Before peacing out of Barnes & Noble, I purchased everything Ames in stock, a few gifts and a few gambles. The above was part of the latter category. I’d heard great things about the 33 1/3 series but never felt all the way convinced.
As a reward for myself finally finishing Kenny Fucking Rogers’ autobiography, I started this little guy. So far, I’m engrossed—and binging on Waits’ discography.
Bonus: It fits perfectly in the pocket of my “home sweatshirt” which has increasingly become used as “public wear.” Yes, the same sweatshirt I bought at a Decatur thrift shop of which I later noticed had pills in the pockets. Yes, that same time I was walking with a coworker, discovered said medication and she asked, “Should we try them?”
Often authors come into my work, valiantly offering to sign copies of books we have in stock (usually their own). Andy Cohen came in recently in a similar fit of philanthropy. I had seen his guest appearance on Colbert Report days earlier when Sarah and I attended the filming and made some small talk with him about it. After he left, I blurted some vague, offhand comment to a coworker about how I’d like to take Andy Cohen to Bonesville.
Him: He’s a flaming homosexual.
Me: Why are you crushing my dreams?
Him: I’m sorry. I’m just pretending that I’m my mother and you’re me.
The rest of that day was whatever.
This title sits on a prominent table on my floor of the bookstore. I passed by it the same time as two dudes once when one of them pointed to the cover and just lost his shit over the apparent hilarity. And and his friend continued to cry-laugh about it for at least three minutes. I immediately felt appreciation for them.
I have a stalker, guys! It’s so exciting! Actually, TBH, I think he is just one of the dozen or so folks who frequent the bookstore literally every. Single. Day. There are people that do that, I hear.
I noticed him the first time two weeks ago because he looked familiar, like a jungle juice combination of several, mismatched males friends of mine. He had a pleasant, indifferent look on his face as he scoped out the titles on a front table. The next day, I was on a different floor, shlepping around 100 cupcake cookbooks or whatever when I saw him again. The same fucking weird cheery look on his face that seemed to exhale, Hmm…?
This continued every day I’ve worked since then. But, you know, he seemed to be enjoying himself, not hurting anyone and wearing a reasonable enough uniform involving pants that could only be described as slacks. Minimal leering. Whatever.
Yesterday he entered the shop and beamed around as always. Then as he passed the info desk, I noticed something very wrong about his neck I hadn’t seen before. It was. A. Massive. MASSIVE. Hickey.
The fuuuuck, I thought to myself. What had seemed like an innocent, sweetish quirkster was somehow manipulating someone or something into sucking on his flesh enough to warrant a blood-speckled bruise. I wondered if the sucker knew about the suckee’s daily visit to the big box bookstore. And if he/she/it found it to be a settling daily practice.
This is my life.
Gilbert Gottfried Reads Fifty Shades of Grey
I didn’t so much lose my erection as it crawled up inside my body out of fear.
It numbs me a bit to see how many copies of this book we sell each day. A gaggle of my co-workers have taken it upon themselves to memorize lines from it to bust out at opportune moments. “My inner goddess was incandescent,” and “he wanted to fuck me over the billard table,” are big favorites. A frequent gripe with the latter, one work friend raves, “But, you don’t FUCK someone on a BILLIARD table. You MAKE LOVE on the BILLARD table. You FUCK someone on a POOL table.”
I was pulling some titles from the self-improvement section at work tonight to fill a table on the first floor. Passing the depression subsection, I noticed a familiar name on one book’s spine. “Elliott Smith.” Apparently that particular book was a collaboration between Charles H. Elliott, PhD. and Laura L. Smith, PhD. I had myself a little ironic giggle and shuffled on about my miserable evening beneath that atrocious, unflattering lighting.
I’ve only worked one real day at Barnes & Noble (the fake day I spent watching videos about why stealing is bad), and I think I’ve already sold more than 30 copies of this book.
I blindly assumed the book was some mystery pulp. However, in the break cellar, the cashier who was training me clarified. “No, no,” she said, waving her hands over a plate of sushi. “It’s basically porn. These people are buying porn.”
So there’s that, unfortunately coloring each sweet older woman for whom I rung up Shades. And there’s also the part in which I can only smile knowingly when each ask me what I thought of it. You go, girls. Saucy minxes.