5 posts tagged “books”
Hi. I just had perhaps what was the most awkward and possibly offensive conversation with one of our customers today. Some guy was looking all over the store, really looking like he was trying to find something. Finally, he resorted to asking me, "Hey, do you know that book with the papaya on it, it was right here." He pointed to a small bookshelf in Fiction. I knew exactly what book he was taking about. We had just sold it the day before. However, I have to ask questions to make sure I'm right.
Me: You said it has a papaya on it? (Because I talk with my hands, I shape a papaya with my index fingers and thumbs. My first mistake)
Sir: Yes.
Me: And it's cut open?
Sir: Yes. You can see the inside.
Me: Oh, I know which book you're talking about. I'm sorry, sir. We sold it yesterday.
Sir: Oh, I see... Hey, do you remember what it was called?
Me: Yeah. Eat Me.
Sir: (clearly baffled) Hmm. Alright then.
End of conversation. He walked away. I don't know if he was just retaining the information of the title I just gave him, or if he thought I was insulting him. What kind of author calls a book that? Even one who writes erotica? Whether or not it even is erotica, I think there are more clever titles to come up with than that. Whatever. Below is the book we were talking about.
Let me clue you in on the type of clientèle I encounter at when I'm at work (used book store). Little kids. Little kids who want the most obscure things that we can't possibly have a section for. There really is so much I can do. And only so many questions I could answer.
There have been these little kids who've been approaching and re-approaching the counter for the past hour or so. Collectively, they've already asked me hundreds of questions. I've had to tackle questions like:
- Do you have any Junie B. Jones books? In Spanish?
- Where is your Stone Cold Steve Austin section?
- Helicopters?
- I want to read a book about sharks...?
I kind of wish they'd ask me something I know. Books with chapters, general non-fiction, Sesame Street. No. Instead, I'm still dealing with:
- How come I can't open the door to the bathroom?
- Do you have any Bionicle books?
- I want a book about Call of Duty...?
Argh. I'm just pointing to the children's room/child-hurricane center. I can give answers to all these questions if only I knew where to find them. Plus these monsters always leave an ungodly mess behind. As of now I think I have to reshelve about half the store because it's been transferred from one side to the other by their little sticky sugar hands. It seems like kids' hands can never escape sugar. It's like they all eat cotton candy right before they enter the book store. I've come to expect this family every other week. That's exactly how often I'm supposed to deal with this crap. But they spend the most money than any other customer in that biweekly span. So, I guess I shouldn't complain.
...Ay, but I can't help it. The family just left...a HUGE MESS EVERYWHERE. Then I had to deal with the mom and her kids who tried to swindle me out of a few dollars by replacing price stickers, "finding" books in the discount box, and a very pushy discount negotiation. Hint: Barnes and Noble we are not, but we sell nice books at HALF the cover price. Would it be possible to go up to a B&N associate and ask for a 50% discount on a book? Pssh! Heck no. You can sign up for their club, pay $25 and then get a minuscule discount. She squeezed my soul for 10% off. I gave it to her just so I wouldn't have to see her for two more weeks. That's mean, I know, I'm sorry. They purchased over a hundred dollars' worth of books, anyway, so cool, I guess. Now I have to clean up after them. Whoopee.
It's times like these where I hope that other job works out for me. I'm getting too tired of this, this...bookery. I'm dying for something real.
Sometimes, there are these little gems of dialog that happen in real life that just really make your day. So I've been here at work for about 3 hours now and I get this phone call from who-knows-where, some telemarketing company. Anyway, his name was Kenny or something generic like that and our conversation goes as follows. Note that the asterisk (*) denotes that I have changed the name for obvious purposes.
Me: Thank you for calling le Rack du Livres*.
Kennyman: Hello, may I please speak with Mrs. Georgia Crumley*?
Me: I'm sorry sir, but she is no longer living.
Kennyman: Oh, so... should I call back?
Me: (After a very long pause) Um, I don't think that will be necessary. I guess so...
Kennyman: You guess so?
Me: Yes.
Kennyman: So she's not there right now?
Me: No, she is never coming back, sadly. For she has passed on.
Kennyman: Uhhhhhh...
Me: She died.
Kennyman: OOOOOOHHHH, I'm sorry.
Me: So am I. Bye now.
Today was the day I was supposed to be in L.A. watching Silverchair; the band of bands I have been wanting to see all year, alas.
No. I have no means of going now when I had plenty of means during the summer.
Instead, I'm at the Book Rack working. Sipping tea, getting over a sinus infection, and moping because my car is broken.
Thanksgiving weekend should be good, though. I can't wait to be with family, no real worries, research paper on the back of my mind, parade, cranberry sauce. And reading. It's been my only source of welcome escape lately.
Lately, I've been having quite a few quasi-misadventures working at the Book Rack. I've put together a little picture essay. Or rather, some commentary accompanied by pictures I took from my cell phone. Whatever. It's been a quirky few days. And it's almost Halloween, hooray!
On Wednesday, I moved some kids books onto the counter to price them. And little did I know that there was something between the pages. It was a tiny gecko! I wasn't sure what it was at first other than a little dark green flash. And I tried to catch it to take to some vegetation, but alas, after I shot a photo of it, it scurried away before I even realized it.
After the stack of kids books, I moved on to dusting and pricing some damn Tom Clancy. I hate Tom Clancy because he's always got to write such big fat books that never fit anywhere in Adventure/Suspense. The Hunt for Red Gigantor. Clear and Portly Danger. Rainbow Six-Hundred Pounds. The Sum of All Fat.
Then later, these two kids from Juarez came in and asked me in Spanish if we had books on mushrooms. The girlfriend asked, "¿Tienen libros de mushrooms?"
I'm thinking "champiñones." But anyway. I reluctantly ask what kind of mushrooms. Then I figured out by their faces that they weren't talking about how to cook them. They both suddenly got really bashful as I stared at them in realization.
Then the girl says, "Uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhh... ¿En cómo tomarlos?"
I put my hands on my hips and keep staring and I'm thinking, "What kind of place (or decade) do they think this is?" And I tell them, "Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh, nnnnnno. (loooong pause) I have no idea where you're going to find anything like that." They look at me like I'm speaking a foreign language, which I am. To them. I have to say, "No tenemos libros como eso." I turn my attention to our cookbook section and say, "I don't even think we have any books on cooking them, so..."
Everything that happened in those moments was awkward. They looked guilty at me but with a hint rebelliousness, curious yet shy. The boyfriend looked at his girlfriend and then at the door. I had no words after that so I walked away.
Don't you just eat them, Alice?
It always is so uncomfortable when I don't know how to help people. I'm obligated to ask people, "Can I help you?" I remember some guy from Great Britain or somewhere cool like that answer, "I doubt it." Like a joke, right? Because I have no idea what he really needs help with? Yeah, I get it. Haha, you're hot.
Or I'm supposed to be able to tell that they're looking for something they can't find and so I appear conveniently for them to ask me. I don't mind it, really, except when it's something like books on mushrooms or lighthouses or, say, Ethan Hawke. Sometimes I just have absolutely no idea or worse am competely worthless for help of any kind. Like when some ladies came into the store today with these two kids. They seemed nice. But they were a pair of loudmouth chismosas as I later found out.
"Do you have Snoopy?" The older one asks.
They're in our children's room. I point to our very untidy miniature people section and say so. Then the lady raises her nose all conceited, not even looking at anything and says, "I think they were over here last time." And she walks to some other part of the store out of my sight. Jesus. We don't have a "Snoopy" section. Organizing children's books by genre is hard enough. We have maybe five or six Peanuts books and finding them is up to browsing and browsing only. Seriously, a studio size room full of used kids' books as thin as Charles Schulz's is a haystack in nature.
I continue shelving books for about five minutes. Then, as I'm in fiction putting away some Dorothy Garlock, I hear the younger lady go, "Aye, I didn't find ANYTHING. Did you?" she asked the older one. I hide so they don't see me. I thought, they're going to talk about me, I have a feeling.
"No," the older lady says. "Esa muchacha no sabía cualquier cosa. She wasn't no help at all. At all. Let's go now." I hear the two quietest children in the world scuffle towards the person that might be their grandma.
Then as they were leaving the other lady (maybe the mom) says, "The other girl who works here would have known where to look. This one doesn't know anything."
Um, well, if my memory does not deceive me, I was the other girl who works here. I remember them, clear as day, coming in a few months ago asking if we had Snoopy. The fluke-iest thing in the world happened that day. I'd had a Peanuts book in my hand.
Isn't that ironic, Charlie Brown?
Changing the subject, it might be just me, but I noticed something fishy about a set of children's alphabet books from the 80s. Hmm...
