Harry Potter and the Deathly Grunts

Hello.

It’s getting close to Harry Potter (Book 7) time at Booth and Noble, and things could not be any more hectic. Children are screaming; parents are fuming; Grunts are laughing at the funny looking people.

And I am once again astounded by the absurd reality in which we live.

For example, a pregnant woman walks up to the Information Kiosk with a determined look in her eye. And a baby inside her stomach (she was pregnant, but I also think she had eaten a child).

As she walks up, she slams her fist on the counter. “Is this where I order that Harry Potter?”

“Yes,” I say, typing the ISBN number quickly into the computer. “How many copies would you like?”

“Oh,” she laughs heartily, “just the one.” Then she rubs her stomach in a manner vaguely reminiscent of Gordon Ramsey rubbing spice into a hunk of red meat.

I order the book for her, she thanks me, and walks away. Then she stops, and turns, and heads back to the kiosk. “I have another question,” she says, basting her belly.

“Yes,” I sigh like a man on death row.

“I just want to make sure: is this the first edition?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The first edition of Harry Potter. Is the book I ordered a first edition?” The large gold medallions hung around her neck swing back and forth, hypnotizing me.

“You mean, the book that is being released around the world to fanfare and hundreds of thousands of eager adults and children?”

“Yes.”

“The book that the world has literally been waiting ten years for? The one that answers all the question? The book that J. K. Rowling has put in her will in case she dies?”

“Yes.”

“…Then yes, it is a first edition.”

But not everyone is super excited about Harry Potter. I was working in the music department when a woman walks up to me, her children leashed to her like it was the iditarod. A veritable cloud of cigar smoke curled around her sneered lips as she opened her craggy mouth with a creaking slurg.
“Ai’im lookin’ fur France-sis the Takin’ Moole.”

“Excuse me?”

“That Moole moo-vy. I want the France-sis Moole moo-vie.”

“Francis the Talking Mule?”

“Thaits what Ai sayd.”

I quickly look on the computer. “I see a couple of movies, here:” and I name them for her.

She gets a pained look on her face, like she was passing a watermelon. “Ees eet the moole moo-vy?”

I say, “Yes, it’s a Francis the Talking Mule Movie.”

“Ai want the woon with the Moole.”

“Yes, this is the one with the mule.”

“The woon wit the takin’ moole?’

“Yes, the one with the talking mule.”

“Are yu shoore?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“The takin’ moole?”

“YES! DAMN IT YES!”

“Ai want eet.”

“I can order that for you.” And then I ordered it for her. After it was ordered, she dragged her poor children around like deflated balloons.

I shook my head as she left, aware for not the first time that the very fate of human kind hung in the balance.

The next shift at the Information Kiosk found more people attempting to interact with me. The highlight of this interaction may have been the man who loudly informed the store that he would rather have a $40,000 guitar than work in a bookstore. I asked if they were mutually exclusive activities.

Turns out, guitars are different from bookstores. But I guess I didn’t need to tell you that.