I don't know, Angie. What do you feel like doing?

My friend Marion sent me an email and asked, "Sometime, could you write about being a bookseller? As in, do you like it (the lesser-known Shakespeare play)? It’s one of those careers, like caterer, massage therapist, and b-and-b owner, that people fantasize about (I suspect wrongly)."

I had a romanticized view of owning a bookstore. I envisioned having a cozy wood-paneled shop with a golden light filtering softly through the windows. The shop is stacked floor to ceiling with books, most of them rare old leather-bound collectibles, as fine to the hand as they are to the mind. The requisite store cat snoozes peacefully between the antique cash register and the old Royal manual typewriter on which I type the index cards for the inventory and the special orders. The f key sticks a little. Comfy chairs are placed here and there, and I, the proprietor, in my tweed blazer with the leather patches on the elbows, lean over the counter reading some rare tome and glance over the top of my glasses to welcome a customer. “The Edwardians, by Vita Sackville-West,” the customer says. “I’d like the first edition if you have it.” “Certainly,” I reply. “It’s right over here.”

That’s what I fantasized about. In reality, daily life as a bookstore owner is pretty ordinary. It's a lot of work, but I love it, and Michele and I don't regret having bought the store.

We have a staff of a dozen, who seem more like a large, quirky family than our employees.

One of our merry band, Marcine, is a handsome older woman with an equally handsome grown daughter. Marcine brought her daughter to the store to introduce her to everyone.

“This is my daughter,” she said.

“You are every bit as lovely as your mother,” said Lori.

“What a sweet face!” exclaimed Judy.

“I am so pleased to meet you,” said Heather. “You look just like your mother.”

“Your hair is so beautiful,” said Becky.

Then the two went into the workroom, where SJ was checking in the current shipment of books. SJ stood, took Junior’s hand in both of his, and said warmly, “You look just like Ernest Borgnine.” The only sounds in the workroom were those of pins dropping, crickets chirping, and tumbleweeds rolling down the dusty main street. Marcine’s daughter smiled graciously but without warmth, and Marcine swallowed audibly.

After they left the store, Alan, our manager, came unglued: “Borgnine! Ernest Borgnine!? What were you thinking? Were you thinking, SJ?”

SJ said, “Well, I was going to say something nice, but then I saw her aura, and it spoke to me, and it said, ‘Ernie.’ Ernie Borgnine. You can’t ignore an aura.”

Ernest Borgnine never once ever entered any of my fantasies about owning a bookstore.