The Bookstore
I arrived at the bookstore a full 27 minutes after the hour. I looked completely ragged, both from the agitation of the bus ride and the fact that it had finally started to rain in torrential sheets. I had to run across the parking lot, dodging cars, with my sweater pulled over my head as an umbrella. Note to self: wool blends do not make effective water-resistant coverings. I feel bad for sheep who are stuck out in the world with nothing but a wool blanket of fur covering their little sheep bodies. My teeth are starting to chatter, an annoying little habit that happens every time I’m cold and wet.
I barrel through the door, shaking myself dry like a dog, when I see my manager heading my way. Oh great. I’m going to be in so much trouble for being late. I don't want to deal with conflict today. It’s the fourth time in the last two months that I've arrived late, and it hasn't reflected well on my performance reviews. Yes, sadly, I have worked here long enough for performance reviews. I may be the only person in the history of the company that can say that. My mind starts racing as I try to come up with a better story than my bathroom time warp and the evil bus driver pulling away and leaving me on the curb with Apocalypse, when I hear her say, “What are you doing here?”
“I know, I’m late, but it was such an ugly morning,” I said, trying to fish for a better excuse. I should have been thinking about this on the bus.
She looked at me strangely. “Actually, you’re about 23 and a half hours early. You’re not scheduled to work until tomorrow.”
Damn it! No! “Today’s Wednesday?” I asked with a whimper.
“No, Tuesday,” she said. "Wednesday is still half a day away."
I started to cry, but tried to make it look like I was wiping rain droplets off my face. She didn’t buy it for a second. She looked like she was taken aback by my behavior. “You’re soaked,” she said, with a quiet reassurance that I’d never before heard in her voice. “Come on back to the break room. I’ll get you a dry shirt and some hot tea.” I was shocked. She usually seemed like such a bitch. But I guess your attitude has to be different when you’re playing the role of manager with late employee and when you're playing the role of human being with dripping-wet girl leaving puddles on the entry tiles.
She led me to the back room and took my sweater. I was still shivering. The store always had the air conditioner cranked up a little too intensely. Not enough to make you completely freeze as a customer, but enough to encourage you to visit the latte stand for a little added warmth. Brilliant marketing.
I quickly washed my hands with hot water and the awful pink soap we had at the store. She went to the closet and got me a clean brick-red polo, brand new, wrapped in plastic. “All I have is an XL. Sorry. But it will keep you dry,” she said, tossing me the bag. I turned my back from her to change, self-conscious about the size of my breasts, or lack thereof. I felt the wet cotton release from my back as though I were peeling the skin from a banana. The new shirt went over my head and covered me like a tent. The shoulders were so broad that the short-sleeved cuffs nearly came down to my wrists. I felt like I was carrying around a dozen yards of extra material. The body of the shirt was long enough that I considered belting it and wearing it as a dress. I wasn’t complaining, though; the extra cotton knit was keeping me warmer than I would have expected.
I sat in the hard, industrial break room chair, rested my elbows on the table and ran my fingers through my wet hair, unlocking knots as I went. She approached with a foam cup trailing a tail of tea bag string. “Drink this,” she said. “It should stop your teeth from chattering.” I took a sip and scalded my mouth and tongue, and felt the hot liquid travel through my esophagus down into my stomach. The sudden warmth was as shocking as the cold, and I shuddered again. But the chattering stopped. I ran my tongue along the damaged roof of my mouth, knowing that this would hurt like hell in a few hours. Self-inflicted oral injuries are the worst, because you have no one to blame but yourself. I picked up the cup of tea and tried blowing on it to cool it off. Steam rose from the white Styrofoam and fogged my rain-spotted glasses. I felt quiet.
“Better?” she asked, hopefully. I nodded. “As long as you’re here and in uniform, do you want to work today? I had one of the kids from the college bail out at the last minute. All-nighter for exams did him in.” I nodded again, not really in the mood to speak. “Ok, you can work on re-shelving the books. Start over in self-help. No one will bother you.” I nodded again, knowing the wisdom of being able to hide behind the cart for the entire day. “Ok… well, then… back to work.” She smiled, but her smile became forced and awkward as she once again became Manager Woman and left Human Being behind. “Come out when you’re ready.”
The door clicked shut behind her and I blew on my tea some more, watching the ripples move through the liquid. I hate tea. I just took it to make her feel better, and now I have this burn in my mouth. Why did she have to pick tea, of all things? And why did I have to take it? I walked across the room and dumped it into the sink, leaving a golden-brown stain behind. I washed my hands slowly, caressing the bubbling foam, and watching the sink fill with bubbles that washed away my tea stain. Time to face the world.
The door between the break room and the store is heavy steel. I always wondered if it was there to protect us from the customers, or to just remind you that the door is your last line of defense against the stupid. I turned the knob, put my weight behind it and pulled. Muzak immediately filled my ears. Phil Collins. It was almost enough to make me want to retreat into the break room. But I fought through it and went out into the world.
The store was still quiet. Weekday mornings, especially rainy weekday mornings, don't do much for bringing the readers through the door. I approached the cart in self-help, staring at the titles. Because of our alphabetical filing system, “When a Young Spouse’s Death Leaves You with Small Children” was nestled snugly between “A Primer on Death and Dying” and “Fido is Gone: Surviving Pet Loss”. “Bl” comes before “Br”. “My” comes after “Ma”. There’s a rhythm to alphabetical filing that I’ve always found comforting. I was so absorbed in organization that I didn’t see the feet approach.
A large man with dirty tennis shoes was standing over me, clearing his throat in an effort to get my attention. I think my oversized XL shirt was made with him in mind. I looked up. “Doya ha da opabook?” I swear I couldn’t understand what he was saying. I squinted my eyes and cocked my head to the left, trying to translate in my head.
He spoke again, slowly, like I was an imbecile: “Do. You. Have. The. Oprah. Book?” I shrugged. “I’m not sure what you mean. The new book club book? A cookbook that she endorsed? A book about Oprah?” He had no answers. “How the hell should I know? It’s for my wife. She told me to get the Oprah book.”
I untangled my crossed legs and stood up to lead this man across the store to fiction. “Fiction. New. Oprah’s new book should be in here,” I said.
He looked at me. “Which one is it?”
I shrugged. “Look for one with the Oprah’s Book Club label,” I said. “I don’t know which one your wife wants.”
He wrinkled his face in anger. “Nice job, loser,” he began. “You work in a bookstore and you don’t even know what Oprah’s latest book is. What an ass.”
I shrugged again, poking at the burned spot in my mouth with my tongue. “Thank you for your kind words,” I said. “And many thanks for shopping our book store for all of your Oprah-related needs. If there's ever another celebrity whose advice you follow when choosing literature, I certainly hope you'll return to our store.” I turned and walked away, going back to my filing.
But no! I was spotted now, unprotected in the main aisles. The customers were coming to seek me out and make me miserable. “I heard about a book on the radio,” said a woman with long gray hair, dressed like a hippie. “But I don’t know the name or the author. I don’t suppose you were listening to NPR yesterday at 4:15?”
“I want the book my coworker is reading,” said another. “It has a beautiful blue cover and is about a woman and this man. Do you know the one?”
“Do you know of a good book for a newborn baby?”
“Do you have any books about how to tell your married boyfriend that you’re pregnant?”
“Do you have any erotic novels?”
The last one was the final straw for me, probably because it happened in conjunction with Celine Dion on Muzak, enough to make even the strongest person completely ill. I ran to the break room to hide from them. I just couldn’t handle their questions anymore. That’s when she sent me home. She said I wasn't working to my potential. Whatever. I was at the store a day before I was supposed to be. So what if I looked like a mess and acted like I didn't care about the customers. How was I any different from the college students who came through?
I grabbed my wet cardigan, held it up over my head, gradually opened the door and made a run across the parking lot to the bus stop.
I barrel through the door, shaking myself dry like a dog, when I see my manager heading my way. Oh great. I’m going to be in so much trouble for being late. I don't want to deal with conflict today. It’s the fourth time in the last two months that I've arrived late, and it hasn't reflected well on my performance reviews. Yes, sadly, I have worked here long enough for performance reviews. I may be the only person in the history of the company that can say that. My mind starts racing as I try to come up with a better story than my bathroom time warp and the evil bus driver pulling away and leaving me on the curb with Apocalypse, when I hear her say, “What are you doing here?”
“I know, I’m late, but it was such an ugly morning,” I said, trying to fish for a better excuse. I should have been thinking about this on the bus.
She looked at me strangely. “Actually, you’re about 23 and a half hours early. You’re not scheduled to work until tomorrow.”
Damn it! No! “Today’s Wednesday?” I asked with a whimper.
“No, Tuesday,” she said. "Wednesday is still half a day away."
I started to cry, but tried to make it look like I was wiping rain droplets off my face. She didn’t buy it for a second. She looked like she was taken aback by my behavior. “You’re soaked,” she said, with a quiet reassurance that I’d never before heard in her voice. “Come on back to the break room. I’ll get you a dry shirt and some hot tea.” I was shocked. She usually seemed like such a bitch. But I guess your attitude has to be different when you’re playing the role of manager with late employee and when you're playing the role of human being with dripping-wet girl leaving puddles on the entry tiles.
She led me to the back room and took my sweater. I was still shivering. The store always had the air conditioner cranked up a little too intensely. Not enough to make you completely freeze as a customer, but enough to encourage you to visit the latte stand for a little added warmth. Brilliant marketing.
I quickly washed my hands with hot water and the awful pink soap we had at the store. She went to the closet and got me a clean brick-red polo, brand new, wrapped in plastic. “All I have is an XL. Sorry. But it will keep you dry,” she said, tossing me the bag. I turned my back from her to change, self-conscious about the size of my breasts, or lack thereof. I felt the wet cotton release from my back as though I were peeling the skin from a banana. The new shirt went over my head and covered me like a tent. The shoulders were so broad that the short-sleeved cuffs nearly came down to my wrists. I felt like I was carrying around a dozen yards of extra material. The body of the shirt was long enough that I considered belting it and wearing it as a dress. I wasn’t complaining, though; the extra cotton knit was keeping me warmer than I would have expected.
I sat in the hard, industrial break room chair, rested my elbows on the table and ran my fingers through my wet hair, unlocking knots as I went. She approached with a foam cup trailing a tail of tea bag string. “Drink this,” she said. “It should stop your teeth from chattering.” I took a sip and scalded my mouth and tongue, and felt the hot liquid travel through my esophagus down into my stomach. The sudden warmth was as shocking as the cold, and I shuddered again. But the chattering stopped. I ran my tongue along the damaged roof of my mouth, knowing that this would hurt like hell in a few hours. Self-inflicted oral injuries are the worst, because you have no one to blame but yourself. I picked up the cup of tea and tried blowing on it to cool it off. Steam rose from the white Styrofoam and fogged my rain-spotted glasses. I felt quiet.
“Better?” she asked, hopefully. I nodded. “As long as you’re here and in uniform, do you want to work today? I had one of the kids from the college bail out at the last minute. All-nighter for exams did him in.” I nodded again, not really in the mood to speak. “Ok, you can work on re-shelving the books. Start over in self-help. No one will bother you.” I nodded again, knowing the wisdom of being able to hide behind the cart for the entire day. “Ok… well, then… back to work.” She smiled, but her smile became forced and awkward as she once again became Manager Woman and left Human Being behind. “Come out when you’re ready.”
The door clicked shut behind her and I blew on my tea some more, watching the ripples move through the liquid. I hate tea. I just took it to make her feel better, and now I have this burn in my mouth. Why did she have to pick tea, of all things? And why did I have to take it? I walked across the room and dumped it into the sink, leaving a golden-brown stain behind. I washed my hands slowly, caressing the bubbling foam, and watching the sink fill with bubbles that washed away my tea stain. Time to face the world.
The door between the break room and the store is heavy steel. I always wondered if it was there to protect us from the customers, or to just remind you that the door is your last line of defense against the stupid. I turned the knob, put my weight behind it and pulled. Muzak immediately filled my ears. Phil Collins. It was almost enough to make me want to retreat into the break room. But I fought through it and went out into the world.
The store was still quiet. Weekday mornings, especially rainy weekday mornings, don't do much for bringing the readers through the door. I approached the cart in self-help, staring at the titles. Because of our alphabetical filing system, “When a Young Spouse’s Death Leaves You with Small Children” was nestled snugly between “A Primer on Death and Dying” and “Fido is Gone: Surviving Pet Loss”. “Bl” comes before “Br”. “My” comes after “Ma”. There’s a rhythm to alphabetical filing that I’ve always found comforting. I was so absorbed in organization that I didn’t see the feet approach.
A large man with dirty tennis shoes was standing over me, clearing his throat in an effort to get my attention. I think my oversized XL shirt was made with him in mind. I looked up. “Doya ha da opabook?” I swear I couldn’t understand what he was saying. I squinted my eyes and cocked my head to the left, trying to translate in my head.
He spoke again, slowly, like I was an imbecile: “Do. You. Have. The. Oprah. Book?” I shrugged. “I’m not sure what you mean. The new book club book? A cookbook that she endorsed? A book about Oprah?” He had no answers. “How the hell should I know? It’s for my wife. She told me to get the Oprah book.”
I untangled my crossed legs and stood up to lead this man across the store to fiction. “Fiction. New. Oprah’s new book should be in here,” I said.
He looked at me. “Which one is it?”
I shrugged. “Look for one with the Oprah’s Book Club label,” I said. “I don’t know which one your wife wants.”
He wrinkled his face in anger. “Nice job, loser,” he began. “You work in a bookstore and you don’t even know what Oprah’s latest book is. What an ass.”
I shrugged again, poking at the burned spot in my mouth with my tongue. “Thank you for your kind words,” I said. “And many thanks for shopping our book store for all of your Oprah-related needs. If there's ever another celebrity whose advice you follow when choosing literature, I certainly hope you'll return to our store.” I turned and walked away, going back to my filing.
But no! I was spotted now, unprotected in the main aisles. The customers were coming to seek me out and make me miserable. “I heard about a book on the radio,” said a woman with long gray hair, dressed like a hippie. “But I don’t know the name or the author. I don’t suppose you were listening to NPR yesterday at 4:15?”
“I want the book my coworker is reading,” said another. “It has a beautiful blue cover and is about a woman and this man. Do you know the one?”
“Do you know of a good book for a newborn baby?”
“Do you have any books about how to tell your married boyfriend that you’re pregnant?”
“Do you have any erotic novels?”
The last one was the final straw for me, probably because it happened in conjunction with Celine Dion on Muzak, enough to make even the strongest person completely ill. I ran to the break room to hide from them. I just couldn’t handle their questions anymore. That’s when she sent me home. She said I wasn't working to my potential. Whatever. I was at the store a day before I was supposed to be. So what if I looked like a mess and acted like I didn't care about the customers. How was I any different from the college students who came through?
I grabbed my wet cardigan, held it up over my head, gradually opened the door and made a run across the parking lot to the bus stop.
posted by Ali at 2:46 PM
1 Comments:
I like this. Well-written. I already care about bookstore girl and want to know more about her undoubtedly depressing life. I guess that's the nanowrimo equivalent of a 'page-turner'. Keep going - it looks like a winner!
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