Seven Stories about working in a bookstore:

The job, itself

By Pablo D'STAIR

If there was training involved to work at Bravado Bookmark, I don’t readily recall what it was—other than using the till (which was fairly standard model) and learning to use the special order computer (which took about ten minutes to get the hang of) it was pretty much a milling around sort of place.

Girl looking for Shakespeare"

To be fair, I should point out that (though at the time I would’ve said otherwise) I was not much of an employee, so perhaps I was just missing something—but none of my co-workers ever did much else, either, except the “shift manager” would have to deal with shipments every few days. It was mostly endlessly rearranging the shelves.

***

This was a strip mall bookshop—a large wall of magazines and periodicals; two large shelf-rows and two large tables of bargained books, remainders, anthologies of works in the public domain; a few stands of greeting cards and bric-a-brac.

Then there was the book-section-proper, this being the surrounding store walls (which were primarily General Hardcover Non-Fiction, Self Help, Children’s, and Cook Books) and two shelf-rows (one shared halfway with remainders) of Fiction, Literature, Theatre/Essays, Science, Biography, True Crime, History and miscellaneous.

I seldom set foot anywhere but the non-remaindered row-shelf section, taking the assignment of keeping this straight—eagerly taking the assignment on day two of the job, the last time I can recall anything remotely like specific assignments being talked about.

***

I took it dreadfully serious at first, found the Fiction section, for example, in extreme disrepair, decided I would completely rework it, balance it as close to mathematical, alphabetical perfection as could be done—I spent a shift doing this (only facing out books I thought were worth facing out, silly stuff like that) and I was so very proud of myself, I wanted a bloody trophy.

Of course, a customer (kind of a rarity at Bravado) would come in and surely they would wreck the set-up and do so somehow in such a fashion that it caused major rebalancing to be needed at least every day if I wanted the pristine nature kept up. This broke my heart, each time it happened, it just broke my heart.

My favourite was the tiny Literature section—clearly distinguishing itself from the Fiction section. It was the top three rows of one of the skinnier shelf units, the Theatre/Essay section right beneath it (this having two rows designated but only enough books to, sensibly balanced, cover one-and-a-half—no way to condense to one, no way to expand to two without running Literature into it, which for whatever reason was strictly against the rules).

This is the section I’d stolen all the Dostoyevsky from and looking at it every day from the point-of-view of Employee it’s what started the germ festering that this bookstore was actually my personal collection, the books mine for the taking.

But, the first thing I stole while on payroll was from the Science section. It took me a lot of passes, a lot of times looking at it to finally make the move—likely I also had residual worry from what had happened at Baskin Robbins, I wanted to know how things were kept track of, if the store actually had cameras, how something would be noticed if it went missing before I started helping myself.

The object of my affection was a set of book-and-cassettes, Richard Feynman’s Six Easy Pieces (wonderful, heavy yellow packaging) and then right next to it Six Not-So-Easy Pieces (red packaging). I always and still do have a soft spot fascination for physics—I have a very dubious layman’s grasp of all things physics related, but Christ if I don’t love physics.

I was ten times interested in these pieces because of the cassettes, actual recordings of the lectures as Feynman gave them—it was the perfect fetish for me, my adoration of live, scratchy audio recordings of anything thrown into the mix.

Feynman’s memoir (Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman) was there, as well and it just wooed me, I walked past it twenty, thirty times a shift just to tap the spine. I wasn’t sure how to pronounce the guy’s name, and I’d stare at the spelling, just hold the book staring at the spelling (Fen-Eh-Man? Fayn-Man?) the actual pronunciation (Fine-Men) never occurring to me.

I don’t even remember how it is I finally made off with the thing—it was a bulky piece and I was far too nervous to secret it—there were very sporadic bag checks, always just this residue-semblance of professionalism and as I was clearly a criminal sort I was jaggedly paranoid, never really warming up to my co-workers, even when I was arbitrarily promoted to be a “shift manager” myself.

However it happened, I looted the Science section of the Feynman—all of it, I found QUE there as well—and then nabbed The Beak of the Finch, loved everything about that book from the feel of the edition to the cover to the content.

***

I always eyeballed the pornography, saw it from the cashier-station there all along two top rows, but never made a swing at it—it was weird when people I recognized as workers from other of the strip mall shops would pop in and just stand there flipping through a Cheri or a Club International.

Though I was of age and was relatively sure that Shalvo took magazines to the back all the time I didn’t want Pamela to think I was that kind of guy—not because I took a shine to her, just because I think it would have sent my noia over the top, like if people knew I “read pornography” they would be more likely to suspect me of making off with Gogol’s Diary of a Madman and other stories or Meno and Phadrus by Plato.

***

I spent (usually) half of my shift alone, at least—the manager popping in at odd times and leaving always an hour or so into his shift if we were doubled—and the lack of customer base started giving me that detached, retail clerk headspace. I’d tuck myself behind the register, worried that if I stepped away someone would come in and ruin my tense tranquility.

"Pablo D'Stair shelving books"

This is what got me peeking through the cabinets, noting the piles of books with pink or yellow tags on them, folk’s names scribbled. Wonderful things in there—it was the first time I saw one of the standard white editions of Calvino (Cosmicomics) for example—and I put it together (noting the pile of pink and yellow tabs by the special order computer and remembering my ten minutes of training) that these books came in during shipment, the papers the special order pick up receipts—Paid (pink) or To Be Paid (yellow).

Curious as to when all these special orders were made (I had, for example, never had a customer ask me to order something, yet alone Calvino) I inspected the receipts—some were six months old, some were eight, some a few weeks.

It was just willy-nilly—they came in, they sat there.

***

The possibilities of adding to my book collection exponentially increased.

***

“Hey, am I allowed to buy any of these?” I asked Pamela.

She shook her head, though seemed to think special orders were all a farce.

“But it looks like these have been here for a year, you know?”

“We’re supposed to send them back. I think Shalvo is going to get around to it, we have more boxed up in back that are processed but we need some more forms from corporate to send the box.”

I nodded, no idea what any of that meant.

***

The form to place a special order didn’t require much—name, signature, identification number, phone number, all things that could be easily invented, not that it seemed they were ever checked (the phone number was the only problem, but I did note that a few sheets had scribbled across them No Calls—Hold for Pickup).

And of course I wouldn’t want to overdo it, would have to order something, let it lay around awhile, slip it out unsuspectingly after it had been forgotten—if someone actually did ship these all out in the meantime, well bad luck on me, but I just couldn’t imagine that being the one thing that actually got done.

***

I typed titles into the computer, author’s names, nothing in mind, particularly, to run off with—it was just possible, just a thing that could be done, no point not taking my chance.

My test case was an edition of A Clockwork Orange labeled ‘cloth, first’ which I imagined meant First Edition Hardcover. It sounded cool, but nothing could have prepared me for the beauty of the thing—no dustjacket, a kind of orange design all but engraved in the stiff cloth cover and it was the expurgated edition, twenty chapters long instead of twenty-one, glossary at the end.

I couldn’t believe it when I saw it sitting on the counter, wrapped in a yellow receipt, No Calls—Hold For Pick Up scribble scrabbled across it, the imaginary name and imaginary drivers license number of my imaginary customer neatly written in felt marker in my own handwriting (I’d figured it was easier to say I had filled out the information than to attempt to disguise my hand).

***

Despite all of these treasures, I was at a point in my life where I had a lot of other things going on and so the job, like any job, started to take a pointlessly out-of-proportion toll on me. And like with all jobs, even though I didn’t do anything most shifts but talk to myself and abscond with whatever I wanted, I started wanting more hours and started needling my co-workers about the pointlessness of “company policies”.

I got defensive if my straightening techniques weren’t beloved and if customers came in and I didn’t like some little thing about them I would seethe—no one, you know, ever bought books, never did someone come in for something interesting, never did I have a nice chat with someone about something they had read or about writing in general.

Shalvo, Pamela—they, neither of them, read. Some other young guy who I never worked with, they said he read, but that didn’t help me.

I generally unspooled as the novelty of a job in a bookshop doing nothing started wearing off—even the books, lovely baubles that they were, they started becoming bland prizes, what could I do with them?

***

The register, how to grift from the register?

It couldn’t be so hard, but somehow I didn’t want to push my luck—I’d already lost my job at the movie theatre (three shops down the same strip) and at Baskin Robbins (the other side of the parking lot) and I didn’t have any other prospects set up, was taking enough risks as it was, figured I should leave the money alone.

And I did—I really did. Even when such scrambled up perfect opportunities to get an extra few bucks in my pocket came up.

For example: a man and his daughter (high school sophomore, I think, younger than me but didn’t seem like I should be that old yet) came in wondering did we have a Collected Works of Williams Shakespeare.

“Sure we do,” I said (despite having a girlfriend quite springy to show my cavalier and helpful attitude to the girl). And we should have had—should have had one of those faux leather cover, gilded edged tomes, remaindered, bargained, on sale for something like twenty bucks—should have had a stack of them, but they were nowhere to be found.

“That’s alright,” the father said.

“Well,” I hurried up, stumble talked, “did you need some play in particular?”

“I need The Tempest,” the girl said and I nodded, yes, like I knew just what that meant, like there was some deep understanding between us.

“For school?”

She chuckled out her nose, nodded.

Bravdo Bookmark as personal collection"

“We have The Tempest,” I said, business-like turning back to the father. Then, no preparation, no thought of how it might come across, I said “Look, we really ought to have had that collected edition and we didn’t—you’re put out and I want to make it right by you.

That collection would’ve cost you twenty bucks, so I’ll tell you what—you go to the Theatre section, right down there, bottom two rows, and you take all of the Shakespeare we have and it’s yours for…fifteen, we’ll call it fifteen since the whole set should have cost you twenty.”

For whatever reason—and this sometimes puzzles me, now that I am a full grown adult—this father thought it was a great idea, a crackerjack deal. “Alright, sir—I appreciate your wanting to do right by the customer.”

I nodded, simpleton, the girl having laughed like she wasn’t sure about any of it, the father having tapped her elbow that yes she should go get all of the individual editions of Shakespeare she could find. I just popped the register with the button underneath, took the guy’s twenty—all of a sudden dead bashful, unable to even look at the girl when she said “Thank you so much, this turned out even better, I like them one at a time like this”—and shut it in.

Then stood there, not moving.

***

Wasn’t it obvious that I could take that twenty? That it was mine—that I had not only let half of the theatre inventory out the door for nothing but had unnecessarily taken this guy’s money—couldn’t I keep it in my pocket, order pizza, have a celebration of some kind?

Yes, but I didn’t.

Instead, I browsed the shelves until I found three books, totaling just over twenty-one dollars, rang them into the register, took the difference in price out of my pocket (rounded up to the nearest dollar) bagged the books and set them, with receipt, on the counter. Somehow, this seemed to minimize everything, it seemed to show me I was capable of reasonably keeping myself somewhat restrained.

Pablo D’Stair welcomes reader contact/comments. He can be reached at [email protected]