“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.