Do Nice People Get Discounts? part lll

Michael came after class. Because he’s under 21, he relieved my position at the counter while I went out to get the 40s and Doritos.

Halfway through our bottles and a thorough discussion on the religiously marginalized (no, we weren’t bemoaning the plight of Scientologists), Scatterbrain came up to the counter with a couple books: one on Victorian lace-weaving, and the other on god-knows-what, each priced at eight dollars a piece.

“Will you come half off these books?” she asked. She had worn-down face that reminded me of Winstons, microwave burritos, and the teeth of aged Quarterhorses.

“Excuse me?”

“Will you come down on these. Half-off,” she said. She blinked.

“Um, I’m only qualified to take 10% off, and that’s only if you ask particularly nicely,” I said, my tongue a little thick from the beer. “And anyway, Happy Dusty is going out of business, like, tomorrow, so we’re in now position to award half-off discounts.”

Scatterbrain slid the books toward me.

“Well, I could get these books much cheaper on-line,” she said, walking toward the door.

I chucked her discarded books onto a nearby cart. Michael sat there with his paper-wrapped 40. I made no attempt to mask my anger.

“Yeah, lady, you do just that,” I said. “Come by tomorrow and see if there’s not a goddamn padlock on the door.”

fucking cooze.

A New Employee?

I skated to work this afternoon, a nice, sunny one, on a new enjoi deck. Taking a leisurely hour to arrive a couple neighborhoods over (which provided me ample time to land some shaky backside tailslides on my favorite granite curb), I got to work to find someone I didn’t know sitting at the computer I where usually punch out this blog.

“Hi! I’m the new employee,” she said, sticking our her hand. Zoshia looked at me with her arms crossed. “My name’s Ashley.”

I looked at Zoshia. I wondered why we would hire new people when Happy Dusty was about to close? Further more, today was supposed to be the day that people from Powell’s in Portland come to make an offer for our inventory. Zoshia told me she’d just interviewed Ashley.

“I’m working the evening shift,” she said cheerfully.

Wha-what?

“I’m working the evening shift,” I said, turning to Zoshia. “I mean, I thought I was working the evening shift.”

Zoshia shrugged. “You’re losing your Monday shift.”

“Why? Aren’t I doing a good enough job?”

Ashley couldn’t hide her smile as she followed the conversation. Zoshia made a wan smile and a so-so gesture with her hand. She told me to talk to our manager Roger about it.

“I have to sit down,” I said, taking a place on a stool. I could have been getting more hours at my other job all this time, but I wanted to stick with Happy Dusty until the end. Why was I getting shat on?

“Jesus, Joe,” Zoshia said. “We’re fucking with you! Ashley is my friend from Santa Barbara!”

The two of them broke out laughing. “And think! We didn’t even plan this!” Zoshia said to Ashley.

I glowered at her before throwing my sweaty stocking cap at her.

“Pick that up,” she snapped. “You throw something at me again and I’m throwing my fist at your face.”

I grumbled an apology as I scraped up my stocking cap.

Powell’s Books Buy-out?

I thought we were in the clear. Well, at least in the short-term sense of the word. Our boss, Roger, had told us this week that Powell’s had put off sending a couple appraisers to the store, indefinitely. Roger, who’s only two months away from law school yet already seems to be going through bookseller withdrawal, told us  we’d probably run a progressive sale (you know, like 10% these weeks, 20% those, etc.), which meant that me and everyone else could count on a couple more months of employment, at least.

Throwin’ Cash

An elderly lady bought a book by Emily Post. She was smartly dressed in a feminine business suit, something smart to wear to brunch with girlfriends.

That’ll be seven dollars and sixty cents, I told her. Even though the IRS is about to throw a pad-lock on Happy Dusty any day now, I was feeling all right this afternoon. I’ve been chatting with customers, smiling without forcing anything saccharine. Things were good.

She returned my smile and pulled out her money: one, two, seven; two quarters and a dime.

She plopped the bills on the counter, dribbling the coins on top.

I looked at the pile of green and silver money. It was a delicate mint flower, with the bills fanning like pedals; the coins stuck like pistils.

How charming.

I looked back at the woman, smiled, and shot white hot lazar beams from my eyes. They struck her squarely in the face, causing her eyes to run down her cheeks like Cadbury eggs, the creme kind. Her hair net burst into a quick flash, flames running on wires, before her head went poof! and exploded into a cloud of ashen dust. I had just finished Swiffering.

She smiled and left.

The next man came up. I thought he was with the lady. He was so nicely dressed. I rang up his book (a fine copy of Tom Brokaw’s The Greatest Generation), and held out my hand to receive his money. He reached past my hand and deposited the sum on the counter. He rather threw the cash, causing the coins to bounce and roll.. I was a card dealer clearing a player’s sloppy hand. I scratched his change, counted it back to him and placed it all neatly in his fucking hand.

He smiled and nodded and asked for a plastic bag. Pulling one from the box, I ask him why he didn’t hand me the money.

Pardon?

I said, clearing my throat, why he didn’t put his money in my hand, which I had extended in front of him, and put it on the counter.

Why, does it matter?

I purse my lips and make a little sucking sound as I consider.

Yes. I think it does. It’s a matter of manners.

Manners?

Yes, mhmm.

Manners? Why, who are you to tell me anything about manners?Pardon?

What right do you have? You’re listening to rap music this very moment!

(I’d heard the rap line before.)

It’s a matter of courtesy, I told him. I mean, I smiled, nodded, I was perfectly polite to you, and still you threw your money like the counter was actually, I dunno, some dirty bed in a — motel!

His eyes went wide. He took his receipt and folded it crisply before putting

I cringed. Now my eyes felt like they were melting.

Clearing my throat, I tried to clarify myself: I was talking about the apparent disgust with which you dropped the money on the counter. It’s rude, is all! If I stick my hand out, put the money there!

He took his book and turned to the door.

There’ll be no such discussion, you little pervert! I’ll going to tell your manager all about this! Now, good day!

I’d be worried about my manager if he himself didn’t stand to lose his job.

Happy Dusty Debt

The other day I was standing around with my boss, talking about making use of the mass of in-store credit I’ve acquired. Yeah, he said. You’ll wanna do that soon. I don’t know how much longer we’ll have books on the shelves.

Wha-what?

I knew Happy Dusty had been on the rocks for a while now. As recently as a year ago, Powell’s, the impossibly sea-worthy vessel of literature in Portland, bought up all our inventory to keep our doors open. It’s something they do, seemingly out of goodwill, for lesser-sound indie shops. Since then we’ve restocked our shelves with second-hand books, gradually purchased from our legion of Happy Dusty loyalists. It’s something surreal to imagine a bookshop without books, yet it’s a sight I may see fairly soon; that is, if the IRS doesn’t board up the windows and padlock the door, first.

I initially assumed all this would be very hush-hush, and I felt especially privileged when my boss filled me in. Basically, the owner (whom I’ve met, once) hasn’t paid employer taxes, in, like, years. Awesome, huh? My boss (let’s call him Roger so we don’t confuse him with the owner, who we’ll just refer to as “The Owner”) seemed as shocked and nonplussed as I felt, and I deliberated writing about it here.

But after watching my assistant manager, Zoshia, explain the news to customers, I decided to do the same. With some customers have stacked up hundreds of dollars in credit by helping us fill the store again, it’s the least we can do to give them the heads-up about cashing in as soon as possible.

As for my bookshop blog? It’s kind of a cliched ending that Happy Dusty Books goes out of business. Hopefully there’ll be another way out.

Two Interactions

I.

Happy Dusty Books…

Mr. Borley? Would you please put the heat on?

Ah, ma’am, this is a bookstore…

Well just put Mr. Borley on. I’m freezing!

Ma’am, I –

–What’s the big complication? Why can’t you turn the heat on?

Ma’am, I think you have the wrong number. I mean, you do have the wrong number.

But I don’t understand what you’re saying!

This is a bookshop. You’ve dialed the wrong number.

Oh!

–click–

II.

Hi. Should I check my backpack with you?

Yeah, that’d be great.

Careful, though. I’ve got a laptop in it.

Sure thing.

Thanks.

Oh, sir? Would you leave your coffee on the platter right there?

Um…I’d really rather not do that.

——

——

Um….why not?

I’d just rather not.

Well, I don’t want you to spill coffee all over our books.

Yeah. I don’t want to leave my coffee.

Oh. Okay. I suppose you want your backpack back?

Yeah.

Here you go.

Thanks.