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.

“Do Nice People Get Discounts?” pt. ll

My mom went with me to the store. There had been a pair of Vans Sk8-Hi’s I’d been coveting a while now (black-on-black nubuck with read stitching on the heel, and an Inuit-inspired Totem design on the outsole, replete with a matching pair of kerchiefs), from the safety of the pizzeria next door. Now that I was unencumbered by the fiscal repercussions of such a purchase (i.e., my mom was buying), I got the shoes at long last. I got those shoes and the embroidered New Era black-on-black “H” cap. As the freshly flanneled clerk rang me up, I asked him:

“Do you guys still do that Zachary’s* discount?”

“Sure. You work at Zachary’s?,” he asked. I could tell he was already inclined to give me the discount; anyway, he knew I’d worked there. I’d brought him and his boys pizza and Coronas a couple times when they ordered them, and once I saw him at the Library stop on his fixed-gear bike. I’d said what’s up.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I am,” I said, nodding reassuringly.

Alright, he said, taking my mother’s credit card and slipping it through the card reader. Staring at the receipt printer as it began to hum, he asked me how business was over there at Zachary’s during the holidays. I hadn’t counted on this. All I had wanted to do was save my mom a couple bucks on her impromptu Christmas presents for me. I guess the guilt in accepting such spontaneous generosity prompted me to lie to a casual acquaintance who worked at a really cool sneaker boutique I still really kinda wanted to work at. I wouldn’t have gone along with the snap-decision if I’d known I’d have to substantiate my bullshit with a slew of invented dialogue and lies.

“Yeah, well, you know,” I said. Normal breathing patterns alluded me. “People are tired after Christmas shopping and they stop by because buying makes them hungry and it’s a real pain trying to serve them pizza because you have to watch out for their bags, which makes it tough to navigate between the tables with some deep dish in your hands.”

The clerk gave me a knowing smile. I did my best to smile back while trying my best to evaluate a fixed-gear video based on its cover art.

He slid the receipt onto the counter and my mom picked up a nearby pen and traced out her signature. He replaced the white copy with the carbon copy and handed me the big “H” bag.

“Well, I’ll be seeing you across the street, then,” the clerk said.

I was half way out the door before my mom finished folding the receipt into her eel purse, which she took great care to tuck into its appropriate place in her outsized purse.

I waved past the window display.

I’m never setting foot near Fog Street and Descuenta Avenue again.

*”Zachary’s” is the name of the East Bay pizzeria that my bosses (both former employees there) have been accused of ripping off.

“Whadaya Mean? I Gave You a Ten!”

I’m surprised I don’t have an exchange like this every week: a customer pays in cash, waits to get change, yet doesn’t question my mental math until I’ve already tucked the bills he gave me into the register and shut the drawer.Today this meat and potatoes guy walked in and asked where the children’s books were. He had a strong Upper Right Coast accent. The way he said it sounded more like, “Hey. Doya know whereda Chil-ren’s sextion-is?” I really want to say he was from New Jersey*. I pointed in a couple directions. Over here and down there. As he moved about the store his square shoulders swung on his torso like concrete blocks joined with a steel beam. I imagined him half-way through a backstreet weightlifting session, no doubt with guys named Govone and C-Chan spotting him. He came back to the counter with a $2.99 Christmas book. Well, $3.51 after tax. I took his bill and gave him change. Then I stuck a Happy Dusty bookmark — replete with our smiling mascot: bespectacled moth (wearing a cardigan) munching on a book cover — in his copy of Rudolph the Red-Noised Reindeer.

“Hey, man, where’s the rest of my money?” he said.

“You gave me a five,” I said.

“Whadaya mean? I gave you a ten!”

“No. You gave me a five.”

“Are you kiddin’ me? Look here,” he said, spreading out a wad of twenties and fives and ones before me like a deck of cards. “I got one hundred eighty-five bucks. I know how much money I got.”

I told that didn’t mean anything to me, and he said yeah, he knew that. But he still wanted the rest of his money.

“I gave you the rest of your money,” I said. “I’m pret– I’m — really sure you just gave me a five.”

Of course I would have stuttered. My boss had told me to be more careful counting out customer’s change. He’d grown impatient with the sometimes five-dollar difference I’d come up with at the end of the night. Either I was giving the customers too much money or I was shortchanging them. But still, why was I doubting myself now? Ever since my boss talked to me about my money-handling I’d made good on my totals. With regards to Jersey I remembered well enough looking at the bill as he handed it to me and as I put it on the keyboard while I riffled through various coinage. Then I shoved the five dollar bill on top of a stack of twentysome other five dollar bills. I popped the register drawer back open. In the slot next to the fives were two worn ten dollar bills. I closed the drawer. There was no real way of knowing.

“See! I knew you didn’t know what bill I gave you!”

I stare at the wall past the cash register. I assume if this guy really wanted to come in here and scheme up some quick cash, he would have at least claimed he’d paid with a twenty. He scrunched up his face and shoved the dollar in change across the counter to me. He made out the store. I called after him, and he stopped. I said, “look.” I told him what I do each night is tabulate the drawer, and if I’m five dollars over, then I’d leave the money out and he could stop by tomorrow and get it.

“I’ll wrap it up in a ribbon for you,” I said.

“Hey, man, I don’t wanna make a big deal about this. I mean, if it was five hundred dollars, then sure, it’d be a big deal,” he said. “Anyway, tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. You gonna be here tomorrow?”

I said yeah. My boss and supervisor order food and along with their loved ones I looked forward to eating well (for free) and sipping (inexpensive) champagne in paper cups. The last thing I wanted was for Jersey to march in and tell my boss what a conniving little prick I was. He asked my name. I sighed. Joey. He stuck out his hand. I wanted to go home. I shook his hand — it felt cracked and leathery. He let go and I pointed to the dollar and change on the counter. He looked at it a minute before scraping it up.

“Might as well. You’re trying to take every last bit of my money anyway!” he said.

I stared blankly at the end of the shop.

“Hey Joey, I’m gonna see you bright and early tomorrow morning, okay?”

He left.

Later that night, after I’d taken out the recyclables and the garbage and locked the door, I tugged on the string hanging from the neon “Open” sign before hauling the drawer upstairs. I thumb through every bill, counting aloud, before conscientiously jotting down each amount in a column. I jab the buttons on the calculator. I finish and hit equals. The liquid crystal screen flashed a number. Now, it’s normal for the drawer to be off by a buck or two. Until this moment, however, I never thought the discrepancy mattered.

I added it up several times more — each time arriving at the same surplus amount:

Two dollars and fifty cents.

*[disclaimer: I've never been to New Jersey. My preconceived notion of a Jersey accent stems from a few stoned viewings of My Cousin Vinny and a run-in I once had with a passable rap group from Jersey City. Their most memorable track was called "I'm So Jersey".]

Hi! I have a book now, please!

“Hi!”

“Hel-lo!”

“Hi!”

The series of salutations came marching from the children’s section.

“I have a book now, please!”

The little boy hoisted the book above his head onto the counter. Shrek 2. His mother came up behind him with a wan smile and a small stack of books. The smiling faces of Shrek, his ogre wife, and Donkey peeked past his fingers, still clutching the book. As I pull the book from the little boy’s grasp I read a blurb on the back cover:

Join your fairy tale favorites for a hilarious adventure that proves that nothing is quite what it seems and that living happily ever after isn’t easy.

“Have you seen Shrek 2?” the boy continued. “I like Shrek 2 but I like Shrek 3 better. You don’t have any books on Shrek 3.”

He stood on his tippy toes to look at me across the counter. The cold breeze from outside fussed his bowl cut. As the boy moved about I noticed an irredescent smudge of snot that streaked his face like half of the Joker’s smile. I told him I also liked the Shrek movies.

His mother handed me her credit card and I began punching the value of the books into the computer.

“There’s a big crane in front of my dad’s office,” the little boy said. “There’s a big crane there, and when I visit my dad, he has a new toy for me every time.

“I have the best dad!” he continued. He was all blue eyes and confidence. Customers smiled at the little boy. His mother signed the credit card slip and wadded the yellow copy into an overstuffed wallet.

“Well, he’s a father we hardly ever see,” she said to no one in particular. She gathered up the little bag of books. “He’s a good father when it’s convenient.

“Come on, now, Michael. Let’s go home now.”

“Bye!!!” the little boy said to the customers. He choked the Shrek book with one arm while his mother led him by the other.

“I have the best dad, now. Bye!”

“Hey, Would You Do Me a Favor?”

It started simple enough. A small request. A tinsy favor.

“Would you mind turning off the radio?” he said.

I’d seen him in here before. A tallish man in his fifties, with a lumpy, yet not unpleasant face. He wore flannel, and I liked that. I also liked his tortoise shell glasses. He always gave me a smart nod when he walked in the door. I was inclined to like him. But, see, here’s where all the above becomes moot: this guy leans on the merchandise. He will pull a book off a table and, planting his elbows squarely on stacks of nearby books (these books are all new, mind you!) will proceed to bend the spine of the book in hand (ugh!) and read–his upper body slowly squashing the unfortunate merchandise beneath his girth. I never told him not to lean on the merchandise. He should just know. I looked at him.

“No.”

“Well, you see,” he said, making a sort of grimace. “The noise of it interferes with reading. Why don’t you do me a favor? Turn it off.”

I could have gone either way. It really was just background music. But it was already turned down. Anyway, who walks into a store and makes a request like this? Here at Happy Dusty Books we’ll let you read undisturbed for hours and hours — but this ain’t no library.

“No.”

“Why? Is the music for you or for the customers?”

“Look,” I said. “I bet if you worked at a bookshop 25 hours a week, for ten bucks an hour, you might want the radio on, too.”

I regretted saying this last bit. This whole woe-is-me, the-kid-with-a-college-degree-who-bides-his-time- working-at-a-bookshop shtick. Did I really just tell him how little money I made? I rushed to say something to rinse my mind of what I’d said.

“Besides,” I added. “It’s not like it’s hip-hop or anything. It’s NPR, and they’re playing classical music.”

A couple of kids my age browsing the surrounding tables looked at the big guy with disapproving looks. I felt reassured. But even then I was aware they may have been overly sympathetic because I’d just given them a freebie book on paranoia a woman had previously donated.

He grunted and shuffled off to the music section — at the farthest end of the store.

Non-Emergency Profiling

A little into my evening shift, just as the nine-to-fivers begin trickling in for a fresh after-dinner read, a little white something is lobbed through the front door and hits the floor.

Pop!

A bearded customer wearing a ball cap (who looks exactly like Steven Spielberg incognito) and I stare at each other until the sound of laughter seeps in from the sidewalk. Like any good employee I jump up and run outside where two teenage kids are standing, each gripping a little plastic gun. I recognize the toys as the kind that shoot little paper pouches of gunpowder — like the stuff you’d throw at Fourth of July Parades. They stand self-satisfied; little smiles play on their faces. I’m cool. I know how to talk to these kids.

“Man, fuck right off with that shit!”

The kid farther away in a shadow snickers.

“Fuck your weak-ass store,” says the kid closer to me. He says it in a way that sounds like he’s already tired of his game. I tell them I’ll call the cops if they don’t fuck off. I stare at them for an instant, and, satisfied with how legit I must seem. I walk back into the store. I am its ten-dollar-an-hour savior. I nod reassuringly at Steven Spielberg.

Pop! Pop!

Out the door again, this time with my cell phone in hand. The kids are laughing.

“You either fuck off or I’m calling the cops,” I wheeze, my nerves getting the best of me. “Actually, I’m calling the cops right now!”

“Fuuuck you,” the talkative one calls over his shoulder.

Making good on my word, I call the non-emergency number and a police officer shows up at the shop a couple minutes later. A big stout guy with an easy smile. After sniffing at a little paper scrap of firecracker, the cop asks what the kids looked like. I lean against the new fiction section and explain they were mid-teens, both wearing hoodies, pretty baggy, one had a Marc Ecko rhinoceros on it, the other had this all-over print–

“–No, no. I mean, what did they look like, you know, like what ethnicity?” the cop clarifies.

“Oh, man.”

“Black? Asian?”

“Black, they were black.”

The cop gives a knowing nod. I start talking.

“H-hey, you know, don’t arrest the kids or anything. I mean, they were just being dumb, b-but they weren’t hurting anybody. They were just being annoying.”

The cop puts up his hand.

“Don’t worry. We’ll handle it,” he says. He asks which way they went and I point and say they went that way.

I don’t hear any more firecrackers the rest of the night.