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."