Closing Time

The bookshop generally closed later on Friday evenings, at 7:00 rather than 6:00 PM. In the summer it was still full daylight, but in winter it was completely dark outside by then.

I don’t know why I stayed open so late. Perhaps I did so because some of the other stores in the area did, perhaps because I thought it would generate more foot traffic and consequently more sales. I don’t remember now whether sales were better because of that extra hour, but I do remember some of the consequences of being there for that time.

Situated next to a popular restaurant, I gradually realized that their patrons would use the bookshop as a place to wait for a table or rendezvous with fellow diners. This usually generated no sales, but it did cause books to be incorrectly re-shelved or mishandled, largely because these “customers” had no interest in books, hence no incentive to keep things in alphabetical order.

Then there was another type of late visitor: a person with nowhere to go, no one to be with, and who found that a bookshop is a safe haven. Again, no sales would be forthcoming.

Still suffering from the notion that “the customer is always right” and having the delusional belief that one must always defer to whatever a customer might want (where “customer” is naïvely defined broadly as anyone who happens in, rather than one who may likely buy something), I tended to avoid a conspicuous signal as closing time approached.

Unlike a bar where there is a last call or the flashing of lights to signal imminent closing, I started asking, in the most kindly way possible, if I could check any inventory or titles before “I shut down the computer”. Yet people would continue to linger, undeterred by this ersatz subtlety. The final technique was to pointedly turn off the “Open” sign and loudly lock the entrance doors, at which point people would still ask “Oh, are you closing soon?” Oh my.

My most memorable late visitor came into the shop shortly before closing on a dark, frigid winter evening. There was no one else in the store at the time.
A young man walked up to the counter, pulled out a gun, and demanded that I hand over all my cash.

It had been a horrid day, with almost no sales and little walk-in traffic — even that was largely made up of obnoxious people. It was one of those days when I would question the wisdom of having a bookshop in the first place. And now this!

I was so shocked, so surprised, and oddly, I found the whole thing just too funny. Just on this side of hysteria, I started laughing like some benignly demented person and said “You really should do some research before holding up a store. This is a second hand bookshop. It makes next to no money. Today was even worse than usual and I think I have maybe $40.00, mostly in coins. Come look for yourself! If you really need it, you’re welcome to have whatever is there.”

Our young wannabe robber was completely taken aback by this turn of events and actually looked rather embarrassed. He mumbled something along the lines of “No, it’s okay, you keep your money”, followed by “Have a nice night” or something equally inane. Then he put away his gun (it could have been a toy; I have no idea what these things actually look like), turned and left the shop.

I waited a brief moment, turned off the “Open” sign, locked the front door, and went back behind the counter to gather my things. It was only then that my knees buckled and I sank to the floor where I sat for… I can’t remember how long. It felt as though my head was full of soggy newspaper and I could think of nothing at all.