes about writ­ing “Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Book­store” or some­thing.  They make her feel young, like she’s not such a wash-out, even though she’s only been there a bit and doesn’t know all their stories.

She doesn’t know if they’re hid­ing from other things, if this is their job in the mean­time, if this is what they’re doing until they fig­ure things out, or if this is it because this is what they can han­dle.  And she’s scared to ask, mostly because she’s scared to find out what the answer will be for herself.

On New Year’s Day, though, after three and a half or so months’ worth of work, she gets one kind of answer.

The place is kind of cliched.  It’s a small­ish book­store in a much larger chain, the red-headed stepchild in the dis­trict, she thinks.  Maybe.  They might really be the Isle of Mis­fit Toys, though no one’s declared the desire to be a den­tist, not an elf or a mer­chan­dise man­ager or what­ever the hell. The fact still remains, though– they’ve got no music or video depart­ment, they’ve half of the floor­space of the five clos­est stores, and their pub­lic events bud­get is prac­ti­cally nil– but damn, their peo­ple are clever and funny and she loves them to bits.

At the end of the shift, she stops to con­fer with her cohort and pass on a wee bit of not so much gos­sip as news of pos­si­ble changes, to share what she thinks.  She does this, not because she wants to tell her col­league what she wants her to do– it’s just to pass on the word.  Her col­league, how­ever, just gives her the gor­geous Mona Lisa smile that she wears and says “That’s fine with me, you’re the Supreme Allied Commander.”

She laughs and replies.  “Girl, I’m way cuter than Eisen­hower, and you know it.”

Her cohort smiles, shakes her head.  “You are finer than Ike, that is true.”

Her col­league– who has the same job title and many of the same duties– and the cashier, give her lit­tle salutes as she walks out the door at the end of her shift.

And– it’s a shock, albeit pleas­ant– to be seen as the one in command.

She returns the salute.  She’ll be back in the morn­ing.  Those bas­tards who don’t have receipts for their returns won’t know who hit them.

She will, though.  She’s Ike, the Banana­gram Queen.