Listen to Jim’s podcast:
http://redclaydiary.com/
or read his story below:
Tap Dancing on Shag Carpeting
“You have heard the sound of two hands clapping, but have you heard the sound of three hands clapping?”
Thoughts like this slither into my mind during the short periods between customers at the bookstore.
“She was aged to imperfection.”
You know, inexplicable thoughts like this—the kinds of thoughts that seem important at the time but ultimately are tossed into the napkin-note sticky-note file for later contemplation.
“You can only observe one-tenth of an iceberg lettuce salad.”
Where did that one come from?
The front door chimes and I am lifted from my navel contemplation. I arise from behind the counter and smile to the customer, “Good morning! How can I help you today?”
A woman of indeterminate age frowns, holds up a shiny book by two fingers, as if it is contaminated and ready for recycling. “I want to return this book for a refund,” she announces.
My policy is ironclad. I always refund, no questions asked. Or at least no questions required. But just for future reference, I say, “OK. Is there anything wrong with the book?”
She sneers, looks into the air—not at me—and says, “I just don’t like the way it ended. I want my money back.”
I am at a loss for words. I look for words, but they seem to have fallen out of my head and rolled under something, out of sight.
“Er, sorry,” I sputter. I determine that this particular customer has made up her immutable mind and is well beyond literary conversation or conversion. I also determine that she will probably never return. I think, too, that she has read very few books in her life and has no idea how a real bookstore operates. I am happy to refund her money in hopes that she will soon disappear and be replaced by appreciative browsers.
She stuffs the refund in her copious purse and grumbles to herself all the way to the door, her experiment with reading over and done with.
I re-shelve the book, return to my storely duties and my lone thoughts.
“She is as pure as the driven sludge.”
Where did that thought come from?
I wonder whether there are other would-be customers like her. Maybe, to paraphrase my Brother, Tim, she is part of a That Customer franchise, people who haunt old bookstores with unlikely demands, then dematerialize.
“I’m looking for a book by GO-eeth,” one customer says. It takes a while to decipher Goethe from his request. I gladly provide him with Goethe.
“I’m looking for poem,” a gruff character states. When I lead him to the poetry section, he stares blankly, arms limp, as if I’ve invited him to tap dance on shag carpeting.
“No, I’m looking for POEM,” he repeats. It takes some time to figure out that he is searching for pornography, or PORN, as it is called these days. Dang, we are fresh out or porn, I say to myself.
I gently let him down and he leaves—again, someone who will never return.
Some folks seem to be searching for Manifest Density. If there is no such thing, there ought to be.
Me, I’m just drifting with my thoughts on a normal day at the least normal bookstore you’ll ever visit, the most enjoyable bookstore you will ever visit, a bookstore stripped bare of unsavory endings and GO-eeth and porn
© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.
Podcasts: http://jimreedbooks.com/podcast/