THE TWELFTH PAGE

My bookstore education was harsh and cruel. It was not about chatting about books in a tea-pouring conversational tone. It was about adding new books in order on the shelves, and writing down the title of every book sold, and clean, cleaning, and cleaning. No, don’t use your rag across the top of the book; that only grinds the dirt in. Slap two books together; that’s the way.

And please refer to me as Mister and to her as Miss. And you will be called Mister. And don’t ask the customers if they can be helped. Smile and be ready to serve them, but keep your mouth shut until asked to open it. At first, I thought the closed mouth policy was directed at me and my new pronunciation scheme, but other clerks with their Princeton tones and Vassar inflection were given the same counsel.

We all served the same masters: the public. This was Fifth Avenue. This was 57th Street. The land of Carriage Trade. The public had all the money in the world, though was insecure in spending it. It didn’t know how to pronounce the author’s name. It couldn’t remember if it was a book title or the newspaper review headline they wanted. Maybe it was a red book, or maybe it was blue. Eventually I gave up common courtesy and would terminate the transaction in Churchillian tones, snarling “Thank you” as the customer handed me the credit card for his purchase.