The Bookstore

I love The Bookstore. I worked there for many years and spent a decade with the company in different stores. Books are in my blood. I had lots of books as a child; I have more than 1,500 books in my home right now, not counting the more than four thousand on my Kindle. I cannot—will not—live without books. I get the same pleasure buying books that many women get from shoes and purses, or the excitement some men feel when they buy something for their workshop.

Books bring me serious pleasure.

But with the advent of the e-reader—and the glorious instant gratification one gets when, on a whim, one can buy a new book at 2 a.m. and instantly possess and begin to read it—the thought of getting into the car, driving to the bookstore, dealing with traffic, parking, and then having to deal with the General Public… well, it hardly seems worth the effort.

I will admit that an e-book does not have the same sensual pleasure as a traditional paper book: they lack that new-book smell, the pleasure of feeling the paper, of turning the page, of easily flipping back and forth among the pages.

As someone who grew up with traditional books, and who spent ten years of his life working with them, I’ll be the first to admit that I mourn my frequent book-buying sprees. Coming home with a stack of books was the best part: taking the books from the bags, piling them up next to me. I’d pick up the first one, touching the cover almost reverently, feeling its weight, enjoying the texture of the cover, the pages, the dust jacket. I’d read the cover, both front and back, then—if the book were a paperback—I’d turn to the pages at the beginning that contained quotes from various book reviews and read each one with interest. Sometimes—most times—I’d read the first chapter. Then I’d put the book down, pick up the next new one, and begin the worshipful adoration process all over again. E-books aren’t as magical to the senses, but they can be cheaper, they take up less space, one can travel with one’s entire library, and forests of trees don’t have to be cut down to supply the paper. So, my Kindle is here to stay.

Our recent move to Albuquerque has all kinds of past memories rattling around in my mind. Recently, we drove past the location of The Bookstore here in Albuquerque. Driving by made me think of the last time I’d been in the store where I worked.

I hadn’t been in the store in five or six years, maybe longer. Perhaps I was feeling a little nostalgic for the past as I was walking around the bookstore where I’d spent so much time as both employee and customer. As I walked through the space that was once the Self-Help section, I began to feel the pull of the past and hear the voices of ghosts from days gone by. I was reminded how much I disliked the Self-Help section, not because of the scam aspect to many of the books, but because it created the most impossible conversations with customers.

“May I help you find something?” (This in my most helpful bookseller voice.)

“Yes, I’m trying to find a book that was on Oprah earlier.”

“Do you know the title?” (Again, my helpful employee voice.)

“It was on Oprah.” (Said in a tone of superiority mixed with a bit of panic.) “It was about relationships and communication.”

“There are quite a few new books on that topic. Do you recall the title? Any of the words in the title?”

“It was on Oprah.” (Said as if repeating that often enough would magically make the book appear; said with a growing sense of panic that the book might not be found, and I’d imagine the customer believing their relationship would dissolve before the day was over.)

“I’m sorry, but I was here working and didn’t see the show. So I’m not sure what it was. You don’t recall anything about the title?”

Publishers, authors, and bookstore shareholders all loved the money that Oprah made them. Booksellers, mostly, learned to despise her.

When customers used the word Oprah, bookstore employees secretly prayed for the ground to open up and swallow someone (either the employee or the customer—it didn’t matter which) as long as one of them vanished, ending the conversation.

“Oprah said it was in stores now. It was about how to communicate in relationships. It was called The Something or Other and there was a subtitle with the word love. The cover was white. It was about this big.” (Hands held up, showing measurements of most standard-sized books.)

I always resisted the urge to say, in an I Could Have Had a V8 kind of voice, “Oh yeah! I know that book! It’s over here in the White Books That Are ‘This Big’ Section.”

Mostly, I was amazed at how often I’d be looked at like I had the plague because I didn’t watch Oprah. Being at work during her show didn’t seem to matter. The looks implied that Oprah should have been playing somewhere in the store, so we’d all know what book had been on the show and instantly know what the customer was talking about.

I continued my walk around the store, down an aisle filled with fiction. Shelf after shelf full of novels, and I was reminded of the countless number of people who wandered around, eyes vacant, who would finally ask, in a frustrated voice, where the nonfiction section was (please don’t make me explain this to you).

I walked past a copy of Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and recalled the countless number of times I was asked for the book: “I need a copy of The Wrath of Grapes,” or “I’m looking for The War of the Grapes,” or, my personal favorite, “I need a book for class, something about angry grapes…?”

The aisles and memories melted together; this store became all the stores I’d worked in—the aisles here also those of each of the four over the years. I walked through these aisles, now full of four stores’ worth of memories, recalling that I’d stood in this or that spot gossiping with this or that coworker. I was reminded of coworkers from all the various stores—moments of laughter with many, moments of anger with others. I thought of some I hope to reconnect with someday because I loved working with them every day; others, I don’t miss at all.

I recalled one store manager I hated so much. In what was not one of my finest moments, I purposefully made her cry one day—her last day there—by telling her what an ignorant cunt I thought she was. The momentary satisfaction I felt at uttering that awful word has long since been replaced with endless moments of wishing I could see her and offer a sincere apology, letting her know it was I who was ignorant for calling her such a name.

There are other unhappy memories of my time in those stores.

A sad memory surfaced of a young district manager, liked by us all, whose life was utterly shattered when, driving home one day only a few months after starting with the company, he struck and killed a child who dashed into the street chasing a ball. He was not at fault. Witnesses said he’d been driving slowly—it was his own neighborhood, after all, and he was just a block or so from his home, where his wife and young baby were waiting. He never came back to work, and someone told us months later that he’d moved back to the Midwestern state he’d lived in before accepting the job promotion. I don’t imagine one’s spirit ever heals completely from something like that, but I like to hope he was able to find some peace.

I was also reminded of one particular store manager who died much too young.

Reality intruded into my memories as I got down to the purpose of my visit—to find a book whose title I’ve long since forgotten.

As I was walking around looking for that book, I nearly laughed aloud, remembering one girl who worked at the store for a while and always said her alphabet out loud while trying to figure out where to put a book on the shelf—trying to place it in the alphabetical-by-author scheme.

Then I remembered the day a woman stomped up to me while I was at the customer-service desk and announced loudly, “This is the most unorganized store I’ve ever been in. I cannot find anything.”

Again, the helpful bookseller voice issued forth from my lips: “What book are you trying to find? I can help you.”

She named a title I no longer recall, though I do remember it was one I knew how to find without looking it up.

As we walked toward the aisle where the book was, she kept her tirade going. “I cannot understand this. Most stores are so organized—it’s easy to find things. You look at the signs; you know where to go. Here, it’s all a jumble. Nothing makes sense.”

We arrived at the shelf where the book she wanted was just as she said, “There’s not even a vaguely discernible pattern to how these books are arranged on the shelf.” As I took the book off the shelf, I said, “The books are arranged by author, alphabetically.” I couldn’t resist pointing to the sign on the lip of each shelf that said, Arranged Alphabetically by Author.

She turned to the shelf and said, with as much sarcasm as she could muster, “No they are not. Look—here’s Robert, followed by Ann, then Lawrence, and then Thomas. That’s not alphabetical.”

I smiled and pointed to the books she had indicated. “They’re alphabetical by the author’s last name, not first name.”

She was silent. She took the book from my outstretched hand and walked away, her body language screaming embarrassment.

Suddenly, a kid ran down the aisle I was standing in and broke the memory spell that had engulfed me. I looked around. It was a store full of ghosts and memories, but The Bookstore wasn’t home to me any longer.