***
The thing was called Tug of War: A Triumph of Faith, the author was Peter Daddone—thing ran two hundred pages just about, blue cover (sort of off blue) and I took it from Peter, held it, still reeling from my little existential flair up.
I didn’t know what to make of it.
It was the first time I’d ever held a small press book (a self-published book?)—it was certainly not on par, superficially, with anything else I considered a book, was awkward to hold, to access.
I really didn’t know what to make of it.
Even the blurbs on the back (I put no stock in blurbs, but knew what they tended to sound like) were not like most blurbs—they just seemed like sentences, particularized thoughts about the plot structure and technical points, more like feedback notes from a teacher.
It baffled me. I mean, I’d seen some brochures for book printing and it seemed quite cost prohibitive—this wasn’t a zine or anything, it was perfect bound, ISBNed, all of those little ticks that at the time I thought were magic, impossible to obtain. Some place called Aeron House had put it out and I fixated on this because I’d never heard of it.
It was a moment, it was a moment to say the least—it at once horrified me, made me churn with unneeded mockery and opened up worlds to me, made me giddy with felt possibility.
I just didn’t know what to make of it.
And I couldn’t even begin to focus on reading it (another thing was the text inside had a font that looked like late 1980’s computer printout and it jarred me).
“Is this good?” I asked, ready to believe anything that Peter Crisp, manager of Bravado Bookmark had to say.
“I don’t know, I haven’t read it yet. It looks good though, right?”
I pretended not have heard the question.
***
I got to the store next morning, Peter already there setting up the table—balloons inflated and tied to each corner, cloth draped, and for some reason a little green pitcher of water and some Dixie cups.
“What time does he get here?”
He’d show up around noon. Peter really wanted to think of something to do to show that we were going that extra mile for the guy.
“I thought one of these sign places could make a banner up really quick, it could just say Book Signing Today so we could reuse it for other signings—I would use some cash from petty—but the places all say it takes at least a day or two to do a banner. I should have thought of this before, but I was waiting for approval to even do the signing.”
Eventually I just handwrote about twenty “signs”—pieces of printer paper that said there was a book signing, when it was starting, author’s name, book’s name (red marker for X information, blue marker for Y information, black marker for Z information) and we pasted them to the front door of Bravado and then Peter went around asking every place in the strip mall if he could tape the things to entrance doors or countertops (I don’t really know how that went over).
***
The author was a high school teacher and that is just exactly what he looked like. Oddly, this made it more difficult for me to think about approaching him, chatting, anything. In retrospect it amuses me to know I had such the mindset that a Writer was supposed to be a Writer-only, not a high school teacher that also had written a book.
I was straightening the True Crime section while Peter talked to him and they shook hands—the author had brought a big box of copies of the book he put under the table and had a little cardboard point-of-purchase stand that held six copies up on the table, five more copies spread out like a splayed deck of cards.
***
I’d met one other published author, a poet called Allan Britt (had a copy of his collection Bodies of Lightening) but this had been arranged through my high school—Britt had taught a bonus course that Nicolai and I had been part of it. This Daddone was different, because he was associated to nothing, was a free roaming entity that had found Bravado books, one day—if he were bludgeoned and put in a truck, I wondered would anyone even know this is where he’d been coming.
***
He was a real soldier, this author, positioned at his table, taking sips from his Dixie cup, must have sat two hours solid before the first time he got up to stretch, have a pace around the store—during these two hours not one single customer had come in, not one person had so much popped in to leaf through a Gallery or a Penthouse Forum.
Peter seemed really concerned for about the first hour, starting half-formed chats with the guy—obviously it was all the more awkward because Peter didn’t even know what the book was about, hadn’t even read the synopsis. Really, I don’t think Peter read.
***
“It’s beautiful weather, this morning” the author said to me at one point while I was poking around in front.
Cornered, I had to respond appropriately with “Yeah, it’s a rough day for it—everyone’s probably out to a Little League game or something.”
“Business tend to pick up in the evening?”
I didn’t want to lie so as to give false hope, but I also didn’t want to exaggerate the truth, make him feel like the whole thing had been a waste of time from the start—such a deflation could be rough, like he might think that only crumby bookstores that don’t have customers would ever invite him to sign, that he’d only been invited because (as he’d likely suspected) Peter was touched in the head. I pictured this guy wandering from book store to book store (there wasn’t a huge variety in the area) and Bravado had been the only place to say Yes and Peter’s misguided enthusiasm had stoked hope where there shouldn’t be any. It would have been better had the author’s day of asking for venues come up a wash, this must have been kind of embarrassing.
These thoughts were projection, though I didn’t admit this at the time. As much as I wanted to deride this man (and did, with Nicolai and my girlfriend et al.) I knew he had accomplished something, vaulted at least one hurdle I would have to vault, myself—to see that this is where it’d landed him made me fear for myself, feel like a high school kid working in a bookstore rather than a swaggering auteur whose every idea and piece of phrase work would be lapped up by even those far more established than himself.
Poor Daddone, I thought because it was too hard to think Christ, poor me.
***
By the time the author left at five (I’d stayed past the end of my shift, working off the clock, had offered to straighten the Cook Books just to have an excuse to witness things through to the end) he had engaged in brief conversations with maybe three customers (seven people total had come in, two of those employees from other shops asking if we had extra quarters we might spare) and had not sold a single copy—the only way he’d even gotten the book into someone’s hand (briefly) was to literally present it to them in a way it would have been rude for them not to take it, nod through a few pleasantries, glimpse the front and back cover, hand it back as they stepped away. Even when Peter had rung out a paying customer and said “This is an author, local guy, just got a great book published and is being nice enough to have a signing with us” the customer had said “Oh, I’ll have to tell my niece, she likes to read” but hadn’t even turned to look at the guy at the folding table with the balloons hanging from it and the books spread across.
***
Peter of course let the author leave six copies (autographed) on consignment, displayed them prominently right at the cash register.
“I think I have some stickers in the back that say Autographed on them, I’ll put those on these,” Peter offered.
The author said “I really appreciate that—appreciate you all giving me the chance, today”.
“I can’t believe it was so slow. You know you can come back any time, we’re really wanting to do this more often. Let me make sure you have our card.”
I don’t know why Peter said that, because we didn’t have cards and it was just a final awkward pantomime of him looking around for
one, then just writing his name and the store name and the store phone number and (for whatever reason) his personal phone number on a piece of receipt paper.
***
“It was nice meeting you,” he said to me, lugging his box out the door I leaned into to keep open.
“Yeah. Nice meeting you.”
***
I tried to read the book over the course of a few shifts, but I just didn’t get into it. I have to admit that to this day I have burned into my memory certain passages and the images that the prose put in my head are permanent, but I know this is only because of my fascination with the object, what it was, what it represented to me—this was a formative encounter, nothing to do with literature, everything to do with the reality of books.
***
If it hadn’t cost thirteen dollars, I would have bought a copy. I kind of wondered how the author would get the money, if one did sell, if he’d even want to come back, if maybe it was better to have left the six and to never check up on them again—the idea of him coming back and seeing the things still there in a week, two weeks, it made me feel kind of miserable, who would want to put themselves through that?
The first copy I stole, I did in stages—I moved it from the display stand into the Fiction section, then from the Fiction section to the endcap of bargained flower and bird books, then I just took it with me one night, had it there in my grocery bag with the Gatorade and two candy bars.
I stole two more—I think one to show my girlfriend, because she kept asking about it and I never remembered to bring the one from my apartment (I was meeting her after work so I just nabbed one from the counter) and I don’t know why the other.
no. six: liquidation
It was nothing to do, particularly, with our location, the entire chain of stores (two other book store brands and a brand of discount art supply stores, as well) was to shut down. The news seemed to have come suddenly to Pamela, who was the one informing me when I asked if it was true that Shalvo had taken another job (I learned this from one of the part-timers when I popped in to get my check) and did that mean more hours would be available. According to Pamela, Peter the manager had known this was coming for quite some time and had only made the announcement a week prior—this didn’t surprise me.
“I’m leaving, too,” she said, “I think everyone is. Peter says that corporate told him not to tell anyone so that we wouldn’t all bail and that now they say they’ll pay bonuses out to anyone who stays.”
“That isn’t true?”
“My last day is Thursday.”
I didn’t really care, but feigned that I would miss her and she started talking over my false kindness about how she was getting a job with her mother framing pictures. For some reason, I couldn’t imagine Pamela being any good at that, but I encouraged her. She started on the magazine shipment, complaining about it the entire time.
“Why did they keep sending magazines if we’re closing down?” I asked her, not thinking she was really even listening, but she breathed a long wet sigh out her nose and said she wished they hadn’t, that Peter didn’t ever think about anybody but himself.
***
Peter had trimmed his beard growth of the last few weeks into a kind-of mustache, it made him seem about to be arrested.
“It’s just you and me, man. We have to do a final inventory, get everything boxed up. It’s gonna be an overnight thing, in two weeks.”
He hadn’t personally told me, yet, that the store was closing so I (feigning dull ignorance for absolutely no reason) said “What do you mean final inventory?” and this got him off like a pistol shot that Pamela was supposed to be letting everyone know.
“Maybe if people around here could do anything this wouldn’t be happening. Not you, you know? Not you. But she can’t even let you know the store’s closing? I mean come on, why is she a shift manager, then? Did she ever even train you on things like she was supposed to? It doesn’t matter now, and it’s not your fault or anything, but this store was never supposed to look like this,” he started indicating fixtures and shelves vaguely, “there was a way this place was supposed to be put together and no one ever keeps up on it—I mean, like how you balance the Fiction section, I told you before not to set the books up like that, that it’s supposed to be facing facing facing then spined then facing facing facing then spined but how are you supposed to remember that if your so-called shift manager, the person who sees you every day, doesn’t correct it? No. I have to be put in the position to be a jerk, when I don’t really care how you do the books—
I mean they look great, it’s fine, that’s just not how we’re technically supposed to do it, you know? Pamela was supposed to tell you.”
After this he excused himself into the office. I heard him clearing his throat, then after ten seconds he slammed down the phone receiver, walked out of the store, storming off across the parking lot.
***
It got approved that my friend Nicolai Clover would work the overnight inventory, liquidation box-up shift—he’d be paid in cash and I’d be glad to have the company. Peter seemed really happy about it, too, like we were all so close-knit and it was shame we’d not been able to spend more time, together.
During the week leading up to the closing, Peter had me spend my shifts boxing as much up as I could—the first day he had lists detailing what merchandise was supposed to be in the store, these lists broken down by sections, but adhering to or even consulting these went right out the window almost immediately, even Peter could see how asinine it was.
***
There must have been a notice sent out or something, because every evening we had customers poking around—we weren’t suddenly swamped, just the people who did come in wanted to know did we have this or did we have that. One man, seeing me boxing things up, asked me to check our inventory for a bargain book he said he’d remembered seeing—and yes the computer showed we should have three. Trouble being, the bargain tables had been the first thing boxed. This guy made me spend over and hour unpacking and digging through boxes—certainly I might have told him to take a walk, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to do it, something in his stance, his vacancy. If it hadn’t been a bargain book, I would have told him to leave, I really think so, but as it was a coffee-table book of famous Bar-b-Q restaurants, it was actually more satisfying to undo a day-and-a-half’s worth of work to get the four dollar sale.
***
Nicolai came into the store often and I’d have him go around and set books he wanted on a particular shelf so we’d have easy access to them—we intended to ferry as much merchandise out of the store as possible during the overnight.
When I had my breaks, he and I would sit outside eating hamburgers. Apparently Peter used my break to be his break, too, would just stand outside the propped open entrance, smoking, arms crossed, gazing at the heat cutting sharp from off the cars filling the lot.
***
Peter mentioned the alleged bonuses that were going to be paid out, but did so mainly so that he could have another go at Pamela and a little bit at Shalvo for being chumps, thumbing their noses at easy money. He’d gotten a lot less amusing—his persona would waffle between completely, reckless apathy and serious, business-minded insistence that we take care of things right. He’d tell me he was leaving after being on shift for only thirty minutes, get all geared up, rollerblade away, and then he’d come back after fifteen minutes, get out of all his protective gear, go into the office for a few minutes, come out to the front area, start doing things on the computer, squinting, focused, as though it was imperative he not be distracted, that he had to be diligent, even in the face of the absurdity, the debased nature of his situation. Then, he’d either start typing louder, crescendo into just palm slaps at the keys, running his hand side to side until the computer started beeping or he’d just sigh, hold the clipboard he was writing on out at arms length, drop it on the floor and say “Finished”, a screwy smile on
his face while he slapped a rumpled cigarette pack in his palm..
***
The night of the final boxing up came. Nicolai showed up, as per our plan, with two large pizzas—we were going to all eat and then he and I would secret the books we wanted in the “empty” pizza boxes and he’d (when the time was right) step out with them, put them in his truck or worst-case-scenario dump them in the trash just outside the store, we’d rummage for them when the coast was clear.
This was not so much an elegant strategy—we’d under-planned on the strength that we could hardly see Peter being on the ball, suspecting us of anything. But Peter was stuck in do-gooder mode, at least for the first leg of the overnight—the front door was to remain locked, he wanted to be the one to tape up all the boxes, was right in the thick of it with us filling them. A real drag.
Further complicating matters was a personal situation that had developed between me and my girlfriend—I’d been sort of in a bad headspace due to some arguments with my family and my girlfriend and I had parted the previous day on bad terms. Fatigue always makes me emotional, so it suddenly got in my head that I wanted to call her (before it got far too late, it was only midnight) just to tell her I was an idiot and that we should spend the next day together, forget the entire thing.
Seven Stories About Working in a Bookstore Page 4
