Help Wanted

A few people worked in the bookshop with me. My first assistant was a university student who was studying psychology. Friendly, smart, upbeat, responsible, computer savvy… she was wonderful and of course didn’t last. Once she got her degree, off she went and good for her!

A later employee who heard me reminisce about sanctified Nancy one too many times suggested that perhaps we could construct a small shrine in her honour in the back room. Then we could go there and place burnt offerings whenever the need arose.

Another woman worked at the shop for many years. She was close to being my complete opposite and so was a good fit for the shop. I think she worked there on and off for about 10 years, becoming a dearly beloved friend.

Then a young man was hired; a university student whose focus was English literature. Good on computers, reasonably comfortable with customers (except the older women seeking romance novels — they made him so uncomfortable that he looked queasy). But his life was filled with extraneous matters and he couldn’t continue with the job.

Another young man was hired to catalog. He was adequate at the job only if I gave him books he detested. If I gave him a stack of books he might want to read, there were long periods where no sound of keyboarding was to be heard. I had to keep reminding him that he wasn’t getting paid to read (a common misconception — people think that working in a bookshop means you get to read on the job).

I needed help in the bookshop, and so had the temerity to post a help-wanted sign in the window.

Friends warned me, but I did not heed their words.

And so began the dance of the applicants.

Most were your average applicant, unemployed and unemployable for many reasons. Some you knew were unemployable even before they reached the front counter. You could see it in their walk, their carriage, their demeanor. Something, somewhere, somehow had gone sideways in their lives, and that something was accompanying their every step.

A few were standouts.

One woman (who definitely had a distinct whiff of the unemployable about her) announced that she would be perfectly content to work at the store for free. No pay. It was enough to simply be in the bookshop. She told me she preferred not to be paid because “if you pay me, then I will have to do what you ask me to, and you will expect me to keep fixed hours”. Good point.

Another woman (why is it always the women?) declared herself to be perfect for the bookshop. She was well read (I didn’t inquire about which genre(s) or authors), assured me that she had a ‘super’ personality, and would be an invaluable asset. The only problem is that she would neither stretch up to the top shelves nor bend down to the lower ones. This wasn’t due to any medical condition or physical disability — she merely found those positions undignified and best left to others who did not concern themselves about appearances (people like me I guess).

Yet another woman wanted the work because her husband said that she should “get out more”.

What most people seemed to believe is that working in a bookshop is somehow akin to a genteel garden party where everyone discusses brilliant ideas and hosts book circle chats on ‘classics’ like Fifty Shades of Grey (dear God help me). No one thinks that there is actually work involved — shelving, cataloging, sorting, tidying, listening to customers, helping them, bookkeeping and so on. They only envision the literary pretensions.

Finally one regular customer volunteered for the job. He didn’t “apply” but seemed more as though he were conceding to help me out of a bad situation. I could pay him minimum wage, he would work precise hours and precise days, and he would never call in sick. From previous conversations, I knew he had an astonishing literary background, had studied at expensive prep schools, and was witty and urbane. He was also easy on the eyes, and could be very charming with the lady customers, yet sufficiently manly to engage with the male book lovers (guns, militaria, mysteries, true crime — am I being stereotypical?).

It all sounded too perfect.

Life, as we all know, is never perfect. There was a list of things he would not do. No shelving, no computer work, no tidying. He was to be the main customer service provider, recommender of books, chief reviewer and raconteur.

But he could make me laugh until my sides hurt, and my stomach muscles would cramp, and tears would flow from my eyes. He brought joy and humour into the shop for about five years, and that was a bargain at minimum wage.