How is your husband? Is he still selling perfumes at Macy’s? Shoplifting must be terrible there this time of year. How are the kids? Has Charles got his braces off yet? Remember, don’t stop moving during the holidays. This is that time in which even skinny people like us gain a few pounds if we’re not careful!
Fawn
From: Florence Eakins
Sent: Mon, Dec 10, 2018 at 10:13 AM
To: Fawn Birchill
Re: Father
Hi Fawn,
I’m not sure what to address here first. I guess I’ll start with Joseph, who doesn’t work in the perfumes section anymore but has been moved to the home section. He seems happier there—“seems” being the operative word since he doesn’t like talking about his job very much because it depresses him.
I hope you know that I don’t intend for Little Joe or Charles to take care of me when I’m unable to care for myself. It would be nice, but it’s certainly not something I’m expecting, nor did I have kids for this purpose. God, I hope you don’t think that. Also, the hospice center isn’t that bad, Fawn. The medical staff there have an incredibly difficult job, and they do their very best to make it as nice as possible for their patients. It’s not like Mom and I are asking you to crawl into a grave with us. I think your perspective is in dire need of a shift. Actually, going to the hospice center once in a while might help with that.
In other news, I’m happy to hear about the Mark Twain books. I know running a business is tough, and it’s important these days to find ways to stand out from the crowd, for sure. I’m glad you’ve found something after all these years.
Flo
December 10, 2018
I managed to trap the cat with the runny eye. According to the vet, I am supposed to put drops in his eye, but I can’t bring him inside, as Butterscotch’s safety is my priority. And it’s not as if I can chase him around the neighborhood with an eyedropper! Anyway, I told them I couldn’t possibly, and they seemed to understand. They gave him a shot of something and said the eye trouble will likely clear up on its own. I let him go tonight. The vet bill was atrocious, but it was worth it. I hope he gets better, the poor thing.
If I could slip away from my family without them worrying, I would. I would go somewhere exotic maybe, and let thousands of miles be my excuse. I suppose I could, money or no money. People have picked up and left before and somehow made it.
I do the best I can, but I can’t shake the feeling that my family’s eyes are on me all the time. I can’t shake the feeling that they are, for some reason, worried about me. I don’t know why they would be. And using Father as an excuse to check on me, which is what I think is happening, angers me to the point where I simply want to dig my heels in. I wish Philadelphia were hours from Norristown. I wish I didn’t love this city, this store, or this building as much as I do. If I could pick this city up and move it to Borneo just to be away from my family, I would.
When I’m here, I’m not the awkward girl who swept up cigarette butts and candy wrappers, who fell asleep at the cash register and hit her face on it so hard one day that she chipped her front tooth. I am not the older sister who was constantly abandoned at the register so Florence could balance the books. I am not the daughter of a mother who constantly mixed up our too-similar names. I am not the daughter of a father who saw his children more as workhorses than young girls. Who showed his love in paltry allowances and swift knocks upside the head. I am Fawn, simply Fawn, who is an adult now but is still waiting for that to sink in. I thought that maybe when I developed lines and gray hair, I would finally molt my arduous past, but sadly I am still waiting. I am a snake carrying around old skin. What a disgusting analogy. This is what happens when I run out of wine: my thoughts turn strange. To the liquor store!
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Mon, Dec 10, 2018 at 6:08 PM
To: Staff
Subject: Closing Tills
Dear Staff,
I was taking a look at the closing tills this evening and found to my horror that they were dreadfully low for mid-December. I want to make sure that no one is giving away any books without my permission. If so, please let me know. No one will be in trouble but merely educated. Now that we have a direct competitor a block away, we must be as stringent as ever with our numbers and less generous than we used to be. This saddens me, but it’s the way life goes.
I am considering that we run the batch twice at the end of the night to ensure the numbers are correct. It’s an old machine, so I wonder if maybe it is inaccurate.
Also, one of the windows toward the back is open. I do not know how long it has been like that, but it may explain the draft and the high energy bills. I tried shutting it, but it wouldn’t budge. I even stood up on a chair and hit the top of it with a hammer to try and knock it down, but it did nothing. Kyle, when you get in tomorrow morning, I will need your help.
Many thanks!
Fawn, Owner
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Mon, Dec 10, 2018 at 6:34 PM
To: Fortieth Street Catering
Subject: Delightful Mouthfuls
Dear Fortieth Street Catering,
Ah, the cookies! The sandwiches! The salads! Your food is beyond delightful. I was lucky enough to have some at a function at the Cira Centre that, I daresay, I may not have been invited to, but because I was wearing a fur coat on my way to the Amtrak station, they let me beyond the velvet ropes and into the soiree without question! I missed my train, but it was okay; I was only going to see my mother. Long story short, the party was for the unveiling of a memorial for a local artist whose name escapes me, but no doubt her sculpture is still there. As I milled about amid the upper strata of Philadelphia society, I mostly stayed glued to the catering table. Luckily it was an open bar, and most everyone was too drunk to notice me sneaking the mini sandwiches into my overnight bag. The olive array was, by far, my favorite—though they are rather difficult to sneak into anything but one’s mouth! I made off with about eight sandwiches, five cookies, and a mouthful of olives. The sandwiches, to my pleasant surprise, were just as good the following day! (A testament to your culinary genius.) Before I ramble on any further, I will get to the purpose of my correspondence. I am hoping to hold a holiday party for my staff. As you may know, I own the Curious Cat Book Emporium, and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what we do, as most Philadelphians in even a tenuous state of awareness know of us. We are a small company (there are only four of us including myself), but I want to pull out all the stops, as they say, as it’s been a wonderfully successful year. I am most interested in the pepperoni platter, the prosciutto wraps, the veggie tray for our vegetarian employee, and the cookie tray. For a main course I’d like the same sandwiches that you had at the Cira Centre. I’m sure if you look through your records, you will find the right ones. Since I am a local business owner and right around the corner from you, I was hoping you could offer us some kind of discount. Somewhere in the 40 percent off category? Please write back soon and let me know what you think. Or stop by the store!
Yours in business,
Fawn, Owner, The Curious Cat Book Emporium (a Mark Twain specialist store)
From: Fortieth Street Catering
Sent: Mon, Dec 10, 2018 at 7:18 PM
To: Fawn Birchill
Re: Delightful Mouthfuls
Hi Fawn,
Thank you for reaching out to us regarding your holiday party. The price breakdown is attached for our standard corporate party trays, but feel free to mix and match items as you see fit. For example, you can swap out the vegetarian sandwiches for roast beef if everyone is a meat eater.
And unfortunately, we do not offer a discount for fellow business owners. By the nature of our business, most of our customers are business owners, so it wouldn’t make much sense for us to offer a reduced rate for nearly 90 percent of our clientele. Sorry!
Please let us know if you have any questions at all and thanks again!
Have a good night,
> Carl Suzuki
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Mon, Dec 10, 2018 at 10:03 PM
To: Fortieth Street Catering
Re: Delightful Mouthfuls
Dear Carl,
Thank you for getting back to me so quickly regarding the holiday party, though I must admit the price you threw at me almost gave me a heart attack. Luckily, I was seated at the time! For a sandwich platter, prosciutto wraps, pepperoni tray, veggies, and a cookie platter, you’d think I was asking Gordon Ramsay to cater the queen of England’s jubilee. I worry that I may have given you the wrong impression of my financial status when I told you that I was wearing a fur coat. The coat was a hand-me-down from my great aunt Mabel who ran with the mob in New York during the Prohibition era. It’s falling apart in many places, but you can’t tell unless you look closely. My aunt Mabel was the only person in our entire family who had money, and that’s only because she was pretty and sometimes poisoned people for money.
And may I remind you that, though quite successful, I am not ready to spend $300 for four people. I really don’t want to resort to a pizza delivery for our holiday party, but it’s looking closer to reality. What if we left out the pepperoni and the prosciutto? That would leave it at $200, and then with the discount of 40 percent it would only come to $120—quite affordable! And since nothing should be done for free, I will offer you a lifetime discount of 20 percent on all my books. How does that strike you? Do let me know.
Yours in business,
Fawn, Owner, The Curious Cat Book Emporium (a Mark Twain specialist store)
P.S. What does a catering company do for a holiday party? Do you eat your own food, or do you hire another catering company? I’ve always wondered.
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Tue, Dec 11, 2018 at 8:45 AM
To: Staff
Subject: Alphabetization
Dear Staff,
A comes before b, and b comes before c. If you cannot learn to properly alphabetize, then I will hold an after-hours seminar on the fundamentals. I wonder how many people walked out of my store and went to the Grumpy Mug when they couldn’t locate Dickens because he was tucked between Tolkien and Tolstoy.
Joyce comes after Ben Jonson, not before.
Fawn, Owner
From: Gregory Harris
Sent: Tue, Dec 11, 2018 at 9:12 AM
To: Fawn Windsor
Subject: Christmas in the tropics
Fawn!
Writing to you from a beach in Turks and Caicos. Just went for a morning run, and now I’m bumming around. I wish I could take off my real estate hat and just enjoy myself, but like a lion amid a herd of gazelle, I look around and all I see is fresh meat.
I’ll be here until mid-January. My family is joining me in a couple of days. We rented a beach house together that overlooks a cove. It’s very desolate out here, which I prefer. In order to get anything in town, I have to hop on a quad and drive it down the beach! How are your holidays so far?
Gregory
From: Fawn Windsor
Sent: Tue, Dec 11, 2018 at 9:34 AM
To: Gregory Harris
Re: Christmas in the tropics
Dear Gregory,
A Christmas gathering in Turks and Caicos sounds lovely. I think your family has the right idea. I for one will be shackled to the family estate assisting with a large event where we will attempt to be merry and bright but will instead probably end up trying to push each other into the fireplace. It doesn’t matter how much tinsel I place around or how big and decorated the tree is. It never seems to push the holiday spirit beyond our hard, stubborn exteriors. Christmas is a strange holiday for families that don’t get along. We dislike each other for 364 days out of the year and then childishly expect a single day of gift giving to wash all the bad blood away. Being around my family during the holidays is like watching a bad play. Phrases like “thank you,” “so delighted to see you,” and “Happy Christmas” are jumbled in their mouths and caught between their teeth, struggling to make their way out and to sound halfway truthful. We playact liking anything that is given to us. Instead of being grateful as I turn the horrible knitted hat in my hands, I instead think of how I can sneak it into the bin when no one’s looking . . .
One of these years, Gregory, I am going to adopt your idea and flee to somewhere tropical, leaving the tepid festivities to my miserable sister who cracks her signature pained smile when she gets something she doesn’t like. Pretending to like something you hate is so important on Christmas, for it keeps the peace. If we end up fighting on what should be the happiest day of the year, then we are all doomed. In a funny way, though, I love the comfort of being surrounded by people on Christmas, even if I can barely stand them. As of late, the numbers of family and friends stopping by during Christmas have decreased, and I find myself less surrounded by those that were once so loyal to me during the holiday season; however, I cannot take it too personally. I understand that things change, and people can be as transitory as the tides. That said, it is a comfort to have loyal people by my side because their presence teaches me that I am not all that horrid to be around after all.
Have a wonderful time down there, and wear lots of sunscreen!
Much love,
Fawn Windsor
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Tue, Dec 11, 2018 at 8:07 PM
To: Staff
Subject: Tills
Dear Staff,
For those of you who left early today and didn’t settle the tills with Angela, I want to inform you that the machine is accurate and that sales are indeed abysmal. I know during our meeting we all denied giving away books to people who come into the store, but I cannot stress how important it is to no longer do that. I see bodies in the store, but no one is buying. Can you please watch where they go after they leave? I fear it is to the Grumpy Mug. If that is the case, we need to pull out all the stops this Christmas. We shall not be donning our gay apparel this Christmas, shipmates, but instead donning full battle gear. Report back to me as to how many customers go to the Grumpy Mug, and if the numbers are what I think they are, we have to change tack.
Fawn, Owner
December 11, 2018
We will get through this. I will get through this.
I don’t visit my bank account landing page anymore because the numbers are enough to invoke the eye twitch, so lately I just wait for the email alert telling me that I have less than fifty dollars in my account. That’s when I throw another fifty in from my paltry savings and have a glass of wine.
Even though I’ve drained the toilet in the customer bathroom, there is still water leaking from somewhere. The floor is growing soft, and I don’t know what to do. On top of that, Kyle, Sam, Angela, and I all tried shutting the jammed window together but nothing happened. And then a customer suggested I use WD-40. So I sprayed some in the sides and voilà! The window shut. This was after I cracked the glass from trying to hammer it shut. Now there is another air leak, albeit comparatively modest.
It’s always a good day when I receive Jane’s rent. Her daughter, who happens to live in Hawaii, always sends it on time, thankfully. Last night I went down to check on her again. I stood outside the door and pressed my ear to it. The television volume was so loud that it sounded more like an air-raid announcement. There was another noise that I recognized but couldn’t place.
I was back in my apartment when I realized that it was the sound of Jane’s recliner. My father had the same one; I know because of the mechanical sound it makes when the lever is pulled and the whump of the upholstered footrest knocks against the chair’s frame. It made me shudder. It immediately brought me right back to my childhood. In instances like this, I doubt the linearity of time. If it were linear, how is it possible that a single sound can transport me to another place?
Because of my inexhaustible love of culture and all things ethnic, I once went to a Serbian food festival in North Philly—maybe about three years ago at this point—and wandered the sma
ll church grounds while a handsome man with an accordion deftly played Serbian songs. I ate delicious food that I’ve since forgotten the names of, but I do remember there were a lot of meats and vegetables. In any case, they were offering a tour of the church, so of course I signed up, as I knew nothing about Eastern Orthodoxy. And because no one else signed up, I was given the private tour! The priest, a bearded, middle-aged man, led me up the creaky, cloistered stairs. He apologized for walking so slowly due to his knee problems. (This was before my bad back.)
Upon entering I was struck by the iconography, the beautiful paintings on the walls depicting the saints, and the cozy warmth of the quiet, dark place. It smelled of incense, polished wood, and summer. I took a seat in one of the pews and immediately felt transported to medieval Europe. He told me many things that I’ve since forgotten about Eastern Orthodoxy, but a few facts linger like an old song that you can never quite shake. He said that traditionally the congregation doesn’t sit, and the only reason this church had seating was because they bought a Roman Catholic church and didn’t feel like ripping out all the nice old pews. He said people traditionally stand because the service is interactive. You are not checking out, sitting back, and relaxing while the priest goes on, but you are an active participant in the word of God. Along those lines, he also explained that it is their belief that time isn’t linear. They are not only reading about the Last Supper, telling a story set thousands of miles away and thousands of years in the past, but they are actually there, watching it take place. They are transported. They fully live the Bible through the course of the year. And when he said this to me, it made perfect sense. I often feel as if my past is my present—that it follows me around, and all I need to do is take a moment to step into it and all the feelings, fears, and desires come screaming back at me. I can see my sister in the back room, working on her homework while organizing invoices. I can see myself changing a light bulb on a ladder so worn with age that every time I climbed it, I crossed myself. I can see my father standing in the doorway of his store and hear the rubbery squeak of his old boots on the dusty floor as he shifted his weight and talked to a customer about a boxing match the night before. How can time be linear if it only takes a single sound, a whump of upholstery, to send me back?
Confessions of a Curious Bookseller Page 5
