My Bookstore

by Ronald Rice

  Oh, and there’s one other category: bookstore owners.

  Because just as soon as I start to explain to my toddler that there’s a difference between coffee shops and independent bookstores—and it’s not just that people will happily overpay for a cup of coffee that costs just pennies to make though prefer to pay pennies for a book that costs thousands to produce, but also that, generally speaking, people really need a cup of coffee at 7 a.m., whereas no one really needs a book until mid-morning, earliest, which is why Starbucks is open and Daniel’s isn’t—Daniel appears.

  “Hi,” he says, and addresses my daughter by name.

  She responds in kind: “Daniel,” she says, “I want a book.”

  My wife’s college roommate was an author’s daughter. The author was Calvin Trillin and among the many gifts he gave his children—and, by extension, my children—was this rule: If they ever found themselves together in a bookstore, he would buy them whatever they wanted. The rule, importantly, did not extend to toy stores or ice cream shops or pony stables. Just bookstores, just whatever they wanted. We’ve raised our children this way, and it is wonderful. It wears on the credit card, true, but children’s books tend to be less expensive, and the benefit of having your kids think there’s little difference between a bookstore and a public library—well, like our credit card company says: priceless.

  “Of course,” Daniel says, and takes my little girl by the hand, and they find the keys and unlock the store. He locks the door behind us: Indeed, he doesn’t open for hours. That doesn’t mean, of course, that he hasn’t already been here in the back office toiling; the coffee-swilling surgeons, the test-preppers, the all-night hipsters: None of them put in anything like the hours Daniel does.

  My daughter, blissfully unaware that any of this is extraordinary, takes her time weaving toward the back of the store, through the best sellers and bookseller picks, the calendars, philosophy, history, humor, the glass case of vintage bandage tins,* before careening left into the spacious, brightly windowed area that is the children’s section. Thereupon she finds the largest, pinkest book about princesses that she can reach and promptly settles in to read it.

  It’s 7:35 a.m.

  I apologize to Daniel for the intrusion, and he just laughs—he always laughs, which is one of the many things I’ve learned from him about books, bookselling, and surviving the looming end of anything: always laugh—and he says: Is there a better way to start a Saturday?

  My daughter looks up, smiles, and then goes back to reading, and that’s our answer: No, there is no better way.

  I thank Daniel for going the extra mile, and then we both laugh, because he’s gone about an ultra-marathon’s worth of extra miles during his proprietorship—in some cases physically, as when he drove with me to a friends-of-the-library benefit reading I was doing an hour or so southwest of Milwaukee. The library had suggested I bring my novels to sell; I asked Daniel for some stock and he immediately offered to come along and handle the sales.

  The reading went fine, though I went hoarse. It was an older crowd and they were not shy about asking me to speak louder. And louder. They were a bit shy, though, about purchasing books. This is not an uncommon phenomenon at library events. Unlike my daughters, library patrons—especially devoted friends—understand very well the difference between libraries and bookstores. At the library, the books are free. We sold two copies. I bought one for the librarian who had invited me. And then I bought another for her mother, who had been looking on expectantly.

  I dropped Daniel at his house fairly late that evening, not wanting to think how much this trip had cost him—if not him financially, at least his bank of free time—and how early he’d be appearing at the store the next day. I thanked him as profusely as I could; he just laughed and rolled his eyes and said, “Of course.”

  Of course Daniel opened the store for my daughter at dawn. Of course he’d driven hours into the night with me to sell two books. Of course he will be the one to save American bookselling, if not Downer Avenue. Because Daniel loves not only books, but bookselling. He loves retail. He can discuss the floor plan of almost any department store with all the excitement and attention to detail John Madden lavishes on a football field, or the floor plan of his own store: what goes best on a table or on a shelf, what his first shoplifted book was (Ian K. Smith’s The Four Day Diet), and whether or not it’s wise to stock robots.

  On this last point—on just about every point—we agree; I once hosted a local reading by the poet Matthea Harvey. Just minutes before the event, I was tipped off that Matthea was a robot fan (what poet from Brooklyn isn’t?), and so dashed over to Daniel’s and double-parked on Downer. I ran inside and called out, “I need a robot!” Approximately sixty seconds later, I had a small, blue, marvelously movable wooden one in my hand. Matthea, needless to say, received the robot with great joy and installed him beside her at the podium.

  In the end, the world doesn’t ask much of booksellers—just to have a well-chosen selection of books and robots on the shelves, be open at all hours, be ready to travel all distances, be able to laugh at every obstacle that presents itself, whether they are dieting shoplifters, librarians’ mothers, or literary doomsayers. Which is to say, we ask everything of them. Save this date for my reading. Save this pink princess book for me. Save us all.

  My friend from college is a doctor now. The marriage has lasted. So, too, my memories of that happy evening in that church basement, all whipped up out of nothing by his brave mother, who died, far too young, not too long ago.

  I’m not asking Daniel to throw me a wedding reception anytime soon, but now that my friend’s mom is gone, he should know that I’m looking to him to restart the world should it ever, however briefly, spin to a stop.

  I sometimes wonder if our civilization did end a while back—it sure feels like it—and whenever I despair that it won’t recover or that it’s falling further, my daughter and I take a short walk to Daniel’s honey-lit windows on Downer, gaze inside and realize, with relief: Here is the world.

  LIAM CALLANAN is the author of the novels The Cloud Atlas and All Saints and has purchased something in every bookstore he’s ever entered.

  Ron Carlson

  Changing Hands Bookstore, TEMPE, ARIZONA

  You’ve got to know Tempe in the old days when it wasn’t a tony theme park of franchise restaurants and shiny shops, but the main street was a funky collection of old storefronts which would come and go and that bright blue lake was not a lake but a dry ruined desert riverbed that flooded twice a year, three times if you were supposed to be somewhere in a hurry, and Arizona State was more like a big sprawling community college than the force-ten university it is today. If you climbed the butte there east of Main, you would have seen desert to the east, desert and farm fields to the south, Phoenix through the haze to the west, and the beginning scattered cluster of Scottsdale on the north. It was a challenging and fully desolate place. Where was harbor? Where was oasis? Who would stop and make a mark in such a place? What I’m saying is that in those days, I was always—every single time—heartened and braced by walking into the sweet fixture of Changing Hands, new and used books, there on Main Street a block and a half from Monti’s Mexican restaurant.

  Stepping through the door changed the world; here was art, solace, a thousand hardback conversations on display on the homemade shelves and tables and some on the stairway that went up the weird mezzanine. Our pace changed. People in a good bookstore use their feet differently; there is never a full step as we are reluctant to drift too fast past the anthologies of fiction, some familiar some new. I was never in the store without running into someone I knew, literally, not just their books. Downstairs in the used books there was a spine on every shelf that we had at home. Invariably I would bump into Gayle Shanks or Bob Sommer who founded the place, and rather than trying to sell me this book or that, they always inquired about how my writing was going and if the book came out in January could we do a reading in the spring? Eve
nings we attended the readings there, great tiered circles of our friends and students and strangers, some sitting up on that second story. Pinna Joseph was always around with a good book in each hand and the same question: How’s the writing going? It was a place absolutely full of books but which made me feel powerfully that there was a place for one of my own. When I read there in 1994 from a book of stories, I said impromptu what I meant: that this outpost was for me the heart of the village, and so—even having moved—it has remained in many ways the heart of Tempe.

  Now the store has moved south in Tempe to the lovely new space, pressed to move by all the things Americans do to their hometowns; they put bricks in the sidewalks and six coffee shops and the price of beer goes up two dollars. Three. I’m in Changing Hands twice a year still, even though I live in California. Last time I nabbed the brilliant biography Hemingway’s Boat, and I saw an old student, Cindy Dach, who I’ve heard is now even part owner. We talked in the stacks, trying to make eye contact despite the thousand books calling from behind. She asked me how my book was coming along. It is a special place, that store, and the spirit abides.

  RON CARLSON lived in Arizona for 20 years and now directs the Programs in Writing at University of California at Irvine. His most recent novel is The Signal.

  Kate Christensen

  WORD, BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  A bookstore is a physical place, of course. But it can also be a state of mind.

  I live in Portland, Maine, but my local bookstore is in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. It’s the bookstore equivalent of a long-distance love affair. When I buy books, I order them from WORD. Whenever I’m back in my old neighborhood, I stop in to say hello to whoever’s there—Christine, Stephanie, Jenn, or Jami—and I hang out and browse the shelves and sign copies of my books, and I feel at home again, as if I’d never left.

  WORD is the only bookstore I’ve ever claimed as “mine.” When it first opened, I lived right around the corner. The first time I went in, I saw they’d stocked all my books and asked if I could sign them. I ended up staying and hanging out for an hour and a half. Then I popped in as often as I could; I almost always walked out with a book or two or three. It was impossible to resist temptation: They always seemed to have in stock whatever books I was currently craving.

  Since it opened, I’ve had all my book parties there, the way you have important, occasional parties in your family’s house. After my marriage split up, when I still lived in Greenpoint and was feeling shell-shocked and exposed, I could always go into WORD and feel safe from any judgmental friends of my ex-husband’s. If I ran into them there, it was my turf: They had to back off and leave me the hell alone, because Christine Onorati, the owner, has my back. (This is true: She told me if I ever committed a crime, she will hide me in her basement. I thanked her and promised to try never to put her in that position.)

  When I was researching my most recent novel, The Astral, which is about a real building a block or two away from WORD, I asked around the bookstore one day for contact information for former and current tenants of the actual Astral Apartments. Three people in the store that day, it turned out, had lived there or knew someone who had. I whiled away a couple of hours asking questions and collecting stories. I never set foot in the real Astral. I got all my information at WORD.

  I love WORD for other reasons, beyond the personal: It is a truly great bookstore. Everyone who works there is well read and passionate about books, young and energetic, influential in the world of books, and friendly. They’re involved in the immediate community of Greenpoint as well as the wider community of writers: They have a basketball league and a dating board where you can meet people based on what kind of books you like. They throw readings that feel more like parties—festive, inclusive, and fun, often with wine and pizza or cookies, sometimes with music.

  I’m sad they’re so far away. I keep hoping they’ll open an outpost in Maine.

  KATE CHRISTENSEN is the author of six novels, including, most recently, The Astral, as well as The Epicure’s Lament and The Great Man, which won the 2008 PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction. She frequently writes reviews and essays for many publications, including The New York Times Book Review, Bookforum, and Elle. She lives in Portland, Maine, where she is working on a new book, Blue Plate Special: The Autobiography of an Eater. Her food blog can be found at katechristensen.wordpress.com.

  Carmela Ciuraru

  The Community Bookstore, BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  For starters, there’s Tiny. It might seem odd to pay tribute to a bookstore by way of its formidable resident cat, but Tiny is no ordinary cat. He takes the notion of a charming curmudgeon to unprecedented levels, inspiring fear, awe, and affection in customers and employees alike. To disturb him for any reason is to do so at your own peril. Usually I stand at a respectful distance, resisting the impulse to address him as “Sir.” Yet I can’t imagine my favorite local bookshop without his inimitable presence.

  The Community Bookstore has been a treasured resource in my Brooklyn neighborhood, Park Slope, since 1971. It’s the borough’s oldest independent bookstore and among the oldest in New York City.

  I love that the store sits between a toy shop and a liquor store. How great is that? It’s also on the same busy block as a bank, a dry cleaner, a health food shop, and a grocery store, which means that I walk by all the time. I can rarely resist the urge to stop in, even when I have no money to spend and no time to browse. The selection of books is exquisite, and the people who work there are friendly and smart.

  Like the best independent bookstores, the Community Bookstore does much more than sell a rather addictive—to bibliophiles, anyway—product. It’s a kind of sanctuary. I can’t count the number of times I’ve come in while having a stressful day, typically caused by frustration over my ability (or inability) to write. On such days, having abandoned a fruitless session at my desk, I’m welcomed like an old friend. When they ask how I’m doing, I can suddenly reply, “Great!” and the answer is honest.

  After chatting about the books we’ve read recently, or what’s going on at the bookstore, or the antics of my amazing dog, Freddy, I return home feeling encouraged, ready to get back to work. (Freddy often visits the store with me, and he is always rewarded there with treats, praise, and lavish attention.) The staff is probably unaware of their cheering effect; they treat everyone well. It doesn’t matter whether you’re coming in for the first time or the hundredth. You will feel as though your presence is valued. If you go to a chain bookstore, the experience is quite different and mildly depressing. Once, when I inquired at a giant chain store about the availability of A Moveable Feast, I was asked, “How are you spelling Hemingway?”

  At the Community Bookstore, the employees are passionate and knowledgeable readers. This is an algorithm-free space. Books are recommended by actual people who are eager to talk with you about the kinds of books you like and then offer suggestions. No one will judge you harshly for your literary preferences. You can further your literary education, as I have, by discovering “writers’ writers” such as Mavis Gallant. But if you step up to the counter with more commercial fare, like The Hunger Games, you won’t be met with a dismissive glare. At least one staffer has probably read whatever book(s) you have in your hand. Their tastes are eclectic. And I must add that one of the store’s most impressive virtues is its relentless support of local authors. Lucky me: I am one of them.

  Browsing there is a great pleasure, because you’re likely to find another appealing book (or two, or three) while trying to track down the one you’re hunting for. Of course, the best sellers and new-release titles are prominently displayed, but so too are graphic novels, oversized art books, literary journals, and beautiful blank notebooks, and there are shelves dedicated to smaller presses such as Europa Editions and Dalkey Archive.

  The store takes its name seriously in its devotion to the community. There’s a Frequent Buyers Club to reward loyal customers. The store donates generously to local schools. It will deliver bo
oks for free, anywhere around the neighborhood. And the staff will gift-wrap books, also free of charge. Whenever I wrap my own books, the results are dramatically different. In fact, the results are disturbing. My wrapping job always appears to have been attempted by a small child lacking fine motor skills; or a person fleeing the scene of an armed robbery; or a monkey; or just someone who uses too much tape and has never been taught how to cut in a straight line.

  Stephanie Valdez and Ezra Goldstein, who bought the Community Bookstore in 2011, have done everything right. They are fiercely devoted to sustaining the neighborhood’s literary culture. Not long before becoming an official co-owner, Stephanie told me about some of her hopes and plans for the store. It would change, but not too much. It would get cosmetic improvements, like new hardwood floors, but nothing fancy. She wanted the store to retain its wonderful character. I was excited by her ambitious vision for the store, but I was also struck by her kindness, intelligence, and warmth. I knew that under its new ownership, my beloved local bookstore would thrive rather than merely survive.

  And it has. It’s more vibrant than ever. There’s an elegant new logo—hand-drawn by A.C. Harkness, an incredibly gifted artist who works at the store—and a new awning. There are newly designed bookmarks, tote bags, and T-shirts. There are more books in stock, more events, and even more customers. Wander around on any given day, and you’ll find people browsing with deep concentration. Others are huddled in the back room, reading to their kids. (It’s a space I love, filled entirely with children’s books and leading to a lovely backyard patio.) Tiny might be sleeping in a corner, offering a partial belly view. Some people will be chatting about the latest novel by a favorite author or sharing anecdotes from a recent family vacation. This is a place that inspires both readers and writers, but it’s also just a favorite local hangout.