I'm going fucking bald. More hair escaped today, I know it. So I stand in front of this mirror, doing neck-yoga to find a penny-sized crater at the top of my head expecting to catch the next few in the act. And maybe for my waist to expand another inch or so.
Headboard abuse, that's what just what I'll say. Shifty, my crooked bottom tooth CHORTLES at me.
A knock at the door.
Adam? You in there?
Um. Yeah...
Everything ok?
Fine, yeah. Just. Give me a minute-
Hey, yeah, your fifteen's up, and you have to cover Aubrey's break-
Yeah, I KNOW-
You've been in there for over twenty minutes-
Yeah, I just. I'm Almost done..
A sequence of cleverly timed flushes. The white rush of the running faucet.
I open the door. My coworker Rich stands there, a Starbucks cup in his hand.
Wow. Must have been one epic shit.
Huh? Oh, yeah. Stomach's acting up. Probably the chili con carne from the cafe upstairs. All those beans-
'Its chicken NOODLE today..'
'Oh. Well..What..the FUCK was I eating then, HUH?'
My face contorts into a puzzled, energetic grin.
(JesusBalls, I'm a loser..)
We walk.
'Why not just use the bathroom upstairs?' He finally asks. 'It's quicker-'
'Yeah, well, faculty bathrooms cleaner..-' I say.
'It reeks of piss from the backed up urinal, and I’m PRETTY sure there's an actual turd hanging from the ceiling..-'
'..That's pretty much odorless now...'
'Huh?'
'Nothing, nothing. I just like my privacy, you know?'
'Yeah, I guess.'
We step on the elevator. Upper Level: General Reading. Magazines/periodicals. Cafe.
'You definitely don't want to risk the children's section smelling like a backed up septic tank either', he continues.
'Heh. Yeah..'
'Me, I'd just blame it on some kid. Throw one under the bus and the others jump all over him like spider-monkeys. Parents all rush to get the little pricks under control-BOOM, attentions off you.'
'I'll have to remember that', I say.
The elevator door opens. We hop off, and Aubrey is waiting there, holding papers of some kind in her hand.
'Oh, you found him! Awesome', she says, swerving past us.
'Well guys I'm going on break. Adam, could you handle this pull-list? Thanks!'
She pushes two hand carts and a stapled list loaded with selections from this year's best at me: Best gay erotica; Best gay sports erotica; Best gay military erotica; Some modern urban classics mixed in: Desperate Hoodwives; Thug Lovin; Flexin and Sexin.
She smiles at me and I barely notice the elevator door close. She is headed down while up here I'll be spending the next hour or more stacking twin towers of pulpy smut.
'Have fun man', Rich says walking off.
I see Gay-Porn Man is sitting in his designated spot, thoroughly enjoying a stack of titles on my list.
(Fuckme hate today...)
Showing posts with label Bookstore. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bookstore. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Adventures in the Book-Trade, Part I
I. A man, smelling as though he’d spent the past several days in the cargo hold of a Dutch East India Company trade ship inquires as to a book on “immediate response psychiatry.” I tell him the publication date of the book he wants is the tenth of February, as the computer screen indicates, and should you want to reserve a copy now we will hold it for you on the day it comes out. He doesn’t see why if he reserves it now, he doesn’t get it earlier than that—than the date it is released on the market PERIOD. As though the screen were some kind of Free Mason’s riddle, he leans in to have a better look. Really close. The pungent smell of nutmeg and curry…
II. A man and a woman, late thirties, early forties perhaps, literally prance into the children’s section dressed faintly like members of some kind of trendy, traveling bard-cabaret. Brother and sister I guess, though difficult to distinguish at times. Brother has on tight black jeans, woolly boots and a violet skull-cap and reminds me of an effeminate Cat-in-the-Hat. They are looking for a series of kids’ books called the Traveling Benedicts something-or other and as if on cue have a smug comment for everything co-worker Liz and I tell them. She wonders out loud to me if we are part of some candid camera experiment going on. They are entirely too giddy, and any form of happiness typically only stirs up resentment and paranoia in us book folk at that time of night. Sister reminds me of a witch. Not a bad one, necessarily, but not Glenda-like either; more like the flighty, bleach-blond, boozy pill-popper witch of the south (who wears too much make-up). It occurs to me that Dorothy in fact becomes the Witch of the South in Frank Baum’s world, and would pass the mantle to her daughter, and so on. Considering the lineage it all starts to make perfect sense…
III. A group of choral geriatrics decides to grace the bookstore with their broken renditions of a very, VERY Berle Ives Christmas, with an assortment of show tunes mixed in. My co-worker Sean and I have to set up the chairs at the forefront of the store’s upper level. Despite our insistence that we will take care of it, the “maestro”, an outspoken woman in her seventies or worse shows us how to set them up properly, dragging two interlocked chairs behind her, knocking over an additional two. The set has the feel and sound of a difficult childbirth, persisting for well over an hour. Customers in the store leave, while those at the door refuse to commit and turn around. Maestro is very lively and animated, dancing around and swinging her little composer’s wand, which I suspect she lifted from a Harry Potter activity book. Resentment overtakes me each time I see her head pop up over the shelves I’m stacking, not because of her ridiculous movements, but more for her ill prepared chorus of singers, a clear sign of her poor leadership, (or perhaps the huge collective lie she is responsible for concerning the old farts’ ability to sing. One of those.)
IV. A woman, incensed that, NO we do not offer gift wrapping services informs me that our other locations, as well as our competitors do at little table stations and would it really be going out of YOUR way to do the same? I tell her I can quadruple bag her purchase, spinning it in a special labyrinth of recycled holiday plastic if she is so inclined. She is not.
V. An older man asks me what I know about the NOOK, our new e-book reader. “Why it’s one of the two most vital components of a Thomas’s English Muffin, of course,” I tell him. His stare is like that of a shop front mannequin—artificially inviting, though mostly neutral and aloof. He goes on to speculate for a while about how the manufacturers will work out what he thinks are the glitches for a proposed NOOK-2 model. “Perhaps they will call that one the CRANNY,” I enthusiastically say.
VI. A couple inquire as to a book for their grandson; five years old and of course very “smart”. I point wife to Shell Silverstein’s classic “The Giving Tree”, metaphorically rich, touching, and simple from which there is a clear message. The memory of it warms her. Husband is not impressed and ignoring me tries to sell her on a book about a talking tractor and his friendship with a young deer. Rather than a children’s literary classic from a master he suggests a story about anthropomorphic FARM EQUIPMENT. “He’s a BOY-boy,” he tells me, “and into ‘BOY things’.” Don’t be disappointed sir, I quell the urge to tell him, but the deer, or half of him at least probably doesn’t end up over a fireplace at story’s end.
VII. A kid, about eleven or so excitedly enters the children’s section. His parents are very eager to leave, but he insists: “I know exactly what I want now, can’t I just run and go get it?” He walks through the archway entrance slowly and in awe as though it were the Stargate, points to book one of The Last Olympians on display, and asks me where the rest of Rick Riordan may be. I scan through TEEN, and then JUVENILE FICTION. No dice. “If your parents get on ya about taking too long, just blame it on me ok?” He nods. More rummaging. He points to Eoin Colfer’s extensive Artemis Fowl series: “Those were good too. I’ve read all of those.” He then spots what we are looking for overhead in JUVENILE FICTION SERIES (I mean, what the hell was I thinking?) Parents arrive. He pleads with his father for a set of all three sequels. “Remember how fast I read the first one?” What a surprise, the wishes of a child at Christmas time win out again. They leave.
A kid defies his parents’ demands that he hurry up. NOT in a Toys R Us. NOT in a Gamestop, or a Best Buy, but a bookstore. Through his best efforts he coaxes them into buying not a video game, remote control whatever, or DVD, but another book, the author of which he knows by both name and reputation. The smile lasts through the remainder of my shift.
II. A man and a woman, late thirties, early forties perhaps, literally prance into the children’s section dressed faintly like members of some kind of trendy, traveling bard-cabaret. Brother and sister I guess, though difficult to distinguish at times. Brother has on tight black jeans, woolly boots and a violet skull-cap and reminds me of an effeminate Cat-in-the-Hat. They are looking for a series of kids’ books called the Traveling Benedicts something-or other and as if on cue have a smug comment for everything co-worker Liz and I tell them. She wonders out loud to me if we are part of some candid camera experiment going on. They are entirely too giddy, and any form of happiness typically only stirs up resentment and paranoia in us book folk at that time of night. Sister reminds me of a witch. Not a bad one, necessarily, but not Glenda-like either; more like the flighty, bleach-blond, boozy pill-popper witch of the south (who wears too much make-up). It occurs to me that Dorothy in fact becomes the Witch of the South in Frank Baum’s world, and would pass the mantle to her daughter, and so on. Considering the lineage it all starts to make perfect sense…
III. A group of choral geriatrics decides to grace the bookstore with their broken renditions of a very, VERY Berle Ives Christmas, with an assortment of show tunes mixed in. My co-worker Sean and I have to set up the chairs at the forefront of the store’s upper level. Despite our insistence that we will take care of it, the “maestro”, an outspoken woman in her seventies or worse shows us how to set them up properly, dragging two interlocked chairs behind her, knocking over an additional two. The set has the feel and sound of a difficult childbirth, persisting for well over an hour. Customers in the store leave, while those at the door refuse to commit and turn around. Maestro is very lively and animated, dancing around and swinging her little composer’s wand, which I suspect she lifted from a Harry Potter activity book. Resentment overtakes me each time I see her head pop up over the shelves I’m stacking, not because of her ridiculous movements, but more for her ill prepared chorus of singers, a clear sign of her poor leadership, (or perhaps the huge collective lie she is responsible for concerning the old farts’ ability to sing. One of those.)
IV. A woman, incensed that, NO we do not offer gift wrapping services informs me that our other locations, as well as our competitors do at little table stations and would it really be going out of YOUR way to do the same? I tell her I can quadruple bag her purchase, spinning it in a special labyrinth of recycled holiday plastic if she is so inclined. She is not.
V. An older man asks me what I know about the NOOK, our new e-book reader. “Why it’s one of the two most vital components of a Thomas’s English Muffin, of course,” I tell him. His stare is like that of a shop front mannequin—artificially inviting, though mostly neutral and aloof. He goes on to speculate for a while about how the manufacturers will work out what he thinks are the glitches for a proposed NOOK-2 model. “Perhaps they will call that one the CRANNY,” I enthusiastically say.
VI. A couple inquire as to a book for their grandson; five years old and of course very “smart”. I point wife to Shell Silverstein’s classic “The Giving Tree”, metaphorically rich, touching, and simple from which there is a clear message. The memory of it warms her. Husband is not impressed and ignoring me tries to sell her on a book about a talking tractor and his friendship with a young deer. Rather than a children’s literary classic from a master he suggests a story about anthropomorphic FARM EQUIPMENT. “He’s a BOY-boy,” he tells me, “and into ‘BOY things’.” Don’t be disappointed sir, I quell the urge to tell him, but the deer, or half of him at least probably doesn’t end up over a fireplace at story’s end.
VII. A kid, about eleven or so excitedly enters the children’s section. His parents are very eager to leave, but he insists: “I know exactly what I want now, can’t I just run and go get it?” He walks through the archway entrance slowly and in awe as though it were the Stargate, points to book one of The Last Olympians on display, and asks me where the rest of Rick Riordan may be. I scan through TEEN, and then JUVENILE FICTION. No dice. “If your parents get on ya about taking too long, just blame it on me ok?” He nods. More rummaging. He points to Eoin Colfer’s extensive Artemis Fowl series: “Those were good too. I’ve read all of those.” He then spots what we are looking for overhead in JUVENILE FICTION SERIES (I mean, what the hell was I thinking?) Parents arrive. He pleads with his father for a set of all three sequels. “Remember how fast I read the first one?” What a surprise, the wishes of a child at Christmas time win out again. They leave.
A kid defies his parents’ demands that he hurry up. NOT in a Toys R Us. NOT in a Gamestop, or a Best Buy, but a bookstore. Through his best efforts he coaxes them into buying not a video game, remote control whatever, or DVD, but another book, the author of which he knows by both name and reputation. The smile lasts through the remainder of my shift.
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