Barely Making a Living

by the Hindmost

I work in a used bookstore in Baltimore, Maryland. It's a decent job, comparatively speaking. I've been a gas station attendant, an all-purpose kitchen worker, a porn shop clerk, sold frozen meats door to door. My rent has been paid in many ways, and selling books is without question the nicest of the lot. I don't go home covered in sauce and food scraps. Thieves are not likely to target a used bookstore for the huge cash returns. If someone doesn't want to buy what I have to offer, there is no slamming of doors. And my boss will not attempt to pay me in crystal Meth. Yet selling used books is not everything I had hoped it might be.

For example, I began the job with certain expectations. The shop is situated in a rather tony section of Baltimore called Federal Hill, where the real-estate is outrageously pricey; million-dollar apartments overlooking the Chesapeake Bay. I assumed, quite incorrectly, that the shop would be doing a brisk business, and that the clientele would be monied folks with large bank accounts and voracious reading appetites. The rich and bored, looking for a good book to while away the afternoon. Nope. The reality is that the people who come into the place fall into two categories: poor, and desperate for attention or simply after a few hours in the air conditioning, and solitary older men searching for a very specific item. I will very probably grow old in turn and join the latter group, but for now relative youth is mine to abuse.

Another of my misguided notions was that attractive, intelligent women roughly my age would be crawling amongst the stacks, keen to discuss favorite authors and listen wide-eyed to my recommendations. In short order my quixoticisms are being crushed by painful learning experiences. This very afternoon around three o-clock, a lovely red-headed girl strolled in, and my eyes made of her everything a man might hope for… well, at least this man. I reasoned, she's in a bookstore, she must read, ergo she is as bright as she is pretty. This brainy vision began studying a densely packed row, one full of hardcover novels. I tried to get a sense of what she might be interested in. Was it the pristine first edition of Arrowsmith? Maybe the new Faulkner anthology? I cleared my throat as a preamble to flirtation rolled smoothly from my tongue:

"May I help you find something?" (Anything at all…)

"No thanks," she said, her voice the purest spark of feminine sensuality. "I'm just looking. Oh, you have Misery! Stephen King writes some good-ass stuff!"

I swear the above exchange is true. Involuntarily, I took a step backwards, putting my foot on a loose pile of paperbacks, which gave way, and I fell awkwardly onto my posterior. Of course, in so doing, several Anne Rice five-pounders tumbled from the shelves I had bumped, one of them striking me squarely in the groin.

The place is always in a fearful state of disarray, which is easy enough to imagine. Limited space is hampered by makeshift shelves, and new arrivals are invariably laid willy-nilly along the cramped rows, waiting for me to stuff them into a logical crevice. Every day, several people add to the chaos by hauling in half a dozen haphazardly packed boxes of their recently deceased so-n-so's dusty volumes, which they are sure will bring a high price, since they are so old. Or, they have trundled along a complete collection of Agatha Christie novels, and we must be sorely in need of that. Ninety-nine percent of what I do involves pricing and selling things over the internet. Strangely enough this process actually requires some concentration, and the infrequent customers have become little more than an annoyance, to say nothing of those who call on the phone.

"Hello, Grassy Knoll Book Depository."

"Hi. I'm across the street from you, and I was wondering, do you have a copy of You've Never Heard of It by Obscure Author?"

"We have tens of thousands of titles here. Why don't you come on over and look around?"

"Would you go look, I don't want to waste my time if you don't have it."

"No, I won't"

A brief period of confused silence followed, then the sound of the receiver being slammed down. Thirty seconds later, an irate mid-forties suit rumbled through, under a cloud of indignant rage.

"Who answers the phones here?" he demanded.

"That would be me."

"I want your name, and the name of your boss. He should know how you speak to customers."

"She".

"What"?

"She. My boss is a woman. This is her cell-phone number; you can use the phone here if you want."

Sometimes folks come in with the notion that I'm there to be used as their personal book-finding tool. I have the most fun with those types.

"Excuse me, do you have-"

"I don't know. Why don't you go find out?"

"I'd like you to help me."

"Sorry."

"Are you saying you won't get up and help me find anything?"

"Yah, that's pretty much what I'm saying. In the words of my boss: I'm not paying you to go find books for people."

Often, after hearing that, they will curse me and leave in a huff. But I have a supportive boss in this regard; foot traffic simply doesn't account for much of the money the store makes. She really couldn't care less if I drive away the lazy and obnoxious with my sass.

Despite the small pay, and the somewhat irritating aspects of the work, there is something seemingly noble about selling books. Reading is a mild habit, one which can bring countless hours of joy to those who take the time to indulge. I'm a purveyor of something I love myself; whether one is interested in texts, or reference, or fiction, nearly any genre, I can sell something worthwhile. It seems I'll do alright by this job ~~ if I can somehow keep from spending my paycheck on the merchandise.