“So what’s the deal?”

“75% off everything.”

“But off of WHAT?”

“Off of everything.”

“I don’t understand, what’s it taken off of?”

Outwardly:
“It’s 75% off the cover price for the new books, as the sign right next to them says, and 75% off the price written inside for the used books.”

Inwardly:
75% OFF THE PHYSICAL BOOK
WE CHOP IT INTO PIECES IN FRONT OF YOU
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON INSIDE YOUR HEAD

“So… the price inside…”

She holds it up, pointing directly to the clearly penciled-in price on the inside.

Outwardly:
“YES. 75% off of six dollars.  It ends up being around $1.64.”

Inwardly:
SCREAMING

The lid. The lid. The lid. The lid. The lid.

Only people who have worked in retail can appreciate how accurately this represents trying to explain the simplest concepts to customers.

(eg. : A woman who claims to have worked in the book business her whole life asks, "How much are your paperbacks?" while holding up a mass market.

"That's a mass market, so it's $2.50."

"You should have had signs that said they were all $2.50. Because the cover price on some of these [she means the ones from the 1960s] is like 65 cents."

"Technically, they aren't all $2.50--we were originally charging half off the cover price with a minimum of $2.50, but I'm just ringing them all up as $2.50 now."

"Well, it isn't pencilled in or anything."

"There is a stamp on the bottom, which is redundant anyway because it applies to all mass market format books, and there is an eye-level bright orange sign three feet away from you at 11 o' clock explaining the pricing on mass markets." )

Let me guess: your favourite genre is mystery.*

Phone rings.

"Hello, this is [Bookshop] Books."

"I want to order a book from you."

I pause, assuming he will follow up the statement with some kind of question.
He doesn't.

"Okay, do you want to order a book you saw us list online, you want to order a book you saw in our store the other day, or you were looking to do a Special Order?"

"Special order."

"I'm sorry, sir, we're not doing Special Orders any more because we are closing in two weeks."

"You guys are closing?!"

I sigh inwardly, because it's been in all the local press and since we made the announcement at the beginning of the year, any regular customer would certainly have heard about it in person.

"Yes, sir, we will be closed by next month."

"You're going out of business?!!"

"Yes."

"Oh, okay.  I guess I'll call your downtown location."

"Our downtown location closed ten years ago."

"You guys are closing your downtown location?!!"

"No, it closed ten years ago.  There's nothing for us to close there any more."

"No, I KNOW there is a [Completely Unrelated Bookshop] downtown.  That is NOT closed."

"That is correct, sir.  There IS a [Completely Unrelated Bookshop] downtown, but since you called [Bookshop] Books I can't help you do a Special Order from them."

"... Oh.

Well, I'm so sad to hear that [Bookshop] Books is closing.  I love your store."


Ah, yes.  So many customers we've never seen before are so sad that we're closing.  Alas, their one visit to our old location ten years ago is not quite enough to keep us going a decade later.  It's unfortunate that we spend so much time condoling these people, whose support for independent bookshops extends only to a conceptual support never manifesting in a lucrative one unless the only copies they can find on Amazon cost more than they are willing to pay and they call us up hoping to find an underpriced one, as it tires us and leaves us with less genuine emotion to share with the many wonderful regular customers from around the neighbourhood that come in.

*The title of this post refers to a curious phenomenon in which aficionados of the mystery genre are completely oblivious to the world around them, unable to detect even such subtle clues as the large pendant "MYSTERIES" sign with the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes on it that hangs above our mystery section.

Beyond all help

A customer approaches the counter and holds up a book.

"Excuse me," he says, "Is this book eight dollars or two dollars?"

I look at him.  He is pointing directly to the price tag on which is clearly indicated an 8.

I study his face for traces of a smile, some indication of humour or irony.
There is none.

"Eight." I sigh, tiredly, fantasizing about the bottle of wine I will quaff once I get home.
"That is a figure of eight. It is eight dollars."

TOO MENNY LETTERZ

Customer comes up looking for a specific novel.

He mentioned the author.

I lead him over to the fiction section.

I explain that it's all alphabetical by author.

The customer stares blankly at the shelves.

Finally, he throws his arms dramatically in the air.

"THIS IS LIKE TRYING TO FIND A NEEDLE IN A HAYSTACK!" he yells.

"...The alphabet only has twenty-six letters, sir."

  "WHATTT"

"Twenty-six letters.  It would probably be pretty easy to find a needle in a haystack that only had twenty-five straws."

He glares at me, affronted, and storms out.

Wat, Post the Second

Woman approaches counter and, based on our interaction, appears to be suffering from some kind of aphasia.

"Do you have any cards that--"
She makes a robot /chopping movement with her hands--
"They tell you what to do...
It's a health...
Like for your muscles and bones?"

I'm not aware that we've ever carried any kind of dominatrix stationary that can karate-chop your bones into health, but clearly, the error was ours. Please tell me where I can find such a thing and I will stock them immediately.

Orwell? Never heard of her.

"Where are your books in terms of numbers...?"

Blank stare-- "I'm sorry...?"

"Books with numbers for titles... where would they be?"

"Oh! Well--"

"I'm looking for ... I think it was... 1985... or 1987... It was like a post-apocalyptic book."

"Oh... did somebody write a sequel to Orwell?"

A blank stare on her part this time.

"Okay, well, dystopian fiction ends up in sci-fi.... It... it wasn't George Orwell's 1984 you were looking for?"

"I don't know... maybe.  It was numbers and I saw it in another bookstore but I didn't get it.  It was post-apocalyptic and like, Big Brother."

"Yes... well, 1984 is THE Big Brother book [no look of comprehension or recognition on her part], so I would check under O for Orwell."

She wanders off, still looking desperately lost and confused.

Update:

The same woman, who I would guess is in her mid-twenties, came up to the counter to be rung up.

She buys a couple of very attractive vintage (turn of the century) books.

"Such charming art nouveau covers!" I gush.

"Yeah, right? I'm not going to read them, I just thought the covers were cute. I'm going to, like, stack them and put, like, a candle or a succulent on top."

The End is Nigh

 In case the Gentle Reader is unaware of this fact, allow us to inform you that the bookselling industry is by no means the golden goose it once was.  Indeed, there is very little money to be made in mongering the corporeal manifestations of the acquired knowledge of millennia in these days when it is so readily available gratis on the Interwebs.

For that reason, the National Institute of Literary Trends will soon be shuttering its doors, at least as a brick-and-mortar institution.

This has resulted in many trials for us here, of which the need to seek out new employment is almost dwarfed by the drama, bitching, and vandalic abandon our patrons have been plaguing us with in the wake of the momentous News.

One particular side effect has been the elimination of all shits from our interactions with the aforementioned patrons and in our handling of that of our stock which is of negligible value.

In short, we just don't care anymore--and it's beginning to show.

Not sure what is more depressing: 

1. Somebody wrote this book

2. Whatever sad person wrote it also thought that people would want to read it

3. A publisher agreed that people would want to read it and spent money making it available to the public

4. THIS IS AN ENTIRE SERIES OF ARSE-GREASE MADE LEGIBLE

Quotes added.

404: Shit not found.

In case you missed the reference.

Fuck your bullshit gender prescriptions.
Also, not only is the book on the right sexist, it's also racist.

Thank god we can stop pretending these are worth anything.

 

Not even our pack of highly-trained Bookshop Hounds can track down any shits. 

My all-powerful face: now with the ability to scramble all communications withing a ten-foot radius.

Bearded man in his early 30s comes up and gives me to understand that he is a teacher who wishes to find some books for 10-11 year olds, but does not have any idea of what 10-11 year olds would or could read.  No. Idea.

I give him my generic recommendations for that age group: Roald Dahl, Philip Pullman, Norton Juster, Frances Hodgson Burnett. He asks about the Hardy Boys and I say that I never got into them; I was into Nancy Drew.  He asks if I reread them later and I said yes, and volunteered that unlike the other authors I mentioned, I didn't find that the Nancy Drew books stood the test of time.

Thus far the interaction seems to be fairly normal.

After making my recommendations, I leave him to peruse the shelves I had led him directly to as a likely source of the sort of books he was looking for.  He hovered momentarily, never focusing his eyes on any particular title or shelf, before floating back over to me at the counter.

"I was hoping to find some books that I could borrow and read to them for free.  Do you know where--?"
"There is a public library just a couple of blocks south of here."
"But I wanted books I could keep in the classroom for free to read to the kids."
"The Library."
"Is there a problem with my questions?" [apparently irritated]
"I'm sorry?" [just bemused]
"You're not really answering my questions."
"You asked where you could borrow books for free to read to your kids and I answered that you could do that at the Library. I'm not understanding how that question wasn't answered or how we arrived at a problem."
"Well, it's just your face. It's unhelpful."
Long pause.
Slowly and deliberately, while making eye contact: "So, my face is the problem in this conversation."
Another pause.
He backs away and says loudly and indignantly, "Well, I guess I'LL go READ TO THOSE CHILDREN and get help SOMEWHERE ELSE."  He exits, still clutching the list of recommendations I wrote out for him.
"You have a great day, sir."