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This kind of adoration for the physical objects that house our written language results in a magnetic, irrepressible attraction to bookstores. We can't stay out of them, even if we're passing by on an unrelated errand that requires immediate attention. We love to scope out the new titles, browse our favorite sections, and pretend that we feel guilty when we buy a book on impulse. And the bookstore staff...they're so helpful. And nice. And just so wonderful to talk with. Right? The staff of a bookstore certainly participates in this immense and bizarre love of books. That's precisely how they end up on that side of the counter, and why they're so good at helping the customer find that elusive book, whether or not the customer actually knows what they're looking for. While the book shopper is browsing the store, asking questions, buying books, and coming back again later, the bookseller is busy forming very specific opinions about what constitutes a good book store customer. I spent two solid years in retail book selling, and I've come away with an observation or two. "Hello, I'm looking for a book," says one customer, "I can't remember the title, but I know it's got the word 'the' in it." "Hmmm...that leaves a lot of room," I begin, "Can you think of anything else about the book that might help us out?" "Maybe if you list a few books for me I'll remember it," replies the customer. A situation like this one is...well...difficult. Booksellers are a wonderful well of literary knowledge, and they might be endowed with preternatural skills (the ability to feed themselves on minimum wage, to name one) but certain information is simply unavailable to them. With the proliferation of the internet, the resources available to booksellers are also available to book buyers. Spending a minute or two searching Books-In-Print would have kept the above person off the list of customers that booksellers make fun of after closing time. And in case you're wondering, the book in question was The Firm by John Grisham. Don't ask me how I figured that out. "Hello, I'm looking for something for my wife for her birthday. Can you help me?" Unlike the previous scene, this one has the potential for an exciting challenge. "Sure, I can help. What kind of books does your wife like to read?" The gentleman blinks a few times. "I'm not sure...what do women read these days?" Be aware: the average bookseller is a recent college graduate with a degree in the humanities and probably spent the morning listening to Bob Edwards on National Public Radio. Gender-based generalizations do not go over well, and often elicit a response of the following sort: "Hmmm...I bet your wife would be interested in something from the lesbian studies section." Now, a bookseller is more than happy to bail the stymied gift-buyer out of a tight corner, but what that salesperson needs is information. Anecdotes deemed irrelevant by the customer might be just what the bookseller is waiting to hear. For example: "I'm not sure what she likes to read, be she just loved the Godfather movies." Not only is this an interesting and unexpected response, it's fun. It turns the basic act of finding a book into an exciting conundrum. A whole range of possibilities opens up; anything by Mario Puzo; the various biographies of Marlon Brando; travel books on Sicily; Italian cook books; the history of New York City. This very situation ended with a purchase of The Alienist by Caleb Carr, set in Manhattan of 1896, which is the same time that Vito Andolini made his way through Ellis Island to become Don Vito Corleone. The errant husband was not made fun of after closing time, and he was back at Christmas. Speaking of Christmas, it's important to note that the definition of "good customer" becomes much narrower during the busiest shopping time of the year. Retail outlets make one-third to one-half of their yearly revenue during the painful stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve. Irritable and exhausted, booksellers are keenly aware of their pittance of an hourly wage while trying to meet the increasingly specific and outlandish demands of every customer in the store. They keep meticulous lists of obnoxious book buyers and don't wait until after closing to tell jokes at their expense. "I'd like two copies of Michael Crichton's most recent novel, three copies of The Prophet, and one copy of Harold and the Purple Crayon. Oh, and cards to go with them. You can pick them out. And I'd like them all gift-wrapped. Here's a list of names to write on each card. I'll be back in fifteen minutes." Customers who initiate a transaction like this one should be prepared for the consequences. What are the consequences? Use your imagination. It's illegal for me to describe them. As book lovers and book buyers, we all have favorite stores and favorite sales people. Your love of the written word is infectious, and it reminds your bookseller of why she's entered the book selling business in the first place. In my book selling days, this was all revealed in one customer question that would make me drop whatever tome I happened to be shelving and surrender myself to the eternal service of my fellow book lover. If you practice this question, take it into the center of your very soul, and put it into action every time you step into a new book store, I promise that you will enjoy a lifetime of veneration by many a bookseller long after closing time: "Excuse me, could you show me the poetry section?" ••• Copyright © 1999 Jesse Loesberg |
n spite of Bill Gates' cynical and obnoxious predictions, all attempts at replacing books with computer-based versions have fallen flat on their face. There's no replacement for the tactile experience of handling a new book. The cloth binding of a just-purchased hardcover emits a gorgeous cracking sound on a first blush, and the cream-colored pages receive our fingertips like the hand of a welcome friend. Not only that, it's cumbersome and dangerous to read a computer screen in the bathtub, which is where many book lovers do their best reading.