I may not work at a bookstore, but that doesn’t mean I’m no longer a bookseller. Gas Station Burrito Used Books is open for business
I used to joke that all of the books I was buying and stockpiling and collecting, (because collecting is just the word hoarders use to sound less creepy) was my retirement fund. One day I’d be retired with nothing else to do but write and drink coffee and read. And yell at those goddamned kids to get off my lawn. I can’t wait to yell at kids. And I’ll get to do all this while wearing dapper old man sweaters. Probably with my new slacks, since I’d be at the age then to use the word slacks without sounding creepy. I’d be an old, respectable, non-creepy book collecting, slacks wearing old man. Life would be good.
Life would be good because I’d finally get to read all these books that I bought over the years; the ones that sounded interesting enough to take as advanced readers, or to buy for a few dollars at a yard sale or used book sale. They were interesting enough to buy, but never quite interesting enough to read immediately. Or I’d start reading one only to get distracted by a dozen other equally interesting titles.
Unfortunately, it just isn’t possible to hold onto all these books anymore. As I may have to with my actual retirement fund (the one that allegedly has real money in it, depending on the mood of the stock market), it’s time to cash it in.
When I moved in with my girlfriend about 99% of my books had to get boxed up; we simply didn’t have the room in the apartment. This didn’t stop me from buying more books, you understand, it only meant that the ones I had before went into storage. I even bought second copies of books I knew were boxed up because it was easier than digging through my storage unit (read: my parent’s attic)
By sort, of course, I mean fight about what had to stay and what to go. Books are very serious in this house. There have been tears. Those tears may have been mine…
The plan was to donate the twenty or so boxes of books and movies that didn’t make the cut to the annual used book sale at the Kenmore Library, but we missed the drop-off. Nothing’s going on with that room yet, so I suppose we could shut the door and ignore them until next year, or even donate them somewhere else. But that would require me carrying all of those boxes down the stairs and making multiple trips to wherever. Look, they just put up another season of Longmire on Netflix, I don’t have time for that.
Or, instead, I could put them up for sale. Then I only have to carry the books down the stairs one at a time. As they sell. And people give me money. Much better plan.
The movies are all doubles from when we merged our collections, so don’t judge me for selling my Bourne collection. Don’t worry, dude, I still have copies.
And the books, well, they’re a little bit of everything. From titles I bought for school to ‘advanced readers’ publishers sent out ahead of a book’s release, to terrible late-night Wikipedia rabbit-hole induced used book purchases.
There’s good and bad, the expected and ‘why, just why’ titles. It’s going to take a while to get everything posted and organized and sorted, so check them out, bookmark the pages, and keep checking back.
I’m proud of all my books, even the ones I’m selling off. There was a reason I picked up everyone one of them, something in every one of these books that made me take it home. I hope you find something in there you like, too.
It happens throughout the year, but it’s during the holidays when this particular customer has the power to reach right into your chest and rip out your heart, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom style. Like Mola Ram, this heartbreaking customer lies in plain sight, manipulating you and all those around them to their evil ends.
Or… in order to purchase Christmas presents. Ok, it may not be quite so sinister as enslaving children and stealing sacred stones towards the ultimate goal of world domination in the name of the great Kali, but it’s pretty up there.
The set-up is that you never see them coming. They usually don’t show up wearing a necklace of teeth or a ram’s skull with a shrunken head mounted on it. Fashion scarves and sensible outerwear, is what this lot typically appears wearing. They seem so sweet, so trustworthy; they could be your mother, your favorite aunt. Don’t let this fool you! They are no less dangerous than Thuggee high priest high on chilled monkey brain and snake surprise.
“I’m looking for this book for my son,” she asked, “I’ve looked on all the tables but can’t seem to find it. It’s called the Boys in the Boat.”
“Oh yeah, we should definitely have that,” I say, and type it in to the computer to pull up where in the store we put it. “I remember when that came out, I think it was one of the Buffalo News’ picks, everyone was looking for it.”
Small talk. I’m not particularly good at small talk, but I try. Usually I lose interest in what I’m saying and just kind of trail off. In most cases, it’s just to stall until our Pentium 4 IBMs can process the search and tell me that the book I’m looking for is, in fact, only six feet away. In my defense, we sold out of the stack of them on the table, so I couldn’t physically see the book from where I was standing. It was only on the floor underneath the table. Shut up.
I took her over, and put the book in her hand as we do, and prepared to have praise showered upon me before returning to the information desk where the next customer will undoubtedly crush out the desperate, smoldering attempt at holiday cheer I feel by yelling at me that we are “raping our customers” because our online prices are lower than those in-store.
But that is not to be, not yet.
“You don’t happen to have this in hardcover, do you? He really prefers that,” she says.
You can’t win.
Da Vinci Code, anything even remotely Harry Potter, or pretty much anything you’ve seen on the bestsellers’ list. These books can spend years in hardcover and all you hear is, “Do you have this in paperback? Why isn’t this in paperback? When is this coming out in paperback? Amazon has this in paperback, you know, I’ll just buy it there.”
Customers will ask for James Patterson’s newest release in paperback. That book came out three weeks ago: spoilers, it’s not in paperback. Not for a year. At least. And Amazon doesn’t have it in paperback, they have the option to preorder it in paperback. When it comes out. In six months.
It never fails though. As soon as it hits paperback and all the hardcovers have been returned because, well, who would want them anymore, that’s when suddenly everyone needs the hardcover. Hey, but sometimes we have one.
“I had one the other day, let me look it up again and see if we still have it.”
I check. One. One book on hand. Usually, this means we’re never going to see it, that we’re never going to find it. It’s difficult enough any other time of year, but Christmas? Yeah, it goes something like this:
you’re going to check the shelf, check the cart, check the other cart, check the sorting table, check the computer for when it came in, check the table again, look at pile of boxes still unopened and wonder, give up, check three other carts just because, look on the return shelf, check the computer again to make sure it wasn’t on hold, hope the hold didn’t expire in the computer but that the book was still physically on the holds shelf, check the shelf again, check the computer again to see when it came in, feel your heart sink when you realize it was six months ago, check the cart, check the shelf and find it.
You found it. You found it one bookshelf over and three shelves down from where it was supposed to be, and in no way alphabetical by author. But it’s there. It’s there!
I hand it over to her, and she’s as excited as I am. The store is incredibly busy, and she saw you running trying to find that single copy for her. Against the odds, you found it and its still looks perfect. It’s a little Christmas miracle.
Until three hours later you find it on the “What Teens are Reading” table under a copy of Hollow City, and your heart breaks a little. This happens all year long, you should be used to it. But it’s always more difficult during the holidays. While you’re searching for these books, dodging customers and digging through carts and shelves to find what they’ve whined about and guilted you to find, while you’re searching for this perfect gift, this present, they absolutely have to have or Christmas is ruined forever, you really think you’re making a difference.
That moment of excitement, of victory, you feel when you find that book—spot it out the corner of your eye on a completely wrong shelf, entirely by chance—is supposed to be exactly what someone is going to feel when they open this gift on Christmas. It’s a little Christmas present from Jesus and Santa and the bookselling gods, all for you.
So it hurts. It hurts when, for whatever reason (and one completely out of your control) you find that book discarded hours later. That was your connection to someone, your contribution to making someone’s holiday just a little bit more special. This time of year, it will crush your holiday spirit, and every time it will break your heart, just a little.
Some of these heartbreakers you can spot. You’ll start to predict when you’ll find that book later that night; their hesitation taking it from your hand, their instantly asking the price, them immediately slapping you in the face with it. (At which point, according to the code of bookseller conduct, you must challenge them to a dual at sunrise the next Tuesday before the new releases are put on sale.) Some take you by surprise. But if you want to work in a bookstore for Christmas, you won’t let it stop you. You can’t. You have to keep going, keep smiling, keep searching and checking and double checking for whatever crazy thing they may be asking for. One in ten might break your heart, but the rest? Well, actually, the rest will break your heart too.
It should still break, but for a different reason. Instead, it should break a little each time because the rest of those people, each and every one of those customers, now have that perfect gift they were looking for. On Christmas morning, they’ll get to see someone’s face light up as they open it. It might be the first book in a series a kid was hoping for, it could be a memoir by someone’s favorite musician, it might be a party game they want to open immediately and start playing.
That’s why you go home every day exhausted and sore and with your feet soaking in sweat and reeking in a way you never imagined possible. Seriously, it feels like you’re walking on sponges—that’s not normal. But it’s ok. It’s ok. As long as you remember that every person who walks through those doors isn’t just asking for your help, they are inviting you to be a part of their holiday experience. You’re not a computer screen promising free shipping if they spend a little more money. You’re the person who saw in their face just how much they wanted this game or movie or terrible teen series about steampunk assassins fighting supernatural in a prep school on the site of a former psych hospital, and you checked every shelf, every cart and shoved that old lady out of your way to get that perfect item for them.
They can’t do it without you. Literally. They can’t. These people will wander around the store in a daze until you ask them what they’re looking for. If it wasn’t for you they’d still be there at four in the morning wandering in slow motion down the middle of the aisle and stopping randomly for no reason at all.
Instead, because of you, they’re able to make someone’s Christmas. So be ready for the heartbreaker who will hide the book you found for them under that giant pile of Sons of Anarchy Collector’s Edition—no, I’m just kidding. We don’t have that, no one does, that’s on backorder until Valentine’s.
Be ready for them, those spirit-crushers who don’t realize finding that book for them was the sad high point of your day. But be ready for the other heartbreakers, too. The ones who take the books you found for them and give them a special place under their tree, who get excited to watch it get opened, who have given it a place in the life of someone they care about. You are going to save Christmas. You are going to change someone’s life.
So stay strong, don’t forget to smile, always double check the shelf, and for God’s sake man, change your socks.
A while back a guy came up to the desk, his trendy man-purse (really—man-purse; it was a third the size of your average messenger bag, so it was a man-purse) bouncing against his love-handle clad hips. As he’s still a step or two from the desk he tosses a book the distance between us where it hits the desk and slides towards me. It’s a biography of Che, one of several we regularly carry.
“Why do you sell this?” he demanded as the book came to stop before me.
I glanced at the cover for a second, and momentarily considered not being a smartass.
“Because it’s a book,” I told him.
He accused me of promoting an anti-government baby-killer who burned villages and blahblahblah. I don’t know much about Che, and I don’t really care. I’m sure at three in the morning some time in the near future I’ll spend an hour or two on Wikipedia reading up on him, but at any given moment, I really just don’t care. But more important than my not caring about Che, I don’t care about your opinion of him. If you’re offended by this man and are opposed to books or movies or t-shirts touting him as a hero, then don’t buy them.
But why do you have to waste my time with this? Don’t you have friends? Fuck, start a blog if no one can stand you. Maybe no one will read it but at least you can feel like someone’s listening. I think about three people read this but at least it makes me feel better to write it. But leave me alone. I don’t care.
People working retail, we’re doing just that. Working. We’re not selling books on Che so we can encourage overthrowing a government, we’re not selling Go the Fuck to Sleep to promote verbally abusing children. We’re selling these books because people are buying them. If you don’t like them, don’t buy them, but how is it fair that you’re giving me shit because other people are buying them?
Retail workers, they’re like Joaquin Phoenix in 8mm.
Defending his job at a porn store, Phoenix’s character, Max California says, “I don’t buy it. I don’t endorse it. I just point the way.”
So stop giving me shit for pointing the way. You don’t like it, write a letter to Akashic Books who published it, or to Adam Mansbach for writing it. While you’re at it, why don’t you call up his daughter who’s constant requests for a glass of water or trip to the bathroom or another story is what prompted the writing of this book in the first place.
The problem with doing that is that the publisher has pointed out that the first two lines on each page are what the parent is saying out loud, the horrible things that come after are internalized. The kid never hears that.
“The book is an outlet for that frustration, but it completely reinforces parents sucking it up and dealing with it. There’s never a moment where the kid suffers because of the parent. It’s actually pretty idealistic,” Johnny Temple of Akashic Books said.
Oh, and he’s also read a censored version of the story to his own young children—a censored version which is now in the works to be published as well. His kids loved it, recognizing the shit they pull to avoid going to bed.
In her article claiming that the book encourages verbally abusing children and is representative of household bullying and parental neglect, Karen Spears Zacharias claims that “the violent language of “Go the F*** to Sleep” is not the least bit funny, when one considers how many neglected children fall asleep each night praying for a parent who’d care enough to hold them, nurture them and read to them.”
But those parents who don’t care enough to hold their kids or read to them aren’t the subject of this story. They’re not the audience either. This wasn’t written for them or about them, or meant to represent them. This book was intended for those parents who do read to their children, it was meant to remind parents who do take part in this time-honored tradition that they are not alone in trying to combat the cunning little bastards that are their children.
Let’s be honest though, if a kid who is never read to by their parents picks up Go the Fuck to Sleep, they’re not going to suddenly cry, “This is why my parents never read to me! They knew I’d ask for water! Why did I have to be so thirsty as a child!?”
Anna Smackers (remember the customer whose annoying, multiple visits to the store to complain about the book prompted this) threatened to stop shopping at the store and move all her business to Amazon. They sell the book too, so I’m not sure if that’s really making a point on her part. Not only do they sell it as well, but its listed on the right-hand sidebar when you click into the book section. And has a preview of a few pages. I feel like for an online-only retailer, that’s pretty comparable to having it sit right on the customer service desk.
She also claimed to be writing an editorial to the Buffalo News, and I have no doubt all seven people who still read that paper will be outraged. She intended to contact the local TV news stations and involve the organization 1000 Mothers to Prevent Violence. Aside from saying it seems to be outside that group’s mission statement to get involved in where I place a stack of books, I’m really not going to touch the last one. 1000MPV seems like a great group based out of San Francisco, created in the wake of real violence, as opposed to this imagined abuse, and even I can’t mock this group. Yet.
Anna’s second visit to the store was enjoyable for two reasons. After she finished her tirade about amassing her mom-army against my merchandising choices, a customer in line behind her informed us their children go to school together and this woman is a big pain in the ass all around.
Another customer who’d witnessed the exchange suggested we allow Anna to organize a book burning in the store.
Perhaps that would satisfy her.