You Think You Know What It Is To Be A Grunt?

Hello.

My apologies for not posting in a few weeks - you see, I moved, and I have found myself both Internet-less and sleep-less for a number of nights. Plus, there are always new things to hang on the walls and new parts of the lease to break (pets? Why the hell not. No flags? Damn it, I'll hang the flag if I want to. Petty arson? You better believe it).

Anyway, so I haven't posted for awhile. But that doesn't mean that the customers at Booth and Noble have matured. No, if anything, like the hero of Martin Amis' Time's Arrow , these customers get less mature as they progress through time (although, to be fair, few of them are Nazi war criminals).

To whit:

It is summer reading time - the time when thousands of schooled children arrive in what, to the, must be a wondrous playground of imagination and joyous amusement: the bookstore. "Joy!" they think to themselves, "we get to read about mentally handicapped geniuses and strange men who hide things in trees -- all summer!"

No, the children are wonderful - full of bright vivacity and loveliness. It's the parents who mystify me.

Take, for example, the typical parent. Walking up to me while I'm near the children's department, she says:

"Do you have any books like this ," as she holds up a Matt Christopher sports book, "but for girls ?"

"Ma'am," I say, "girls can play sports too."

She looks at me like I just ate my own pants. "Not MY girl. She will like horses , isn't that right Betty?"

Betty, decked out in a baseball cap and a pair of cleats, nods her head, sadly holding onto a Pony Pals book.

Or, for example, the parents who says to their child: "you're not smart enough for this book," or, "this book is too long for you; let's find one a better length." These are the Oprah book club parents - the Secret generation, the Last Lecture devotees who like their literature like they like their literature like they like their politicians: white bred, old, and full of safe platitudes.

Of course, you often find those people that probably haven't given these things called "books" that much thought at all - the people, like this parent, who walks their daughter through the fiction section, trying to find a book:

"How on earth do they arrange these? It looks completely random!"

"Mom, it's by the author's name!"

"Oh, that makes sense."

"Yeah, duh."

"I always liked this alphabull organization. When it's alphabull, it's easy!"

But even some hardcore readers think they know what it's like to be a Grunt. It's a lot more than knowing the alphabutt. According to one gentleman who came through my cashwrap line the other day, it involves knowing things about money too:

He trailed a small daughter behind him like the detritus from sneeze. When she lagged too far behind, he would snort her back into his arms. When he arrived at the line, he said to her:

"When you give money to a clerk, you need to make sure it all faces the same way. This makes it easier for them to count!"

She nods her head; I begin to experience an emotion I haven't felt at Booth and Noble in a long time: understanding.

Then he takes six dollars, in ones, in his hand, crumples them all and throws them on the counter.

"Don't ever work retail, honey," he says to his daughter as he holds his hand out for his change.

Of course, it's not just the parents that know the best way to run things. Often, many customers of Booth and Noble believe that their way is the best way.

Booth and Noble, of course, has a cafe which serves many fine, overpriced, and much, much worse-for-you-than-you-think foods, some of which can be found at Starbooth. At seven o'clock in the evening, a woman comes up to the Information Kiosk and says to me:

"Excuse me. Is your manager here? I wish to complain about your cafe."

"Absolutely ma'am," I say. "Can I tell them what the complaint is?"

"Oh, it's not that big a deal," she says. "But. Your cafe is out of soup." She pauses. "Did you hear what I said? OUT OF SOUP." She looks at me. "THERE. WAS. NO. SOUP." My non-reaction starts to bug her. "It is dinner time. And YOU HAVE NO SOUP! What sort of establishment is this? I WANTED SOUP!" She starts to work herself up now: "I WANT TO TALK TO A MANAGER. THERE WAS NO SOUP! THIS IS UNCONSCIONABLE!"

Yes, it is. Unconscionable.

Let us not forget what "unconscionable" means. I quote from Merriam-Webster here:

"not guided or controlled by conscience" i.e., not answerable to "moral goodness" .

Let's list some other unconscionable things, shall we?

• Torture


• The Holocaust


• Dog fighting


• Not having "Chicken and Wild Rice" soup at Booth and Noble

.

Hey, guess what? We're right next door to a Panera, eh? They even have more than one type of soup at a time - imagine that, a choice! That's, what, super-conscionable?

Torture.

Maybe that's what being a Grunt is all about. I now offer, for your consideration, a virtually unedited transcript of a phone call I received yesterday at Booth and Noble:

[ring ring]

"Hello, thank you for calling your local Booth and Noble. How can I help you?"

"Yes, do you have [trying hard to pronounce] Charles ... Dar...win... and the Voyager of the Beagle?"

"Ma'am, do you mean The Voyage of the Beagle by Charles Darwin? I'm pretty sure we have that, let me just go check on the shelf."

[I check on the "evolution" shelf and, lo and behold, we have it.]

"Ma'am, I've got it right here for you."

"Now, is that in hard cover? This is a gift for someone."

"No, I'm afraid we've only got it in paperback. I can order you hardcover copy, thoug - it would come in in 3-5 business days."

"Don't new books always come out in hardcover?"

"..."

"...You know, like Stephen King always has a hardcover?"

"...Ma'am, maybe we're not talking about the same book. I'm holding Charles Darwin's The Voyage of the Beagle in my hand."

"Yes, this is the book reviewed in this week's Wall Street Journal ."

"Well, ma'am, this book isn't new - it's over 150 years old. It came out in the middle of the 1800s."

"Yes, it's Darwin's Joyful Journey of Discovery."

"Yes, so would you like me to order the hardcover, or would you like the paperback?"

"I don't want either. I want the modern book."

"Ma'am, are you looking for a different book?"

"No, I want the one from the Wall Street Journal."

"...I'm holding Charles Darwin's The Voyage of the Beagle for you."

"NO! YOU AREN'T LISTENING TO ME!. The article says," and she starts to read:

Next year is Darwin year: the bicentennial of the great man's birth and the 150th anniversary of "The Origin of Species." The book is not the easiest of reads, but it is less of a trudge than Charles Darwin's four volumes on barnacles or his 15 works on topics as distinct as climbing plants and the formation of mold by earthworms. They tell, in plain and sometimes pedestrian prose, the tale of a life of observation and experiment that founded modern biology.

"The Voyage of the Beagle," in contrast, sings. Its language is that of a young man intoxicated by the tropics

"That's the one I want!"

"Ma'am, that sounds a lot like the book I've got in my hands."

"NO! DAMN IT YOU'RE NOT LISTENING? ARE YOU RETARDED? I want the modern book."

"I don't know what you mean, ma'am. Perhaps you could help me understand by providing me with some more information."

"Listen:"

Darwin looked back in his attempts to understand the present. He scarcely considered what the future might bring, for in his view evolution was so slow, and life so stable, that no great shifts were to be expected. A glance forward on the 200th anniversary of his birth shows how wrong he was. The world is already a far less interesting place than it was when he set forth on his circumnavigation and will soon become even less so: and no future explorer will ever write a book so full of the joy of unspoiled nature as is "The Voyage of the Beagle."

"I want this modern book."

"Ma'am, perhaps Darwin was just prescient?"

"DON'T YOU GET SMART WITH ME, BOY! WHAT'S YOUR NAME?"

I tell her.

"I'M GOING TO TELL YOUR MANAGERS THAT THEY'VE HIRED A RETARDED BOY TO WORK FOR THEM!"

"Ok, ma'am. How about I hold this book for you and then you can come in and look at it, and if it's not what you're looking for, you don't have to buy it and we can order something else."

"That's more like it. Find that book I want. Is it in good condition?"

"Yes, ma'am, it hardly looks touched."

"HARDLY? I don't want any books that have been touched!"

"Ma'am? You're not going to find a book that's untouched."

"Put it down! Wrap it in a bag!"

"What?"

"I want you to wrap it in a bag, you ass. Stop touching it!"

"Ok." I wrapped it in a bag. "Under what name can I hold it?"

"Excuse me?"

"What is your name?"

"Why would I give you my name?"

"So that we can give you the book when you come in."

"I'll come in later today. Won't you have it?"

"Yes, but we won't know it's for you unless we put your name on it."

"You're not getting my name."

"Ma'am, I don't know how to identify the book for you if you don't give me your name."

"I'm not giving you my name! I DON'T WANT TO BE MANHANDLED!"

"Ma'am, I won't manhandle you."

"You may write down Nancy. It is not my name, but I shall use it when I pick up the book."

"Alright." I write down Nancy, put the slip of paper around the book, which is wrapped in a bag, and put it behind the cash registers.

The ultimate punchline to this story is that "Nancy" came in later and didn't buy the book. I don't know why - I like to think that it's because too many people had touched the book.

Or maybe she was looking for a book for a girl, and she found a book for a boy instead.

Links

Hey, a friend pointed out this site for other great customer stories - very funny: Not Always Right .

I'm a Grunt...A GRUNT...I SAID A GRUNT

Hello.

There is nothing more fun at Booth and Noble than experiencing the sheer wonderment at the multitudes of people with what could kindly be termed "issues" in the world.

For example, here's your thought for the day. If you are deaf, or just extremely hard of hearing, don't call a bookstore and try to have a conversation. This is not because I find it particularly annoying to talk to you, but because everyone in the store is going to find out your personal business.

I mean, on the one hand, it's pretty damn funny to be a Grunt standing at the information desk screaming at the top of your voice:

"NO, WE DON'T HAVE IRRITABLE BOWEL SYNDROME FOR DUMMIES. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO LOOK UP ANOTHER BOOK? I SAID, DO YOU WANT ME TO LOOK UP ANOTHER BOOK?

[pause, pause.]

"YES, WE DO HAVE A COPY OF WHORE . WOUDL YOU ALSO LIKE ANOTHER URBAN FICTION NOVEL THAT YOU WOULD ENJOY? PERHAPS CANDY LICKER? OR, GIRLS FROM DA HOOD 2?"

[pause, pause.]

"WELL, MAYBE NEXT TIME. I'LL LOOK UP THE NEXT BOOK FOR YOU. WHAT IS IT CALLED? I SAID, WHAT IS IS CALLED?

I SAID, WHAT IS IT CALLED?

[pause, pause].

"NO, I'M SORRY, WE DON'T HAVE TICKLE HIS PICKLE: THE HANDS ON GUIDE TO PENIS PLEASING ."

I always make sure to be more articulate and to be sure to specify the entire title of a book if I'm on the phone yelling in this manner. Well, it's for the customer's benefit. What if she wanted a different Tickle His Pickle ?

But then there's the more difficult customers: the semi-regulars. Now, the regulars at Booth and Noble aren't always all bad. Some are quite nice and it can be enjoyable to chat with them, especially when they also have the sense to leave you alone to do your job.

But then there are the ones who are only semi-regular. (Perhaps they need IBS for Dummies?). They're the ones who come in and know just enough of our "regular" patter to be annoying, but not enough that we actually care about chatting.

For example, a man comes through my line at the cash registers:

"Hello," I say as he steps up to the counter and puts his books down. Immediately, he snatches them back.

He smiles.

This is a bad sign.

"Aren't you supposed to say, 'How can I be of service?' he sneers."

I felt dirty, like I was just scolded by my pimp.

"I am not required to say that, sir."

"What about, 'How can I assist you?'"

"Nope. I don't have to say anything except, 'Do you want to save 10% with a membership card'."

"What if I need...assistance." He turned his head, coyly.

"We have an extensive self-help section, if that's what you need."

"What if I need your assistance?"

"Well, then I'd be happy to scan your books." And at that I grabbed his books and started to scan them.

There was a slight pause.

"Aren't you going to ask me if I can save 10% with a membership card?"

Grunts in Awe

Hello.

I know I shouldn't be, but I have more and more often been surprised by how weird the human race is. I shouldn't be surprised because I work at Booth and Noble, and every day I am surrounded by the odd and brain-damaged.

For example, yesterday, a woman holding THREE BABIES came up to me while I was standing at the information desk and threw a book on the counter: it was This Much I Know Is True by Wally Lamb. She frantically clutched babies one, two, and three and looked up at me:

"Do you know what this is about?" she demanded. And then, without a pause to let me answer, she continued: "I can't stand it when they don't put synopses on the book. How am I supposed to know what it's about? What am I, a mind reader ?"

I looked at her and said that I didn't know what the book was about, but I'd be only too happy to look it up for her. Which I did, and then printed out a sheet of paper that contained the said information.

She glanced at the sheet, sighed, adjusted the babies, and put the sheet down, nearly unread.

"Fine, I'll take it." She grabbed the book (jostling a baby or two) and headed up to the front of the store.

Later that day the phone rang. I picked up with my usually Booth and Noble spiel:

"Thank you for calling Booth and Noble, which may or may not be local depending on where you live and what you consider 'local.' How may I help you?"

"Yes," the tentative, shaky voice replied. "This may be a weird question, though."

And it is at this point that I took out a sheet of paper and a pen so that I could record, as best I could with the limited mobility allowed by a pen held onto the table by a chain, the events for this Booth and Noble blog. Let the recounting begin!

"Go ahead ma'am. I'm ready."

"Well, I don't have a computer. Or a car."

"Ok."

"But I've been having...a tough time in my life recently." And then she emitted a sigh so violent it shuddered through the phone and literally depressed to death my inner ear.

"Go on...? How may I, a book store Grunt, be of service?"

"Well..."

"Yes...?"

"Do you know any psychics?"

And then a very pregnant pause by yours truly, followed by: "Not personally, no."

"Hmm...well, do you know Sylvia Browne?"

"Yes, she is the dead-looking lady who writes about paranormal abilities and speaking to the dead."

"That's the one, yes. Do you have her phone number?"

Now this was getting too good. I was almost gleeful, with the amount of sheer weirdness of this phone call.

"I don't," I said straight-faced. "I don't have her phone number."

"Well," the woman replied, "I'm trying to deal with some real heavy stuff. And I could use a psychic."

"Have you looked in your local phone book?" I helpfully ask.

"Yes," comes the inevitable reply. "But none of them have the skills of Ms. Browne."

And so †hen the kicker:

"So, is there something I can help you with?"

"Yes. Could you...look up the name of a psychic for me?"

Yes, I know; you were all thinking (as I was as well, at the time) that she was going to ask me to do a reading. I was all prepared as well. I even had a tarot deck with me, which a rude and dirty customer had left on the information desk not half an hour before.

"Ma'am," I said, with a despondent air. "I'm afraid I don't know any psychics. Could you look online?"

"I don't have a computer."

"Well, could you go to your local library and use their computers?"

"I don't have a car. I suppose I could get my brother to drive me, but he wouldn't like the fact I'm going to talk to a psychic."

"Oh?" I ask, pen poised.

"Yeah, he's one of them wacky Born Agains, and he thinks psychics are just people possessed by demons."

Just? Just people possessed by demons?

"Well, it seems like you're in a bit of a pickle."

"Yes, well. Thanks for trying."

"You're welcome ma'am. And ma'am?"

"Yes?"

"Good luck."

Sometimes, I'm just in awe of people. Their perseverance. Their tenacity. Their drive of insatiable curiosity.

And then I walk through the doors of Booth and Noble, and I realize that no, most of them just want to find the "non-fiction" section and call it a day.

PS If you're interested in a rant-astic version of working at Booth and Noble, check out Book Wench . Highly entertaining.

I See...a Grunt in Your Future!

Hello.

This is a story that children may not want to read.

There are a great many things that occur on a daily basis at Booth and Noble that may have readers of this blog scratching their heads with dazed wonderment. How on earth can this happen? Who does this?

For instance, take The Masturbator .

Here is a man who will spend nearly an hour in the one stall in the men's room. How do I know he is yanking his baloney pony and not just filled with one giant constipated mass?

He is standing facing the toilet, with his pants around his ankles.

He is not urinating.

It may occur to you now, dear readers, that I know too much about this man. That I have, sadly, spent time in the rest room waiting for this man to spurt his last spurt, to jettison his homunculi, into the water system of the city.

You would be correct.

At Booth and Noble, even we Grunts have to use the facilities from time to time. And when I have to wait an hour to release my inner demons, because some man is Jean-Clauding his Van Dam, I am not in the least bit annoyed.

Today, for instance, I was standing there as this man grunted and shunted his way towards the inevitably anti-climatic end. His feet faced the toilet and his pants were all the way down. I heard the charmingly rustic ripple of the toilet paper as he pulled reams and reams of it out of the holder. This went on for a number of minutes, which actually means he pulled almost an entire roll of toilet paper free from its moorings.

The toilet flushed.

It flushed again.

It flushed one more time.

I, bravely, stepped forward.

[Knock Knock].

Pause.

"Sir are you ok?"

Pause.

No answer.

[Knock Knock].

Pause.

"Sir," a little louder now: "ARE YOU OK?"

And then, with the flourish of a man who has been told that the OCB is now open for business, I hear:

"Yeeeeessssss...."

And then, (I am not making this up), the distinct sound of a "blip!" in the water. As if he were spitting in the bowl.

He exited the stall, nodded at me, and then left the bathroom. He neglected to wash his hands.


The Moral of the Story
The next time you are at a Booth and Noble, be very careful what you touch.


From a story of a man who found pleasure in the most discrete of stalls to a story of a man who did not:

After this incident in the bathroom, I am wandering through the cafe area of Booth and Noble, doing my rounds, collecting the books like washed up literary driftwood from the beach of commercialism.

It is 6pm: the dating hour.

A young man and a young woman slyly approach each other. He is short-haired, muscular, and tanned. She is verging on supermodel: thin, buxom, with tight jeans and a barely-there top. In any other situation they might be confused for the top 2% of attractiveness. They glance, meet, and shake hands. They sit at a table and the man offers to buy her a coffee and a delicious bakery item. He wants her: most of the rest of Booth and Noble, glancing over, do as well.

It is a first date: young love.

I swing by the cafe every 20 minutes or so, intending to pick up books and other detritus as I make my way through the story. But eventually, I start to walk by not to find extra books, but because I am so fascinated by this first date.

He: slumped in his chair, eyes glazed like a donut, staring into his coffee like he could see The Secret to leaving (hint: think really hard about it).

She: Talking talking talking talking talking.

A snippet of her babble: "I don't like my one sister, but I do like my older sister because she doesn't like my other sister. My brother is ok, but not my cousin who is not like me at all. She likes my sisters."

Every time I walk by, every 20 minutes, he is slumped lower and she is talking faster.

Every time I walk by, he looks at me, as if to ask me with his eyes to find an excuse to kick them out: a foot on a chair, perhaps? Spilling coffee all over the place? Masturbating in the bathroom?

If only he knew that such activities are not only permitted, but seem to be encouraged, at Booth and Noble.

They finally leave at 10pm, when the store closes. He walks out, slowly, followed by her. I hear her say, as they leave:

"This was really fun. You are a great listener. We should do this again!"

And he turns to walk into the bathroom.

The Call of the Grunt

Hello.

As you may or may not realize, the Grunt's job at Booth and Noble is more than helping customers find the "Janet Evanovich" section, or letting people know that, no, we don't have a copy machine. In a bookstore.

No, part of our job is also to field questions from the telephone. The phone rings, and we, as Grunts, must answer the phone like this:

"Thank you for calling Booth and Noble. How can I help you today?"

However, some of our employees answer the phone differently:

"Huh."

If it's busy at the Information Kiosk when the phone rings, we're supposed to answer it as such:

"Thank you for calling Booth and Noble. Can you hold please?"

When it's not busy, we're supposed to help the person find whatever they're looking for. However, more often than not, the people that call have no idea what they want. And they want us to find it.

Case in point: the other day a man calls and I answer the phone:

"Thank you for calling Booth and Noble. How can I help you today?"

"Yeah," he rasps, "do you have that book Frankenstein?

"Sure, by Mary Shelly. Do you want me to hold a copy for you?"

"No, that's not it."

"Um...I'm pretty sure Mary Shelly wrote Frankenstein."

"No, it's written by a dude."

"I'm pretty sure Frankenstein was written by a woman."

"NO! IT WASN'T!" he yells.

I look confused. Then a manager comes over, and I ask her opinion about what to do. She looks at me, shakes her head, and then goes to the fiction section. A few second later: This appears.

Damn you, Dean Koontz! Damn you for making me appear a fool!

In light of this, I decided to be less literate with the rest of my phone calls.

The phone rang later. I pick up:

"huh?"

"Hi, is this Booth and Noble?"

"huh." This one sounds more affirmative than the last.

"I was wondering if you could help me." It was a pleasant, feminine voice.

"Sure," I say, perking up. It's not often there is a pleasant voice on the other end of the line.

"I was wondering if you could help me find some magazines," she finished saying.

"Sure," I say, not knowing where this was going to lead.

"Ok, I'm not sure of the title, but I think it's something like Tattoo Life ."

As it happens, we had three copies of Tattoo life , or whatever it was, so I held them for her. She came in later that day to pick them up.

When she came in, she looked like a troll. Actually, she probably looked like a troll most of the time, not just when she came into my store. Like she just decided that day, "well, I'd better put on my bulbous and veinous nose today, time for a trip to Booth and Noble!"

Anyway, she picks up the copies of Tattoo Life and proceeds to come through my check out line (I was at this point working at the cash registers). She points to the cover.

"Do you know who this is?" the troll rasped.

The woman on the cover looked like a hooker with a bad GPA. She was, of course, covered in tattoos, but more so than that, looked like she'd been pulled off the street by a rich lawyer who needs an escort for functions and then will fall in love with her but only if she kisses him on the lips. That's what she looked like. Here is another example of the type of sex worker she resembled.

I responded: "no, I don't."

The old woman then leans in mischievously: "That's my daughter."

I hastily loll my tongue back into my mouth and respond with a choked: "eep. Really? I bet you're very proud!"

The woman responds: "I am as proud as a Mother can be." And then she touches the pentangle around her neck and looks at me lasciviously.

Later that day, another woman comes in. She is short and stocky and looks a little like Liza Minelli. As I ring up her sale she does that thing that all sales clerks hate beyond anything else:

She doesn't stop chatting.

Now, I'm really happy for her that
- her son is out of prison
- her father's heart attack isn't serious
- her life is better than it was a year ago
- she thinks Georgie Bush Jr. is the best president we've had since Jesus
- she hates high gas prices (even though it's actually cheap, comparatively .
- she finally found that book she was looking for

but I don't need to hear about it. Especially when it's near the end of the workday.

So she's mindlessly rattling off this stuff and I am not even pretending anymore . Usually I try and pretend to listen, to throw in some "uh-huhs" and "yeahs" and "amen!s" into the mix. But this time I was so annoyed I literally said nothing until we finished the transaction. At that point, I said:

"Thank you and have a nice night," to which she replied:

"Danka schoen."

If this had been a "normal" interaction between two people, even something as odd as "danka schoen" coming out of a normally-English-speaking mouth wouldn't be completely out of the ordinary. But this is not "normal." This is Booth and Noble.

So, of course, she starts to sing.

"Danke Schoen, darling Danke Schoen.
Thank you for all the joy and pain.
Picture shows, second balcony, was the place we'd meet, second seat, go Dutch treat, you were sweet..."
and dancing in the front of the store. Meanwhile, I'm standing there like a fart in a bucket looking at her, holding her bag in my outstretched hand.

She finally stops and comes back. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she exclaims, "but I work at a community theatre..."

Side note: a statement which wins the "obvious statement of the year award"

"...and sometimes I just break into song!" Then she laughs, this horrible cackle of a laugh. Then she suddenly, and unexpectedly, stops.

She looks at me.

"I better stop. He gets mad at me if I sing a lot." She looks around. Leans in closer and nods her head in a particular direction: "If I don't stop, he'll hit me!"

I look around. Not a soul in sight...

She silently turns around and walks out, into the ether of the night. I close my eyes , take a deep breath, and say,

"Can I help the next person in line, please?"

Shout outs

Here is a new section of the blog, much requested - some shout outs. Various places I've gone, seen, or been mentioned on (selfish self-promotion notwithstanding).

Shout out to Smart Bitches, Trashy Books, a snarky, yet wildly intelligent blog written by sassy ladies about the latest romance novels. Good stuff. The other day at Booth and Noble I found a romance book (watch out - link to Amazon.com) about a supernatural hunk with a bi-penis. Or, rather, not one penis split into two, but two penises for the price of one! Amazing...

The Bugle by John Oliver and Andy Zaltzman, a podcast of exceptional wit and humour. (Note: this is the correct type of humour).

DIRECTION NEWS!

---

Oh, and I was asked for directions this week: well, sorta. Not directions, per se, but more confirmation: I was walking the dog when a man comes up to me. "We on fourth street?" he asks. "Yes," I affirm. He walks away without a second word. So perhaps it wasn't directions, so much as a friendly reminder: we, indeed, are on Fourth Street.

Directions: Second post today

Hello.

As promised, I was asked for directions today. I don't know why this is, but if you were on a crowded street, walking amongst the people there, wondering how to get from here to another place, would you ask the people who are standing around doing nothing, or would you ask the one person who was a) walking a dog and b) listening to his generic mp3 device ?

Well, this gentlemen thought that he would ask me.

"Hey!"

I continue to walk, oblivious to his exclamation.

"Hey!!!" [note the extra exclamation mark - this means he was REALLY excited].

I stop and take This American Life out of my ear. "Can I help you?"

"Do you know how to get to second street?"

I look at him blankly for a second.

"We're on second street."

He looks up.

"Oh, not second street. Second Avenue!"

I told him that I didn't know where second avenue was, and this was not a lie. Then he told me the kicker:

"I'm looking for a restaurant. It's called Te Diablo."

I still didn't know, but now I was intrigued. I went home and generic search engined it. Nothing.

Does not exist.

But I found second avenue!

Romestern Times, and the Man-Dominanted World of Books

Hello.

To be honest, I never know what to expect from a day at Booth and Noble. Will I find that the people that come in for The Last Lecture will be friendly when I tell them that the publisher didn't publish enough copies of the book? Will the stone me? Will the threaten that Oprah herself will open her mouth to devour my soul?

Being a Grunt at Booth and Noble is a lot like walking across hot coals in your bare feet. On the one hand, you will never experience pain like it again in your entire life. On the other hand, you get to experience the thrill of dying again, and again, and again.

Take, for example, my experience yesterday at Booth and Noble. While nothing extraordinarily painful happened yesterday, I found myself slowly dying bit by painful bit as the day wore on.

And, to be honest, I can't even take credit for this first story: it didn't happen to me. In fact, it wouldn't have happened to me if it had happened to me. I'll explain what I mean as I go.

The phone rings and a co-worker answers. She runs through the traditional Booth and Noble greeting: "Thank you for calling your local Booth and Noble. This is Jenny. How can I help you?" [note: the rest of this story comes from Jenny]

The man then replied as if the entire world depended on this one conversation: "ARE YOU THE MANAGER?"

Jenny: "No, I'm not. Is there something I can help you with?"

Man: "No, there's nothing YOU can help me with. I have a major problem and I need to speak to a manager."

Jenny: "Ok, I can connect you. Can you tell me what this is regarding?"

Man: "DON'T YOU DARE! DON'T YOU DARE! This is PERSONAL business. I'm going to report you to your district manager. Do you like your job, MISS ? Because you're not going to have it for much longer."

Jenny: "Alright, I'll connect you to the manager."

Jenny then transfers the call over to the manager. A few minutes later, the manager comes over to Jenny and myself and asks us about the call.

"Was everything ok?" asked Jenny.

"Yes," said the manager. "He just wanted to speak to a man..."

"...ager," I finished. "Yes, but was...?"

"No," said the manager. "He wanted to speak to a man . He didn't think women worked in Bookstores."

I should point out here that not only do women make up the majority of the book workforce in my Booth and Noble, but that they do in most Booth and Nobles across the country. In addition, all of my managers (5) are women, the Booth and Noble cafe manager is a woman, and the district manager is a woman.

We live in enlightened times. But just try telling that to Mr. Man on the phone.

So, just to cheer Jenny up, who was understandably shaken by this encounter with Mr. Sensitive, I showed her a new game. You can play at home as well. It's called "Romestern Times."

You take a Romance Novel (this is the first one to appear when I typed "romance novel cover" into Google Images), and a Western novel (this is the first one when I typed in "Western Novel Cover"). Read a friend the title of one of th books, and then the title of the other.

I guarantee that 75% of the time, you won't be able to tell which is a Romance and which is a Western.

As Romances are geared predominantly towards women and Westerns predominantly towards men, I guess we can see that there probably isn't much of a difference anyway between the sexes.

Long absences and fresh starts

Hello.

First of all, apologies. When I stepped away from Booth and Noble on Dec 31, 2007, I expected an absence of only a few short days. Instead, I found myself drifting in and out of various experiences, surfacing only a few short hours a day. These surfaces, few and far between, were not spent blogging, but spent doing other things. I found that the further away from the blog I got, the harder it was to re-appear, and the more lame I felt. It was a self-defeating cycle of poverty.

But here I am. Back again. Renewed, refreshed, and reworn.

My absence has been for a few reasons, but one of the main ones is because there has been a post-holiday dearth of people at Booth and Noble. This is to be expected, for the majority of holiday shoppers are those few people that emerge, once a year, to feast their beady eyes on what they "intellectually" know are called books, but aren't quite sure what they look like any more.

This crowd is the bane of Booth and Noble, but it is the bread and butter of Booth and Noble.

It is also the creme of the Booth and Noble blog.

Therefore, when that creme runs dry, what we are left with is a pitiful few "regulars" who, while annoying in their own way, are nothing compared to what we Grunts refer to as the "Unwashed masses...of body"

One such unwashed mass came up to me the other day at Booth and Noble, however, and asked me a question. Such is their want.

She says, in a voice like a cross between a pig's oink and the squeal of a cat getting drained of blood, "Do you have...medical...dictionary...and other...dictionary?"

I look at her oddly, because I'm concerned that she might be attracting daemons with her croaked voice.

"Yes, we have both, if you'd like to follow me." I walk her to the medical books, and hand her a medical dictionary. "This should solve all your medical needs," I say cheerfully as we head to the "other" dictionaries.

When we get there, I ask "what sort of dictionary are you looking for?"

"One that...I can use...and so...can my son...who is four."

I stare blankly at her, not knowing whether to recommend the Oxford or the Oxford. I finally decide to offer this: an all-in-one.

"Why...would I...get this?" she scabs.

"Well, you could use the dictionary to look up words, and it also comes with a Thesaurus."

She looks at me like I just peed on her leg. "What...is a thesaurus?"

I stare at her. Long, hard looks - puzzling out if she was for real, or if I was on camera.

"A...thesaurus," I start, and then continue when I notice she isn't laughing, "is a book of synonyms.

Those of you who know, will know.

"What...is a synonym?" she asks.

"A synonym is a word that means the same thing as another word."

"That's stupid," she says.

"..and it's idiotic," I finish.

Finally, the kicker:

"Will...I need...a thesaurus...in school?" she asks. "I'm studying...to be a nurse..."

Now, I ask you dear reader, what is a synonym for "scared to go to the nurse?"

She ended up buying the thesaurus, so maybe she can tell us.

Regardless, I am going to make it a goal to write one of these a week from now on. The fine folks at Alterati.com have kindly encouraged me to continue, and to be honest I have been feeling the loss of Booth and Noble quite strongly. However, I think I would like to also start a new feature, while we're here:

It has become apparent to me that I possess a superpower. I'm not sure I belong on Heroes , mainly because I'm not lame, but my superpower is pretty cool.

Once a week, no matter where I am, no matter what I'm doing...I get asked for directions. I might be walking the dog, listening to my generic mp3 player, hanging out with friends, shooting crack on the sidewalk - someone will ask me directions to somewhere. I can virtually guarantee it if I'm on vacation - someone will ask.

So, I will record these. It is time the world knew of my power!*




*Note: power does not equate to actually knowing where to direct people. Only that I will be asked. If I do not like the looks of you, or if you are wearing a shirt that has a "I'm-so-cute-I-was-purchased-online" phrase on it, I will direct you incorrectly.

Odd Lad, Syne?

Hello.

A long time ago, when I first decided to document the goings-on of the Grunts at Booth and Noble, I made three promises to myself.

"Self," I said, "just because God, or Google, or Godoogle, has given you the power to put this stuff up online, does not give you the right to mock those less fortunate that you."

"Yes, but self," I replied, doesn't that mean I will have no fodder? Nothing to write about?"

"True, true, self," I responded. But perhaps we should lay down some ground rules.

And so were set in digital stone the following rules:
1) Booth and Noble would provide an equal opportunity mocking. No one is spared, therefore everyone is equal. Stupidity is not dependent on age, sex, gender, size, race, orientation, or hair color. However, there would be NO jokes about the Eskimo people. Not because they're offensive, but really, Eskimo's don't read the Internet too much. They're not too "Inuit."

2) That being said, I would refrain from deliberately mocking the following groups of people: children, the mentally handicapped people that come into the store and dance and sing, and the managerial staff.

And on this, the eve of a new year, I propose to break one of those rules.

So this kid walks into the music department yesterday. He's probably about thirteen or fourteen - that age when they know they are smarter than you. They also know that they are shorter than you, so they usually keep their mouths shut.

This boy did not. He brazenly walks over to me behind the counter. He hands me a DVD. He stands there, eying me like a bear mama eying those people between her and her cubs. I say, "did you want to get this?" And he still looks at me, the thick glasses over his eyes barely covering the scorn.

"Is this the movie?" he asks.

"Well, it's A movie," I say.

"But is is THE movie?"

"THE movie what? What movie are you looking for?"

"Is is The Golden Compass?"

"No, that's just a documentary about the book, and about the author Philip Pullman."

"What book?"

"The book that the movie was based on."

"I want the movie. There's no book."

"There is too a book - it's over here."

"No, that's based on the movie." He changes subject: "when does the movie come out on DVD?"

"Well," I reply, "that's hard to say. It's still in theatres, so they haven't told us when the DVD is due out."

"That's NOT TRUE!"

I am taken about at his loud voice. "Um...yes, it is."

"No, I saw on TV that they had released it on DVD."

"Well, what date did the 'TV' tell you?"

He shuffled, still scornful. "I don't remember."

"Ah." I look at him. He looks at me. I tilt my head, as if to say "tsk, tsk."

He opens his mouth again: "Do you know what movie it is where an alien comes back in time and takes over a person's body?"

I stop and think. "Are you thinking of Invasion of the Body Snatchers?"

"NO! This is part of a series of movies. An ALIEN, from the FUTURE." He speaks as though I'm either deaf, or foreign.

"Do you have any more information?"

"He smokes."

Ah! Of course! The smoking alien/human movie! Well, I am perplexed, so I start thinking:

"Ah!" I think I've got it. "Is it Terminator?"

"NO! God. It. Is. Not. TERMINATOR! He was a ROBOT in that. WHY WOULD A ROBOT SMOKE?" He laughs hysterically.

"But...but he..." Ok, I'm not getting into this argument with a boy whose voice is breaking. So I think...

"Is it The Matrix?"

"Oh. My. GOD! What do you know movies? It's a really old movie. Like, 1980 or something."

I'm about ready to kick this kid in the face. But instead I think, well, we've all been trying hard to think of things in the past, maybe he just needs help.

So I say, "just to clarify. There is an alien who goes back in time, inhabits a human, and smokes."

"No." He sighs. "The alien doesn't smoke. Why would an alien smoke? That would just be stupid." He straightens his glasses. "The alien has a person with him. An old man. He has an old man with him."

"So the alien has an old man who smokes with him?"

"Yes."

I am at a loss, so I do the next best thing:

"Maybe we can browse through the science-fiction section, and see if we can find it."

The kid turns to me, a look of pure disgust on his face. "What," he asks, "is 'science-fiction'?"

I sigh and turn around. The day had just begun.

Christmas Is a Time for Loving

Hello.

I love the Christmas Season. People are always in such good moods. Let me give you a few examples for my most recent day at Booth and Noble. Happy Holidays!

1) We've just opened the store, so that means all those crazy people who line up outside in the snow and cold are let into the store. In a sane world, those people would be barred from entering; in Booth and Noble land, however, they are welcomed with open arms.

I'm standing at the information kiosk at the center of the store and I hear a loud voice yell from the front door:

"PIRATE MONOPOLY!"

I thought we were under attack.

Under attack from venture capitalist pirates.

But the voice kept coming closer.

"PIRATE MONOPOLY!"

Finally I looked up from behind the desk, where I had been cowering with a single cutlass and checkbook to protect me. A large woman waddled towards me with opened arms.

"I Need PIRATE MONOPOLY!"

I found it for her and put it in her hands. Without a second's thought, she said, "Can I leave it here?" and dropped it on the desk in front of me.

She never came back to get it.

2. Later that day, an creaky old woman came up to me.

"Do you have A History of the Christmas Ornament from 1920 to 1930, third edition, by Richard St. Germaine?"

I looked it up on the computer, and for once, here was a customer who had the title of the book right. Unfortunately, we didn't have it in the store.

"Sorry Ma'am," I said, a pinched smile on my face, but we don't have any in the store."

"That is impossible." She looked at me like I had just told her that I dropped a cabinet on her cat...twice. She waited.

"Well, Ma'am, we can go check on the shelf, but it would be a fruitless effort. The computer says we don't have any." I gesture at the monitor in front of me.

"Let's do that then," she says, talking slowly to me as if I were one of her nasty, horrible children.

We walk over to the shelf, and lo and behold it is not there. I turn to her to explain that it wasn't there and she preempts me by saying:

"My nephew called the Barnes and Noble in Portland, Oregon and THEY have it. Why don't you?"

Sometimes, I just want to drop a book on someone's head.

"Ma'am," I carefully explain, talking slowly as if she were one of her nasty, horrible children, we are different stores. We have different books in each Booth and Noble."

Needless to say, she turned with a huff and left.

3.
I return to the information kiosk, about ready to punch a small girl in the face. And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but another obese woman.

"Where are your teen books?" she snarfs at me.

"Actually, they're right behind you," I say, gesturing to the large shelf labeled "Teen." She walks over there and stops.

"Are these the teen books?"

"Yes, they are."

She browses for awhile in the "B's"

Then turns to me.

"How much is this?" She holds up a paperback book. I walk over to her, turn the book over in her hand, and point to the price pictured on the cover. "It's 7.95."

She thinks for a moment. I can tell, because I can smell burning.

"What about this one?" she says, and HANDS ME A DIFFERENT COPY OF THE SAME BOOK.

"That would be the same price, ma'am."

"Oh." She stops and moves over to the "H" shelf.

"Are these also teen books?" she asks.

"Yes," I respond through gritted teeth.

"How do you know?"

"Because there is a large sign right there that says 'teen'."

"Oh." She goes back to browsing.

Meanwhile, I head to the breakroom for a drink.

4.
(Side note)
Booth and Noble central insists that we play Christmas music over our loudspeakers. As someone with a rather finally tuned sense of "taste," I am unhappy with this, but put up with it because, as a business, it is their right to play whatever music they wish.

However, as a rule, shouldn't Booth and Noble include some Hanukkah music? Some Kwanzaa music? What about non-religious music? If I have to hear about the baby Jesus saving the world one more time, I will not be pleased.

Also, one of the CDs they make us play is the new Josh "I can get as much nonagenarian ass as I want" Groban CD, which includes a voice that makes me want to drink wine until I puke. This comment is simply about how much I dislike that CD.


Happy Holidays, everyone!