Two Inacdotes

Ina and the Los Alamos County Fire Code 

Ina came into the store a few weeks ago, and her eyes were shifting, her head swiveling, her ears pricked for eavesdroppers and spies. She beckoned me closer so that she could whisper without being overheard (although, because she wasn't wearing her hearing aids, she spoke in a whisper you could hear in a sawmill).

"I see the Southwest history section doesn't have many books in it," she said. "I can help."

Against my better judgment I asked, "How?"

She explained that she had two tall bookcases full of books on the Santa Fe Trail. "I could bring them all in, and you could display them in the Southwest history section. Then if someone wanted to buy one, you could say that they're not for sale, but you could order whatever the customer wanted." I said that her offer was very generous from friend to friend, but really bad business for us to showcase books we couldn't sell.

As you know, she hears only what she wants to hear, and she continued, "The fire department came by the other day. They said my two tall bookcases were in front of the windows and had to be moved. I guess it has to do something with the fire code—they have to be able to get into the house somehow.  And I have to replace the windows, too. Anyway, I while I'm bringing my house up to code and getting new windows, I thought you could display the books that are in my bookcases."

Yes, why pay for commercial storage when you can warehouse your books for free at a bookstore?

Ina and a Great Medieval Tradition

Back in the Middle Ages, books were a rare and expensive commodity. Practically the only book available to the general reader was the Bible, and churches often chained their Bibles securely in the churches so that those who could read could use the books, and those who couldn't read could be read to or could just look at the illuminations. In modern times, we display the rare and desirable books in glass cases or sometimes even on the shelves in rare and antiquarian shops, where book thieves can snag them and people like Ken Sanders bring book thieves to justice.

If I were a stealin' kind of woman, which I ain't, I might be tempted to snag a signed first edition of Cormac McCarthy's Suttree or Stella Gibbons's Cold Comfort Farm. My soul is worth more than $15,000, however, so I would just give thanks that the book is here in the world with me, and move on. I am not likely to steal a $7.00 book.

Ina has a new book out, yet another pastiche based on the works of her favorite author. And of course she thinks that it is desirable. She gave us a copy to display with the books for sale. It will discourage theft.

You do know the cape doesn't actually allow you to fly, right?

We've all heard about the weird warning labels on seemingly innocuous products, or the "well, duh!" warnings that a can of tuna contains tuna or a jar of peanuts contains peanuts. We've heard about the classic warning on a Batman costume: "PARENT: Please exercise caution--FOR PLAY ONLY: Mask and chest plate are not protective: cape does not enable user to fly." And you may have seen a warning not to allow the dog to drive or operate heavy machinery after taking his medicine.

Some of our toys display warnings or disclaimers. For example, one of the cool science toys we sell is the Top Secret Kinetic Mystery. You spin a little top on the platform, and the top will spin for days. Is the toy really top secret? Does it prove that perpetual motion is possible? Is magic involved?

Nope. It's all science, as the Top Secret folks explain in an enclosure inside the box.

The "Top Secret" consists of a spinning top with a radially oriented magnetic field and an associated base that houses a conductive coil. When the top spins past the center of the base, its changing magnetic field induces a current in the coil which momentarily opens the switch to the battery resulting in powering up the electromagnet. The electromagnet then delivers enough torque to the spinning top to allow it to speed up and spin away from the center. Since the electromagnet is only engaged when the top crosses near the center of the base, one 9 volt battery can last for over a week of continual use!

Unfortunately, one of our customers from Arizona was not impressed.

Enclosed, please find your Product advertized as a --"Top Secret Perpetual Motion"
--"A Kinetic Mystery"
--"Mystery in Motion"

But it is no more than a top powered by a battery. I feel disappointed and taken Advantage of. I expect a full Refund.

We sent him his full Refund with an explanation the top is not a perpetual motion machine. As for his feeling of being taken Advantage of, I suggested that he write to the company that produces the toy.

We have a winner!

I have written here many times about some of our local self-published writers. They figure that if they run their prose through the spell-checker, it's good to go. Story editing? Forget it. Audience analysis? Not for them. A well designed cover? They have Microsoft Paint and aren't afraid to use it. Illustrations that support the text? See "Microsoft Paint," above. A price point that will move books? They have to recoup their investment from the publisher (or the local copy place), so they charge $16.95 for a 32-page children's book.

After seven years in the book business, I think we have a winner, Dipsy. Dipsy's agent brought in four books, which are so unrelievedly awful as to be worthy of display in a glass case with bits of string and dead mice.

Contrast these two passages, one from Jonathan Edwards, the other from Dipsy. They're both about the same length (85 words vs. 82 words). But notice how Edwards, in his famous sermon "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God," uses vivid, frightening images to convey the ideas of fear and dread. Kathleen Norris would say that such language is incarnational; that is, the language relies on imagery to convey meaning at multiple levels.

The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked: his wrath towards you burns like fire; he looks upon you as worthy of nothing else, but to be cast into the fire; he is of purer eyes than to bear to have you in his sight; you are ten thousand times more abominable in his eyes than the most hateful venomous serpent is in ours.

The sentence, though long, is easy to follow because of the imagery and construction. Contrast it with Dipsy's account, which apparently made sense to her.

The glass was a barrier for the billowing clouds of steam pumped by machines at the rear, which like projectors in a theatre, streamed images on the stage set, shutting out the billows of the Image Chamber, as it was called, closed as  it would be on a stage set, shutting out the billows before the next ones formed, giving the viewer time to figure out what he had just seen, an imaginative world made of steam no less, wet and changeable.

Cover art should not provoke a reaction opposite the one the illustrator had in mind. Consider the cover art, which Dipsy did her own self. A lot is going on. It apparently is a preview of everything in the book.

However, nobody on the staff at the bookstore could get past the gray thing in the center of the illustration. Alan started choking on his lunch and had to be patted on the back. Ellen said, "Well, great. An erect penis in the kids' section." I told Ellen that the book was for young adults. She replied that no young adult reader would be caught dead with a book featuring an erect penis, a clown, and a giant reptile. Michele asked, "What's that red stuff? Is it flames or blood? And did the guy climbing the building just poop out an s?"

When a book causes reactions ranging from numb bemusement to dry heaves, we won't carry it—but I'll hang on to it for show 'n' tell.

"Your life story would not make a good book. Don't even try."--Fran Lebovitz

Is it just me, or have the self-published authors been coming out of the woodwork lately? (Oddly enough, Ina is the only one who does her homework, markets her books aggressively, and gets someone to edit her work.)

How did you get this number? Where? Why?

Last week we got a phone call from an independent author who wanted to know how to get on our bestseller list. Linda, who answered the phone, said, "You sell a lot of books in our store." The man said that the book hadn't been published yet (street date of May 15), but he was doing some preliminary planning. We're generally interested in books with a local connection, so Linda asked what the book was about. The man said that he had been imprisoned for a crime he did not commit and had written a book about his time in prison and corruption in Louisiana politics (always a hot seller in northern New Mexico, which redefines "corruption in politics"). While Linda took that in, he asked, "Where are you?" Linda told him that we are at the corner of 15th and Central, right next to the Bradbury Science Museum. "No," he said, "I mean what state?" Linda said that we're in New Mexico. After he complimented Linda on how well she spoke English, he asked whether we were the bookstore at 109 East Palace in Santa Fe. She told him that there's no bookstore at that address and that we're in Los Alamos. He told her he was in Louisiana, complimented her again on her excellent command of English, and rang off, presumably to continue working down his list of every independent bookstore in the country.

You'll lose money and credibility, but can I do this anyway?

A local independent author has just published a six-volume series of mystery books for middle readers. As free ebooks. Available only on amazon.com (or, as we call it, "the great Satan"). He wanted to know whether we'd promote the books in the store and have an event for him.

Advice for poets

If you're going to attempt Parnassus, do not use the ode or the sonnet to announce that it's going to rain tomorrow because your corns are shooting. Your overwrought, febrile, portentous free-verse musings on the virtues of single-payer health insurance may be profound to you, but they're hilarious to the rest of us. You do not want to descend into bathos at a public event. Trust me.

Everyone I know is interested in my book, except my immediate circle of friends

When a local independent author wants to do a signing or reading from a book we've taken on consignment, I always ask for a list of at least 25 email addresses so that I can send invitations to the author's friends. One author gave me the mailing list of the Unitarian Church. Another author said, "I don't know 25 people who would be interested in my book"; further comment is superfluous.

Would you proofread this for me?

I will read your manuscript for a price. I will edit your manuscript for an even higher price. I will consult with you on how to market your book for an even higher price than I charge for editing. You can't afford me.

Auteur without a premise

Hilarity ensues. Or not.

I have written before about how many of our local authors call their works spoofs as a precaution against criticism from readers who might otherwise say, "This is pointless, dull, and really, really dumb." "Well," the authors reply, "it's a spoof of Melville, Oates, Asimov, or Hemingway [but they'd better be damned good]. It's funny!" To which the critic, reverting to the dynamics of a kindergarten recess, replies, "Ha ha. It's so funny I forgot to laugh."

Now Ina, who has long fancied herself the next incarnation of her favorite author, has assumed a new mantle: that of the next great female auteur, Jane Campion (I was going to say Leni Riefenstahl, but the ick factor in her documentaries is way over the top). Ina has created a "humorous" yet unenthralling movie trailer to test the waters for funding, casting, or producing a movie based on her most famous novel. Watch it yourself. Did it lead to a certain level of mirth, but for all the wrong reasons? For me it was the kind of thing, like a bullfight, that I'm glad I saw—but never want to experience again.

She recently entered the trailer into a contest in Santa Fe, where her main competition was high school film students. The winner, to be determined by the votes of the audience, would get a bunch of cool video equipment to further his or her career. Naturally Ina rounded up all her friends, who voted for her trailer, won the contest, and made scores of much more talented, deserving, and needy young filmmakers angry and resentful. But all is fair in auteurism and war, so, as they say, neener neener neener.

Is you is or is you ain't my agent?

Ina has been shopping her books to various literary agents in the hopes that they might be picked up by a major publisher, and incidentally, get all those cases of unsold books out of the living room. She told me that she's heard from only one agent, who said, "None of your books has any premise." So here's what she said she's going to do. She's going to rework her books by adding a character named Premise into each.

To be fair, which is not my intent, I admire Ina for her self-confidence, her obliviousness to her lack of talent, her relentless self-promotion, and her belief in a loving God, a servant heart, and a senior discount.

The willing suspension of disbelief? But why? It's all true.

In justifying the the use of fantastic or nonrealistic elements in literary works of fiction, Coleridge wrote in Biographica Literaria ". . . my endeavours should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic, yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith."

The willing suspension of disbelief? We don't need no stinking willing suspension of disbelief in the book biz.

*****

We always get requests for donations to various worthy causes and projects. The latest was for some books that could be offered at a silent auction for a school fund-raiser. Ellen, the children's book buyer, and I pulled some books off the shelves and bagged them up for the requester, who came in the next day to pick them up. After giving effusive thanks to Ellen, the requester said, "Could you write a couple sentences about each book for me? That way I can tell people what they're about without having to read them." Ellen, for whom sweetness and light do ever reign, said, "You can probably come up with some sentences yourself by reading the dustjackets and back covers."

*****

At Christmastime, a scruffy guy with a bad eye came shambling into the store looking for a job. He was obviously what Northern New Mexicans call an inocente. He wanted to take out the garbage, sweep, vacuum, whatever we needed done. I told him that I would call him if we needed extra help in those areas. He said he didn't have a phone, but I could write to him in Española. I took down his contact information, and he left. He came into the store last week and again asked for work while filling his pockets with the cookies left over from the previous night's signing. I said again that we'd be in touch. He asked for Sundays off. I told him we'd never ask him to come in on a Sunday.

Yesterday he came in again. I gave him a broom and asked him to clean out the rubber walk-off mat outside the door, because it was full of sand, dirt, and junk. He set to the job. I looked up and a cloud of dust was billowing in front of the store, and suddenly Geronimo, our landlord's maintenance foreman, emerged from the cloud. I asked him whether they were hiring. Geronimo said they might have something in the spring.

Meanwhile, the dust outside had settled, and I saw that the handy guy was vigorously sweeping up the parking lot, so I went out and asked him to sweep the sidewalk instead. He took his broom and started sweeping eastward. I figured that if I hadn't stopped him, all of Central Avenue to the intersection with Canyon Road would be spotless. When he came in to return the broom and dustpan, I gave him $10 for his efforts. He bought a handful of Tootsie Pops, shook my hand, and assured me that he would do anything for me.

I hope Geronimo can use him.

*****

Shortly after Christmas a young man—let's call him Fred—came in to return a purchase, a high-end model of a helicopter. I saw on the receipt that a credit card had been used for the transaction, so I asked him for the card so we could credit the account. He gave me the card and went off to browse while our notoriously slow returns system churned away.

When he came back I gave him the receipt for the return, and he said that he wanted cash. I told him that our point-of-sales system wasn't set up that way, and to reduce fraud, it allowed us only to credit his card. He asked, "Well then, I don't want to return the helicopter. Can I have it back?" I said, "I'm sorry. No. You just returned it. If you'd like to buy it, I'll need your credit card again." He said, "It's not my card."

Oh, boy.

It turned out that his friend—let's call him Bill—bought the helicopter using Bill's own card, then gave Fred the card to make the return. I explained to Fred that using someone else's card, even if you're friends with him, could be interpreted as fraud in many quarters and I was merely looking out for his interests and those of Bill. He left in a huff.

A few minutes later, Fred's mother called and asked what I was trying to pull. Her son was honest as the day is long, and Bill likewise was of virtue unimpeachable. I said that I understood, but I didn't know either of them, and the rules is rules when it comes to protecting our customers and ourselves from fraud. She asked what I was going to do about getting Fred the helicopter back. I suggested that Bill call the store with his credit card number and buy the helicopter. "But Bill is out of the country and will be back in school in Durango!" she howled. I said, "I'm sure Bill and Fred can work out something together. I'll hold the helicopter for Fred so that nobody else buys it."

After about 15 minutes of variations on a theme of "You should have known Fred's a teenager and isn't aware of money issues!" and "This is now an issue between Fred and Bill," the mother calmed down and said she'd talk to her son about how credit cards work. The helicopter is still waiting for Fred.

I miss Fred.

A professional photographer and "Cormac McCarthy"

Last month we hired a professional photographer to take some pictures of Michele and me for publicity photos and a media page. What do you think?



Minesh, the photographer, says this one makes me look like Cormac McCarthy. I see a lot of Gram and Dad.

Christmas through the innocent eyes of children

It seems that we adults try hard to recapture the feeling of excitement and anticipation of Christmases long ago. I find that the more I try to experience those feelings of childhood, the slipperier and more muddled they become, so I am thankful to be in retail during the holiday season, when I can see the season through the innocent eyes of children. Here are some conversations I've had with some of our wide-eyed, apple-cheeked little customers.

*****

A 10-year-old customer: "I have enough money to buy 70 grams of liquid mercury."

Me: "That's pretty dangerous stuff. Did you talk to your parents about asking Santa for it?"

Kid: "Yeah. They won't let me get it." [expectant pause]

Me: "I won't get it for you either."

Kid: "That's what my parents said you'd say."

*****

A 4-year-old customer: "How come you have wrinkles?"

Me: "Because I'm a crusty old fart."

Kid: "AH-hahahahahahahah! You're a grownup, and you said fart!"

*****

A 6-year-old customer making a pin-back button: "This is fun!"

Me: "You have a really good design!"

Kid: "If I make the designs, you can put the buttons together and then we can have . . . what do you call it when you have jobs?"

Me: "A business."

Kid: "Yeah! You and me can have a business!"

*****

A 6-year-old customer: "How do you make a Kleenex dance?"

Me: "I don't know. How do you make a Kleenex dance?"

Kid: "You put a boogie in it!"

Me: [on the floor cracking up]

Kid (pretending to pick his nose): "Here. I picked this just for you."

*****

Another 10-year-old customer: "Do you sell ammonium nitrate?"

Me: "I don't really want to know why you're asking, do I, Patrick."

Kid: "Probably not.

Imported straight out of a Texas Applebee's

You know how you develop a sixth sense about people, particularly about folks who may be Trouble? Everyone in the store seems to have that sense, so when they see such a customer coming in the door, they vault over the counter and dive into the workroom, where they may be found deep inside cartons, locked in the bathroom, crouched under the microwave, or announcing loudly that they're going to the bank and does anybody need anything.

And so it was today. The entire staff suddenly disappeared, and I found myself alone on the floor. In the door came a woman. She was the very spit of Anna Nicole Smith—may she rest in peace—from her dinners hangin' out like a whore's to the collagen-plumped lips that looked like a sectional sofa.

Our customer: a reasonable facsimile

The perfume in which she had marinated herself was without nuance; if it were music, it would be like Lawrence Welk's "Baby Elephant Walk" played at 16 rpm so it sounds like Soviet disco. She spoke with a whine but ver-rrr-rrry slowwww-wwwly, as if she were a Mormon on Xanax.

"Do yew have a T-shirt that says 'Atomic City'?" she asked.

"We do indeed," I said. "Come this way." She rooted through the T-shirts and whined, "They said yew'd have T-shirts that say 'Atomic City' and yew don't! Why don't yew have T-shirts that say 'Atomic City'? I need an atomic city T-shirt! And I don't have much time, because I have to go to the dog park!"

I held up a shirt featuring a mushroom cloud and bearing the legend "Atomic City." "How about this?" I asked.

"No! I need one for a tall, skinny girl. My granddaughter is tall and skinny, and that would not work at all." She regarded it thoughtfully for a moment. "This might work for my grandson, though. But yew don't have any mediums!"

I tried to soften her disappointment. "But maybe you could get a large, and your grandson could use it for jammies (heh heh heh)."

Her eyes lit up. "This is a set of jammies? A complete set of jammies?"

"No, I'm sorry. I was trying to make a joke. I said that he could use the shirt to sleep in."

"Well, where could I get atomic city jammies? And I need some more gifts for my grandchildren. Do yew have anything about space?" I showed her the telescope cards, planispheres, books, models, and activity kits. "Oh, I don't know anything about space. I just know that my grandson likes it." She rooted through all the stuff about space and finally decided on a telescope card.

"Now I need something for myself. Do yew have anything about the history of this place? My husband has been coming here for years and never told me that this is the place where they built the atomic bomb."

So we moved to the atomic history section. Now I could hear the moist, muffled sounds of unsuccessfully stifled nose laughs coming from the workroom. Arlene, who is quiet and unflappable, was making pom-poms at the counter. Her shoulders were shaking, her eyes watering. Alan must have been really tickled, because I could hear his quacking laugh: "Henk henk henk!" Ellen came out to shelve some kids' books. "Oy," she murmured as she passed.

"Now what is this book?" She hefted Richard Rhodes's The Making of the Atomic Bomb. I told her that it was the seminal work on the history of the Manhattan Project. "Now they dropped the atomic bomb on Japan, and"—she picked up Dark Sun: the Making of the Hydrogen Bomb—"then they dropped the hydrogen bomb on Japan a few days later?"

"No. We haven't used the hydrogen bomb as a weapon."

"Well, will this book be too hard for me?"

"No," I said. "You don't need to be a scientist to appreciate it. Both books are accessible to an educated lay reader like you."

"HENK HENK HENK!"

She brought her purchases, including some T-shirts to the counter. "Now where can I get some more atomic city T-shirts?"

I told her that CB Fox was half a block up the street.

"Up which street?"

"Up this street. Central Avenue. The street you're on now."

"Can I drive there?"

"It's half a block. You can walk there."

"But I have my dog! Can I park in front of the store?"

"Probably not. But you can park behind it."

"Well, where is it?"

I said, "Come outside and I'll show you." So we went outside, and I pointed out CB Fox.

"And they have atomic city T-shirts?"

"And socks. And underwear. And sweatshirts." We came back into the store, and I rang up her purchases.

"What's the name of that store where the atomic city T-shirts are? Where is it again?"

I really need to practice vaulting over the counter.

Not mental, despite what a fear of cornflakes, the color orange, and potato eyes might indicate

I've written previously about the loonies, lovable eccentrics, and assorted nutjobs that have come to the store. Two recent interactions may not be the nuttiest ones I've had, but they're certainly on the charts.

Last week a woman was browsing in the science section. "May I help you find something?" I asked. She said that she was interested in the work of Erwin Schrödinger and in quantum mechanics, specifically the science of perception.

Wow! I thought to myself, that's tough stuff. So I showed her the books by and about Schrödinger and the books on quantum mechanics, and she said, "Oh, I know all about Schrödinger and that cat. I'm more interested in observation and perception, and how observation of a thing can change that thing." I told her that our books about the topics were highly technical but that she might enjoy browsing through them; I figured if she knew "all about" quantum mechanics, the books would be just pie for her. But no. She wanted a book only on perception. Was there such a thing? I told her we'd probably have to do a special order.

I asked her whether she worked at the national laboratory here. She said she didn't have a job; she just moved here. I asked what she had done before she moved to Los Alamos. She said that she operated a gymnastics school for the children of the rich and famous in Hollywood. Well, I thought, she could certainly be a polymath, a Renaissance woman as it were, with an interest in both front pike somersaults and wave function. But then she said, "Yes, perception and the higher consciousness. That's what I'm interested in. How can I co-create reality?"

Co-create reality? I was about to direct her to the New Age shelf when she asked, "Do you know what your store needs? You need to sell Kindles!"

I said that Kindles were proprietary to the Great Satan, a company that is working diligently to put us and other brick-and-mortar independent businesses out of business. "Well, maybe you could just talk to Amazon and see if they'd let you sell Kindles."

Before I could even inhale to respond, she said, "You know what Los Alamos needs? I have this great idea, and you're the first person I've told. This is such a great idea and would bring people to Los Alamos from all over the county! Have you ever been to the Monterey Bay Aquarium? Well, about 2 million people a year visit it! Think of what 2 million people a year in Los Alamos would do for the economy. Los Alamos needs an aquarium just like the one in Monterey!"

Well, except for the fact that we're a thousand miles inland and in the high desert, and have no space to build anything, I guess we could have an aquarium.

*****

I've never laid eyes on the writer of this email. We carry his book, which is his proof of the Grand Unified Theory as it relates to spirituality, because he's local, and we support our local authors, regardless of their race, gender, religion, veteran's status, political affiliation, or psychological state.

I mentioned to you that I never had a book signing but I didn't mention that I've sent people into your store only to have your staff turn them away empty handed. Amazon did help them. From the viewpoint of a local author, my local bookstore has done about as bad a job as possible in helping me promote my book. But the past can't be changed and now the movie about my work is finally progressing. We have secured over $5,000 of the $10,000 we need with a substantial contribution coming from my Muslim friend in Iran. Obviously if we win big at Sundance or one of the other film festivals, I will sell a lot of local books. Even though I make much more by selling them myself, I would prefer to send everyone to you. To make up for all past "sins" please make at least a $10 or more pledge at [website] to help finish the film, help us actively to promote our film and book by displaying a poster and keeping the book in stock as we move to a release of the film next spring. I know I'm the worst writer in Los Alamos but I'm the best philosopher as I've offered concepts yet considered by humanity.

I forwarded the email to the cops—just in case.

Please stay on the line. Your call is very important. I'll be back in three weeks.

After we were "repopulated" from the Las Conchas Fire, we learned that we could get short-term, interest-free loans from our local banks (well, there's interest, but the Los Alamos Commerce and Development Corporation will pick it up). I went to our local bank this morning to find out how to get my paws on some cash, because in any retail operation, and particularly in the bookselling biz, an 8-day closure and a crummy economy are a dangerous cocktail.

I went to the customer service desk at the bank and was directed to the second floor. A sweet young thing on the second floor asked if she could help me, and I asked about the loans. She said, "Yes, I'm going to give you the phone number and email of Ernie Feckless [not his real name], who is the loan officer for the short-term loans. Let me get his phone number for you." She pecked away at her keyboard and stared intently at the monitor. She fished a card out of her desk and carefully copied what was on the screen to the card, looking back and forth from the screen to the card between each character. I wondered whether there was a psychotropic reason for her ability to go for more than five minutes without blinking. Her eyes were red, after all. Of course everyone's eyes are red from the smoke. But still.

"Now this is his phone number at the downtown office."

"Is this not the downtown office?" I asked.

"No," she explained. "This is the Los Alamos office. The downtown office is in Santa Fe." Oh. The bank has the words "Los Alamos" in its name, so I guess that's why I was confused.

I asked, "Is there someone here in the Los Alamos office who could help me?"

She said, "No, Ernie Feckless is the only one who is authorized to handle these loans. You'll have to call him at the downtown office and make an appointment."

I said, "You have only one person who is taking care of all these special loans for business losses in Los Alamos, and he's in Santa Fe? That doesn't make a great deal of sense."

She gave me the card and an I-just-work-here look. Fortunately, I was not heavily armed, and in possession of superior impulse control.

So I went back to the bookstore and called Ernie. I got his voicemail. "This is Ernie Feckless. I will be out of the office for two weeks, from July 11 through July 25." At that point I was ready to get a two-by-four, find the bank president, and commence to beatin'.

But I hung up, took some deep, cleansing breaths, and tried again. "If you need help, leave a message or send me an email. I'll check both occasionally." The word occasionally did not bode well for me. I hung up again. A brisk walk around the building and I was ready to call again. "If you need help right away, call my assistant Vangie Hapless at the following number."

So I called Vangie. She was out of the office or on another line, but my call was very important to her. I left her a message.

Trying to salvage the morning, I decided to call our insurance agent, who is handling the claim for losses from a business interruption. I got her voicemail.

Some days it's best just to cut your losses and go to lunch.

Why the bookseller drinketh

1 Now it came to pass in those days that there were no men of sense in all the land, but everyone walked to the imagination of his own heart.

2 And the people said to one another, “We will get our learning from the merchant who taketh its name from the mighty river of South America and who hath a presence, like the LORD, from the borders of the Great Lakes northward, till it cometh to the plains and swamplands of the South, which abound with oranges, pomegranates, and figs. And from that merchant we will purchase Bibles enough for the children at the preschool, from whence they will graduate.”

3 And, lo, the mighty merchant told the people that the Bible which they desired was out of print. And they waxed exceedingly wroth. And yea, some acted as if they were lunatick, and others suffered the palsy and other divers torments, and they could not be healed.

4 And it came to pass that they went to the merchant named for a travelers’ place of sojourn, and talked there with the owner.

5 Now P-Doobie was the daughter of Margaret, who was the daughter of Nora Belle, who was the daughter of E. Lucy. And the years of P-Doobie were three score and one. And she greeted the people, saying, “How mayest I help you?”

6 And the people said, “We have gone to the great merchant who taketh its name from the mighty river of South America, and it telleth us that the Bible which we desire is out of print. The school needeth the Bibles for the children at the preschool by Tuesday, and it is six days before the Festival of Graduation. We are sore afraid, for we should have come to you ere now; nay, we should have come unto you first.”

7 And P-Doobie thought unto herself, “You haveth that right, Barney. Good LORD.”

8 And the people continued, “The school needeth Bibles for the children. They must be illustrated and have a presentation page and have a zipper closure and be bound in Leatherflex of many colors and must have the words of the LORD written in red letters.”

9 And P-Doobie asked, “What version?”

10 And the people asked, “What versions dost thou have available?”

11 To which P-Doobie replied, “Our distributor provideth the 20th Century Bible, Alba House Gospels, American Standard Version, American Translation, Amplified Bible, Basic English Bible, Biblia de las Americas, Contemporary English Version, Douay-Rheims, Emphasized Bible, English Standard Version, English Version for the Deaf, Geneva Bible New Testament, God's Word, Good News Version, Hebrew Names Version of World English Bible, Holman Christian Standard Bible, J. B. Phillips New Testament, Jerusalem Bible, Jewish New Testament, King James Version, Lamsa Bible, Living Bible, Modern King James Version, Modern Language Bible, Moffatt Bible, Montgomery New Testament, New American Bible, New American Standard, New Century Version, New English Bible, New International Readers Editions, New International Version, New Jerusalem Bible, New King James Version, New Living Translation, New Revised Standard Version, Plain English Bible, Revised Standard Version, Richmond Lattimore Translation of the New Testament, The Living Bible, The Message, The Message, Translator's NT, World English Bible, Young's Literal Translation, New International Readers' Version, New Jerusalem Bible, New Jewish Translation, New King James Version, New Life Bible, New Living Translation, New Revised Standard Version, J. B. Phillips' New Testament in Modern English, Reina Valera, Revised English Bible, Revised Standard Version, Simple English Bible, The Schocken Bible Volume 1: The Five Books of Moses, Twenty-first Century King James Version, Tyndale New Testament, Weymouth New Testament, Worrell New Testament, Wuest Expanded Translation New Testament, Young's Literal Translation.”

12 And the people asked, “Canst thou repeat that list again?”

13 And P-Doobie thought unto herself yet again, “Good LORD on a bicycle.”

14 Now the people conferred among themselves and, lo, they agreed to order a children’s Bible that was illustrated and had a presentation page and had a zipper closure and was bound in Leatherflex of many colors and had the words of the LORD written in red letters.

15 “Will the Bibles arrive before the Festival of Graduation?” the people asked, and P-Doobie replied, “It will be close.”

16 And the people asked, “Canst request expedited shipping so that they will arrive tomorrow?” and P-Doobie replied, “If thou wouldst pay five shekels of silver per book, we can do that.”

17 And the people said, “Forgetteth that. Go with regular shipping, for we have but two mites.”

18 And so it came to pass that P-Doobie ordered the Bibles, and they arrived the morning of the festival, and she called the pre-school and said, “Thy Bibles are here. Wouldst thou pick them up?”

19 And the representative of the people said, “Nay, for the Festival of Graduation hath started, and the children look so comely in their raiment of crepe paper. Thy service unto us has been lacking, and we are sore annoyed.”

20 And P-Doobie began weeping and wailing and rending her garments and taking the name of the LORD in vain and calling down curses upon the people and their offspring, even unto the seventh generation. But she opened the vessel that shewed the Maker’s Mark and gave herself drink, and it was good upon her tongue.

"That is not what I meant at all. / That is not it, at all."

When I was teaching, I assigned a weekly essay on a specific topic in each of my classes, and the most common complaint from the students was, "I can't think of anything to write about!"

I'd suggest A. "No," the student would say, "I don't know anything about A."

How about B? "No, I hate B."

C? "I've written about C a million times. I'm bored with C."

After about 15 minutes of offering suggestions that the student dismissed, I'd give up. The lack of a subject for writing then became my problem, because I wasn't creative enough to think of a perfect, interesting, inspiring subject for the kid.

And so it is with bookselling. Only worse. Instead of a single topic in expository writing, I'm faced with millions of books--and the loonies.

Earlier this week a customer came in and bought a book. Before she left, she told the staffer that she wanted to talk with the owner.

"Hi, I'm P-doobie, the owner," I said. "How may I help you?"

"Do you read U. S. News and World Report?" she asked. I told her I didn't. "Well, you should," she replied. I asked her why. "I'm not going to tell you, because you should already know. You should just buy a copy and find out." I thanked her warmly for the tip and started to go back to the office. She said, "You should read it because it has those lists of books."

I turned back. "A best-seller list?"

"Yes. You should have a best-seller list." She was standing in front of the best-seller shelves.

I said, "We do have a best-seller list, and it's published every Thursday in the Monitor. And here," I said gesturing to the books, "are the best-sellers in independent bookstores throughout the country."

She said, "I know that. I don't like those books [gesturing at the shelves], and there's nothing on the Monitor list that I want to read. Too sciencey."

"We also publish a monthly best-seller list in our email newsletter. Would you like to subscribe?" I asked.

"No," she said. "I hate email, and I don't want your list. I want a list like the one in U. S. News and World Report."

"What makes it different and special to you?" I asked.

"I'm not going to tell you. You should just buy a copy and find out for yourself."

I thanked her again and turned to head back to the office.

"It has a list of books and one line about each one."

I returned to the counter and said, "When someone on our staff reads a book they like, they write a note about it and put the note in the book. See?" I showed her many of the best-sellers and all the staff-picks section with shelf-talkers.

"I don't want to read those," she said. "They're too long. I don't want to read a lot."

"'Looks like war, Miss Scarlett.' 'Fiddle-dee-dee!' 'BOOM!' Now this is Gone with the Wind as it should have been written!"

Ina—and a new loonie!

Ina came in recently to announce that due to popular demand she is working on a sequel to her most popular novel. This time, she said, she's going to include epigraphs for each chapter not only from her favorite author but also from contemporary authors. But there's a problem. She doesn't know whether she has to get permission from the authors to include quotations from their books in her book. "Will you research copyright law for me and let me know what I can and can't quote?" she asked. I said, "No."

She is also shopping around for a producer for a film version of her most popular novel and has posted fliers with those little tabs with her phone number on them. I don't think that most film producers go looking in the local bank for ideas, but you never know.

*****

Pierce, a new loonie, is a playwright I've mentioned before and a major pinch-penny. He called to ask whether there were any books of humor, jokes, or anecdotes about things nuclear or atomic. I scrounged around and told him that most of what I found was political cartoons and The Far Side, but there didn't seem to be any specific book devoted specifically to atomic yocks. (I half-expected him to say, "Will you write one for me?") I suggested that he go online and do a Google search. He said that he already done that and got hundred of thousands of results, but he didn't want to sift through them, nor did he want to browse through books in search of atomic prosechuckles. And, he said, he certainly doesn't want to pay anyone do it for him. It appears that his project may die aborning.

Civics, Geography, and Use of the Globes

One of the problems with road atlases is that you sometimes don't get a sense of the distances involved, particularly in the West.

For example, Wyoming looks like a little state, occupying as it does only one page on the typical atlas, whereas little New Jersey gets a double-page spread. I read a novel by an author from Massachusetts who had a character drive from Cody, Wyoming, down to Cheyenne and back for a little errand one afternoon. It's about a 12-hour round trip, sort of like my driving to Las Cruces to pick up some chicken for tonight's dinner. When C. J. Box visited the store several years ago, his New York publicist had him flying from Cheyenne to Denver (93 miles), then allowed him three hours to drive from Los Alamos to Phoenix (375 miles). "Daddy, who's that driving at Mach 2 with his hair on fire?" "That, son, is the mystery writer C. J. Box on his way to Arizona."

Earlier this week a couple came in soon after the store opened. They wandered around with interest, but, judging from their quizzical looks, I figured that something was amiss for them. "May I help you find something, answer a question, or make a suggestion?" I asked. The woman said, "Where's Roswell?" I said, "It's about 200 miles south of here on US 285. Just go east on New Mexico 502, turn right at Pojoaque, and follow US 285 south to Roswell. It's about a 4-hour drive."

An "oh shit" look passed across her face. They were in the wrong place. There are no aliens in Los Alamos! (Okay, maybe the guys in the Theoretical Physics Division at LANL. But you didn't hear that from me.) She exchanged a few fraught whispers with her husband, and they smiled wanly at us, hurried out to their car, and headed east.

******

At least once a summer a visitor asks, "So where up here did they test the atomic bomb? We'd like to get a shot of the crater." We tell them that if the Manhattan Project boys had tested the bomb here, the place would have been uninhabitable, then tell them about Trinity Site. "It's about 200 miles south of here," we tell them. "And it's open only twice a year, the first Saturday in April and the first Saturday in October." And at least once a summer, an "oh shit" look passes over the visitor's face. Then we console them by selling them a piece of Trinitite and a copy of The Green Glass Sea and sending them next door to the museum.


"It's not far from Farmington to El Paso. They're only one Life-Saver and a hairpin apart!"

Deck the halls with vials of Prozac

We're in the home stretch of the holiday seizure season and at peak season for the odd requests and comments.

". . . with E. Power Biggs at the Hammond Organ."

Perry, one of our staffers, is most excellent at and delights in pulling customers' legs by taking their requests literally. Unfortunately he wasn't there when a customer asked whether we carried organs. I'm sure Perry would have said yes, we all carry organs, including heart, liver, lungs, and pancreas, right there inside us. Then, after the dust had settled, he would have led the customer over to the display of the 3-D anatomic models to show them the little hearts, livers, lungs, and pancreata.

I, however, was less creative. The customer asked me whether we carried organs. I said, "No. This is a bookstore." She said, "Well, I thought that since you carry science toys, you'd also carry musical instruments." She sighed with obvious disappointment. "Well, do you think the Hallmark store carries organs?"

"We cannot change the cards we are dealt, just how we play the hand."—Randy Pausch

A customer told me that she had read The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch and loved it. I said that the book is very popular with our customers and has changed a lot of lives. She asked, "Did he write anything after that? I'd love to read the sequel!" I told her that Dr. Pausch died of pancreatic cancer in 2008 and the book was published shortly after his death. She said, "Oh. I didn't know that."

Lien to the left! Lien to the right! Stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight!

I've shared on Facebook some of the odd questions we've been asked at the store.

Phone customer: "Do you sell covers for the Kindle?"
Me: "Um . . . no. Kindle and its corporate masters are our competition and working actively to put us out of business."
Customer: "Oh. Yeah. Well, do you know where I can get one?"

Customer: "Do you carry fingerprint ink?"
Me: "Um . . . no. This is a bookstore."
Customer: "Well do you know where I can get it?"

Me: "How about the cop shop or a forensic supply dealer?"

Customer: "I don't want to go to the police. Are you sure you don't have fingerprint ink?"

Customer: "Do you carry baby clothes?"

Me: "No, this is a bookstore."

Customer (looking around): "Ohhhhh."

Today I got another query. A woman came in and was searching vigorously through the calendar display. I asked, "May I help you find something?"

She said, "I'm the treasurer of our neighborhood homeowners' association." She didn't say anything more, and I really didn't know how to respond. My first impulse was to say, "We don't carry homeowners' association calendars, but let me check my inventory to be sure." Then I thought I could have said, "Oh, you poor dear," but maybe she liked the job. Saying, "So what?" would have been rude. Should I have said, "Atta girl!"? Everything seemed inadequate.

So I just waited. She looked at me. I looked at her. Finally she said, "We're putting a lien on two properties." Again she didn't say anything more, and again I didn't know how to respond. We just looked at each other. After several awkward seconds, she said, "Where's your stationery?"

I said, "We don't carry stationery. We do have some nice holiday cards, though."

She said, "No, I need property lien forms."

"I'm sorry," I said, "but we don't carry legal forms."

"I was told you carry them."

"We don't have any legal forms. We're a bookstore."

"But I was told you have them. I need property lien forms. Don't you have any in the back?"

"No, ma'am. As I said before, we don't carry legal forms."

"Well," she said, "how are we going to place a lien on the properties without the forms?"

She had me there.

Plot there was none, and laughter less

At the recent trade show of the Mountains and Plains Independent Booksellers Association, we attended an education session called "Independent Publishers and Independent Booksellers: Can We Talk?" From my posts about interactions with Minty and Ina, particularly Ina, you know that I attended in the session.

It was volatile. Booksellers were lunging over the tables toward the moderator, an independent author who called independent booksellers "you people" in the way a patriotic Frenchman might have said "Nazi" during the Occupation. Authors were lunging at booksellers, who, they said, couldn't sell a personal memoir priced to move at $39.95 if our lives depended on it. Independent publishers lunged at authors and booksellers, because have you ever tried to make a living in publishing in this economy? With authors and booksellers acting like thugs? Well, trying to work with you guys is pointless, just pointless.

By the time we were ready to talk productively, the session ended and we were all spent and panting.

******

It's been a great season for interactions with independent authors at the store.

A customer came in and recommended a self-published memoir that she was going to give members of her book group. The author would be in town for a talk with the book group, and the customer asked whether we'd be interested in hosting a signing before the talk. I told her I'd get in touch with the author and perhaps arrange a brief event before the afternoon's book discussion.

The author was amenable to a little lunch before a signing, and then an hour of meet-and-greet-and-sign before the event. I told her that we'd sell her books on consignment.

"How many books should I bring?" she asked.

I told her that 20 would probably be enough.

"Yes, but I've been selling only about five or ten at other events. If I don't sell all the books, I'll have to ship them back, and the cost will be more than that of the books."

"Well, then," I replied, "bring ten."

"But I get a bigger discount if I buy 20," she said. "Why don't I bring 20?"

"That's fine. Bring 20," I said.

She said, "But if I don't sell them all, I'll have to ship them back and the cost . . . . " I figured we could have gone on all day that way. We finally settled on ten.

We sold two.

******

An independent author I met at Mountains and Plains gave me an inscribed copy of his first book and assured me that it would rival Gone with the Wind as The Great American Historical Novel. I told him I'd read it and get back to him. Meh. It's not to my taste, but as Lincoln once said, people who like that sort of thing will find that it is the sort of thing they'll like. (See also the title of this post.)

But I digress. The author launched the book on amazon.com last month and said that the demand for it was so great that the amazon server crashed for nine hours. (Now I begrudge no man his fantasies. We are all poets at heart. But if amazon had crashed for nine hours, it would have made national news.) I sent him a note saying that folks could easily get the book from their local independent bookseller instead of the Great Satan. He responded with the following note explaining why using amazon ultimately helps independent booksellers.

You and I concur on Amazon, Amazon is an impersonal, incompetent behemoth. On the other hand, Independent Booksellers are warm, personable and eyeball-to-eyeball. And that's my style too! Because I am much different than most authors, my eye is always to making the huge bulk of my sales through book stores. Unlike most authors, I do my ebook first, work out the kinks, begin to get my reviews, reader comments and set up a platform for the printed book. This leads to greatly increased media exposure of all types.

Let's face it, your job is alot easier with a book that is known, has great reviews and comments, which has some media exposure, and has some sales laurels. The only way to get that on the very first printing of the book is with Amazon, Barnes and Nobel, Ipad or a combination. All that sets up the platform for the 90% part of the program, the bookstores.

For instance, with [title of book], you the Independent Booksellers now have the benefit of all of the above, not to mention six or seven thousand who are now reading the book and another 700,000 who are familiar with it through our marketing including emails, Facebook and points of influence. Another 500,000 know of our books through our web advertising on special targeted sites and the book being named book of the month on three large women's sites.

So now your bookstore and staff have a product that you can say is widely known, being read by many, is getting good press, has received truly exceptional reviews, comments and endorsements from big names and can be counted as the top selling "paper only" [genre] - not to mention #1 Mover and Shaker and #82 Hottest New Release on Amazon.

I'm glad we could clear that up.

Heard and overheard

A long-time local customer came in and asked for a specific issue of a New Mexico art magazine that she really, really wanted. We have never carried magazines. I said, "I'm sure the issue you want is available at the Downtown Subscription in Santa Fe." She said, "Well, I don't go down to Santa Fe very often, and I wondered if you would go down and pick up the magazine for me." I said, "Sure. Will you pay me mileage down and back and $30.00 an hour for my time?" She said, "I don't want it that bad."

******

Staffer, after checking our inventory for a book the customer requested: "I'm sorry, but we don't have that book in stock. May I order it for you? It will be here in about three business days."

Customer: "Would it be more convenient for you if I ordered it from Amazon?"

******

"I'm looking for a book about Los Alamos. We have it at home, but I don't know what it's about."

******

Mei, to her friend at the Fun"d" Run: "This is my aunt. She owns Otowi Station. Have you been there? We have all kinds of great stuff. We have books. We have Pokemon cards. We have stuffed animals. We have manga books. You'll probably have to get permission from your mom to read manga, because sometimes they're kind of bloody. We have all kinds of toys."

Even when she's not here, she's here

We're planning the sequel to last year's very successful AuthorFest. I sent out invitations to all the local authors for this year's event, which we'll have in early November, and gladsome acceptances have been coming in. Except for Ina.

She can't make it on the date we've set. She came in yesterday and gave me a list of alternate dates that the 30+ other folks could work around. I told her that the date was firm, and we can't try to reschedule everyone else just for her. She was undeterred. "How about if I send someone with a suitcase full of my books? That person could sell them for me. I'd sign them beforehand, of course," she reassured me. I said that would be fine. But she wasn't finished.

"Now did I tell you about that woman from Magdalena who wrote a memoir about her life in the convent? Maybe you should invite her, too." (I'm not sure how that would go over with Minty, who defines "local author" as someone who lives within a five-mile radius of the store.) "I know that she'd love to sell my books for me, because I bought one of hers and she signed it. Here, you can read it." She thrust it into my hands.

Barreling on, she said, "You're probably thinking that people would be confused about who's selling my books if the Magdalena author were here. Well, I thought it all out. I have a manikin of myself about this tall that can sit in the chair, and people will know it's me."

Ina and her doppelgänger: it's just too much to contemplate.