Bookselling–A Solitary Job?

Working in a bookstore can be a solitary job. If alone, one can shelve books quietly, study the synopsis of a particular title without worrying about time constraints, enjoy just being surrounded by words. In two of my mystery bookstore jobs I was alone a great deal. My desk was upstairs within new hardcovers and collectible titles at one job. Enya’s soothing voice echoed around the room –over and over and over and over and, well you get the idea. If a customer did venture up the twisted staircase, they usually were known to me, and we would discuss what titles they had read, what they needed to read, and or collect, and then off they would go with whatever purchases they decided upon. I didn’t even have the responsibility of ringing them up. I did order hardcovers, set up signings, invoice customers, etc., etc., etc., and it kept me in perpetual motion. I answered the phone, took orders, blah blah. I was never without something to do. Which is a good thing, because I was also in a state of perpetual anxiety. At least when I first began the job. I’d just come from managing a bookstore where the owner had passed away, and wanted to do a exemplary job at my new manager’s position at a prestigious specialty bookstore. Normally worries would have passed within a reasonable time, but the extra added pressure of a popular former manager starting part-time exactly at the moment I took over the job, gave me pause to wonder–what’s up with that? And if I don’t perform up to expectations, will I be history and the former manager slide right in?

As if his presence weren’t enough, apparently two other employees detested him, and vice versa. This is something that was subtly revealed to me by the woman who ran the first editions collector’s club. A couple hundred people belonged to the signed book-club and she was responsible for keeping track of each customer’s order and shipping. One of my worst qualities is trust. I assume people will behave the way I would behave, honestly, so I trust them at first sight. I had the misfortune of riding home with my female co-worker every night. Naturally, I thought it was a swell thing at first–great!–company all the way out to Queens. It only became apparent  she was attempting to prejudice me against the former manager during the half hour ride, after a period of time had passed. She and her friend who ran the paperback area downstairs were in cahoots–never thought I’d use that word for real–to bring the former manager down, and out the door. This should have pleased me, right? The threat I saw in him could be eliminated by two co-workers if they utilized their hostility in creative ways. I wasn’t happy. I don’t like strife within the workplace, I don’t like taking sides, and I really didn’t like being used.

Coming from a theatre background I was used to the idea of ensemble, people working together, each doing their part and making sure the finished product was the primary focus. At this store, everyone was at cross purposes. The book-club manager weaseled her viewpoint about the accountant too, that she was a prime bitch. In a way, she did me a favor, because knowing that the accountant could be testy, I made sure I was the sunniest, nicest, most helpful person to her I could be. She liked me. Which frustrated the book-club manager, and probably infuriated her too. I had no bones to pick with the former manager, the accountant, certainly not the owner’s personal assistant whom I liked from the very first. I was respected by the shipping department, I treated them as equals as opposed to my personal underlings like some at the store.  I did balancing acts daily, keeping a friendly atmosphere with all concerned. And I trusted people not to make up lies and fantastical stories.

Eventually, the former manager moved on, and book-club manager moved in on the owner. And fell out with the paperback manager. If I told of the manipulative manner with which she managed to get him fired,  I’d be branded as a liar, or worse, some kind of a sick twisted pervert. Suffice it to say, she used me, the personal assistant, and our conjoined appalled horrified natural reaction to something she and the paperback manager had agreed to, on paper, no less, that  the book-club manager now regretted, or in reality, was avoiding. She accused him of coercing her in a way I can’t discuss here, for lent money. It wasn’t as gross as one may be picturing  at this moment, but it was bizarre and just wrong enough to create wide indignation on all fronts. The paperback manager had worked at the store since it first opened its doors, and yet, there he was, shoved out, thanks to his own gullibility and her sociopathic nature.

Whatever transpired between her and the owner essentially gave her carte blanche, I swear, for life, if she had wanted to work in the store. She was a cipher I wasn’t interested in unlocking. The name she used wasn’t the one she was born with. The story behind her new name was as bizarre as it gets without Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, becoming involved. Apparently a former boyfriend had become obsessed with her to the point of stalking, claiming she had to be with him so they could go off to some alien planet he was actually from. Or she was the alien leader, or– god only knows–it involved aliens and her need to hide from him, and amazingly it only took changing a first name from one starting with a C to another name starting with a C to keep her safe from UFOs. This story alone should have tipped me off that I wasn’t dealing with a full deck of  normal cards, but I took the story in stride, figured it was NY City, and forgot about it.

When she announced that her father had blown his brains out, that she had to stay with her mother upstate for part of each month, and essentially passed off her work to the rest of us, I had already made it clear to her that I finally, finally caught on to her lunatic machinations, and once that occurs, you can count the months until you are gone from her kingdom. Did I believe her story? No, I  didn’t. She had used an excuse of a grandmother dying for missing work on the most important date in the bookstore’s itinerary–the day after the Edgars are awarded when each and every winner and nominee come in to sign piles of their books. It was obvious she was hung over and didn’t want to be there. But what can you possibly do in a situation such as this? Say, ‘hey, well you know, I don’t believe your father committed suicide, so forget using that as an excuse and do your job?’ I think not. Because there is always the off chance it was true, and if so, what a horrible tragedy that would be for someone–who had human emotions. Which she did not. The ex-boy friend’s theory that she belonged in outer space was looking more and more reasonable.

A showdown of sorts played itself out when I confronted her about a dissatisfied customer and how she treated him. She was arrogant, unconcerned and categorically stated she wasn’t going lift a wicked finger to fix the problem, apologize, or in any way care. She had me in her sights, and as if she had laser beams, I was going to disintegrate and disappear. Suddenly, all sorts of stories were floating around with me as a villain–various other booksellers confronted me about my supposed indiscretions–mostly I was accused of telling malicious lies about other people. I can’t say she didn’t have an ironic sense of humor.

A male counterpart to this woman was hired and she immediately co-opted his allegiance so that he treated me with contempt and disdain. He fingered, touched, pulled, and generally acted as if the rare volumes in the owner’s office were lending library copies. Together they made what was left of joy in my job dwindle daily, until along with the owner’s continued misogyny, my expiration date popped, and I quit. Just up and quit, without notice, a terribly unprofessional thing to do, and a necessary one if I was to survive without going postal.

The male’s tenure at the store was short lived and naturally I chastise myself thinking, ‘if I had just stood my ground, I may still have been working.’  That’s from a distance of years and memories softening the edges. Because book-club manger went no where. Not that year, or the next or the next– not until years and years later. A new paperback manager was another of her victims, and who knows how many more I’m not privy to?

She apparently left of her own free will. Whatever she had on the owner–that’s my theory–must have been damn explosive to give her carte blanche for so long.

So although my job was a solitary one at times–it wasn’t solitary enough.

After experiencing several different book venues and the sellers that worked within, some exhibiting extreme behavior that I think of as sociopathic, I continuously ponder if becoming a bookseller creates pathological people, or pathological people gravitate towards bookstores? Doesn’t matter which–and the question remains–if either is the case, what does that indicate about me???