Hello.
Working at the information desk is a double-edge proverb.
On the one hand, you have the freedom to wander the store at random, and appear to work. For example, if I am bored at the information desk, I might wander over to the magazines and straighten them a little bit. Lord knows they need it. It's one of the sad truths of our culture that people, when given the opportunity, will completely mess up a neat and orderly magazine stand. Trust me: there have been tests. They ("scientists") injected monkeys with a drug that gives them the ability to read (it's called Literox). These monkeys are then released into various book stores across the country, and they are dressed in top hats and given canes to disguise them so we Grunts won't know that they are really monkeys and not small hairy gentlemen.
Anyway, these reading monkeys are sent into the magazine departments and are encouraged to pick apart the periodicals. Invariably, these simians rip out the comment cards and the subscription cards. These cards make these reading apes Very Angry ("Great Apes of Wrath").
But, and this is the important part, THE MONKEYS DON'T TAKE THE MAGAZINES OUT OF ORDER! They will always put them back in the same place. This is a trait of the great reading monkey, but not the human (most of whom are probably illiterate anyway).
So what happened during my time at the information desk, you ask? Besides putting away the magazines, I had the pleasure of helping a number of people.
I do want to point out that many customers come into Booth and Noble that are very intelligent. They know what they want, they know (approximately) where that thing is, and they don't have to deal with having me cock an eyebrow and sigh, exasperatedly.
But these are not the customers that come up to the info desk. No, the customers that come up to the information desks are the ones who say "I'm looking for the non-fiction section." I reply, "Every section that isn't labeled 'fiction' is non-fiction. Can you be more specific?"
One of the first customers of the day was a woman who was looking for a romance novel. Now, I have nothing against people who read romances. I think it's perfectly fine. I myself enjoy a "beach read" that is just fun and doesn't really take too many brain cells to figure out. There's nothing wrong with this.
She, however, decides that what she's looking for is too complex for her to deal with on her own. So she comes up to me, who is foolishly stationed right in the center of the information desk.
"Can I help you," I ask, my heart sinking when I see the cat-shaped broach on her cat-themed sweater.
"Yes, I'm looking for a romance novel that I haven't read yet."
I pause.
"That's a good idea," I say. "What have you read before?"
She doesn't answer that question. Instead, she looks at me and answers a different, unasked, question.
"Because they all look different, but aren't."
"Excuse me?" I ask, quite understandably. "I don't know what you mean."
She clarified: "The covers change. They have the same book, but different covers! It makes it so hard to find a new one!"
Now, this does happen. Occasionally, when a book is really popular, or turned into a movie, they will release it with a new cover. But this doesn't happen too often. More often, they will release a book with the same plot as another book, but call it something different and claim it is by the same author. Romance novels do this all the time. She was calling them on it, without even meaning to call them on it. It was a blow for the common reader, albeit without foreknowledge of the blowing.
I had to clear my head from this conversation and so went to the restroom. I walked into the men's room and was immediately greeted by the oppressive stench of the men's room. All men's rooms have it. There's no amount of urinal cakes that can disguise this scent. It is oppressive, but oddly comforting, like it's the only one constant in one's endless stream of dynamic lives.
There's already a man at the one urinal at Booth and Noble, so I decide to use the stall for my urination. I ease myself out and let myself go...but when I look down I notice that a steady stream of liquid is pooling on the floor next to me.
"Oh no!" I think to myself. "What have I done?" But then I notice. It's not me. It's coming from OUTSIDE MY STALL. Outside my stall from the direction of the urinal.
It's too late for me to stop and move to a different stall. The liquid inches closer to my foot. I try to move away from it, but there's only so far for me to go. The liquid on the floor moves ever steadily onward, like the soldiers from The 300 .
Eventually, I am completely perpendicular to the toilet bowl. Instead of facing it straight on, I am facing it at a right angle. Still the liquid comes closer. How long has this man been standing there? I quickly finish, flush, and flee.
Completely unrelaxed, I walk back to the information desk. Standing there is a tall man with thin, wispy gray hair. One of them. One strand of hair is plastered across his spherical, bald head. Like a dying man's face, the rest of his skin lays shrunken against the outline of his skull. His bones protrude through the thin, translucent membrane of his skin. Teeth at odd angles jut out of his mouth and create a specter of death. With a shockingly deep, slow voice, but haltingly, he asks me a question:
"Where...are...the...photography books?" The last two words he spits out like half-chewed tobacco.
I direct him to the proper section and quickly back away. The stench of the unclean is upon him, and I am afraid that, like the homeless demons that haunt the under bridges of the area, I too will be sucked into his whirlpool of dismay.
Later, after he has left, I return to the section to clean up the books. I notice that the only books laid open are ones full of photographs of young children.
My day is largely uneventful at Booth and Noble after this. Uneventful, save for the final customer of the day.
She comes up to me with a note clutched in one chubby paw. I ask her, "is there anything I can help you find today?"
She looks at me like I just vomited at her feet.
"Yes." She snarls. "I'm looking for a book by a man named Wambam."
I start a little. "Wambam? W-a-m-b-a-m?"
"Yes. Wambam."
"Ok," I say, and type it into the computer. Nothing comes up, and I tell her so.
"Nothing is coming up, ma'am."
"Well, you must be typing it in wrong."
"Ma'am," I say, "it's four letters. 'W.' 'A.' 'M.' 'B.' You want to type it in yourself?"
"No, I," she hocks, "trust you," she spits."
"Do you have the title of the book you're looking for?"
She does, and gives it to me. The author's name?
Wambaugh.
She was very close.
And I was very close to pushing my way out the door the minute my shift ended. My advice from the information desk at Booth and Noble?
Run away. Run far, run fast.
