Titles, Inc.

Who Doesn't Love a Parade?

On the Fourth of July, following tradition, I went to my small town’s parade.  Or more accurately, my town’s small parade.  Long ago, decorated floats filled the street.  Modest, but attractive and lively.  I remember one float blaring music while ladies from the sponsored gym, wearing their very fitted leotards, exercised enthusiastically as the truck rolled down the long streets.  Every year I would think, “I really must enter next year,” and fantasized a float with Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, a childhood book I reflect on with nostalgia.  Rebecca and other members of the cast attired in starched white bonnets, and crisp pinafores over flowered cotton dresses, carrying books.  It never happened.  And then there were no more decorated theme floats.

 

Today there were two that might generously be considered floats.  A moving van company had two life size orange plastic cows on the open bed truck (why cows?), and another truck had very tall lollipops - flat cardboard hand crayoned disks on tall rods - with a lot of happy waving children.  (The very light sprinkling of rain dampened no spirits.) Otherwise it was mostly car after car with a banner across the hood advertising the represented entry.

 

Here comes a procession of Model T (Model A?) cars.  Adorable.  Each one like a shiny toy.  Each proud (elderly) driver honking his horn.  No, it doesn’t sound like a honk.  They sang toot toot.  They really said toot toot, except for one that hollered Ooogah.

 

But the bands.  I love the bands.  They are preceded by an identifying banner with their name and home state.  They are haughty.  They stare straight ahead. Sternly upright. Some bands marching with rigid knees, tiny steps, heel to toe each step.  Others marching with the raised knees and larger steps.  I applaud loudly.

 

The bagpipe bands are wonderful in their skirted costumes.  I noticed the bagpipers were mostly older men, marching strongly.  But look – there are a few young women scattered among them! 

 

Then along came the “hey, we’re only here because this is what we like to do” bagpipers.  They wore any-old-tee shirt, whatever baggy shorts, well-worn gym shoes, socks or not.  No perky hats, of course.  One young man had tight curly hair wide and below the shoulders that seems never to have been caught into a pony tail, others had hair they combed or didn’t.  If you put it in a movie, it would have been comic relief, but they were as intense and dedicated as the costumed marchers.  After my moment of astonishment I applauded them too.  I should mention, the attending crowd was so noisy, no marcher heard my applause but it made me happy.

 

Walking along with the parade were people carrying bags of candy.  They tossed the candy to the crowd, the children prepared with grocery bags to store it.  A group handed out flyers.  I glanced at the one pressed to my hand and gave it back to the girl who followed.  I don’t like to litter.  I did accept two pencils, two pens, and a large plastic clip. 

 

The police car with the whirling lights told us it was over – until next year.  

 

---Florence

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flying Ambulance

He said, “I need to have this book fixed.  It is my most precious possession, my life is in it, everything I’ve ever done is in it.”  He shows me a small oblong book, the front cover and spine pulled away from the pages -  a pad with the cover pulled back and the glue holding the pages together exposed.

“That’s easy,” I say, “some glue will put it together.”  “Elmers?”  “No, there is glue especially for book repair.”  I go to the back and bring back my plastic bottle of glue.  I show him it has the proper PH for paper, and is flexible when dry.   I take his book to fix it.  As I work on his book, I notice it says Flight Plans. 

Turns out, he is a flight medic.  A paramedic on helicopters.  The helicopter being an ambulance in the air.  If there is an accident on a highway that requires a specialty medical center, and there is no hospital with those facilities close by,  a medical helicopter is called in to whisk away the injured person.  The flight medic attends with emergency measures until they arrive at a hospital.  Sometimes our young man is the helicopter pilot, sometimes the medic.

“How did you ever know there was such a job?”  I asked.  He always knew.  It was always his dream.  He attended the University of Pittsburgh, studying emergency medicine.  After graduation he started as a fireman, always working towards his pilot license.  He flew a lot, he said, all kinds of aircraft.

“Where are you based, these medical helicopters, I mean.  Out of O’Hare?”   “Oh, no,” he replies, “O’Hare has too much traffic for emergency response.  We couldn’t get up fast enough.  We are based in Du Page.”  Like the firemen, they work their shifts around a 24 hour schedule.  He loves it.  He’s 26.

This small Flight Plan notebook I am fixing had past flights, and forms for future flights. Now it is glued, and I finish by putting rubber band around the outer hinges and the front edges to hold it secure and tight while the glue dries. He gave me his credit card for the book he selected for his dad while he was waiting for me to repair his book.  I held his Flight Plans book out to him, while I was forming in my mind a gracious reply, “Oh, no charge, I was happy to fix it for you,” when he would ask how much he owes me for the binding repair.  He didn’t ask. 

He didn’t even say, “Thank you.”  He said, “When can I remove the rubber bands?”  Oh well, he’s saving humanity.  But social graces are slowly dying.

---

Florence

 

  

Just a Little Subterfuge

"Not in a black bag," he murmured, as I started to slide his books into it.  "Oh, yes."  I remembered and ran to the back room to get a grocery shopping bag.  The lovely books went into this instead, and he carried them off, happily deceiving his wife again.

Although not common, it does happen that men ask that I disguise their purchase in a grocery bag.  Men.  Never women.  (Women are devious in other ways, but not about books.) 

I remember a young man who collected books for their illustrations.  The illustrators are collectible regardless of the text.  To mention a very few: Arthur Rackham, Edmund Dulac, Willy Pogany, Arthur Szyk, Maxfield Parrish.  His favorite was Rackham, and it was getting pricey because he was moving up to the limited editions.  He came in one day, glowing, and introduced me to his fiancee whom he was marrying next month. 

He looked in his special section, enjoying each book as he turned pages.  The young lady sat in front of my desk without comment.  Did not turn her eyes to the book shelves. My attempts at pleasantries brought no response.  There was no penetrating that stony look.  Big, big mistake bringing her. 

Eventually he brought his selection to the desk.  He chattered enthusiastically about this edition.  She did not ask to see his purchase.  Although I did not detect a wince, I am sure she cringed when she saw him write a check for $400.  I could almost hear her brain snarling, "We could buy a chair for that."  He would never get past her with the grocery bag trick.  Or any other ploy.  He had given himself away.

When the door closed behind them, I called, "It was nice knowing you."  I was right, unfortunately.  He never came back.

Visiting a widow to buy her husband's books, I was informed, triumphantly, that she knew exactly what the books were worth.  He husband was careful to leave the prices in them so she knew their value.    Oh, dear.  It was another case of husband-deception.  The wonderful books had pencilings in them, all in the same (his) handwriting with ridiculously modest pricing.  Dilemma!  How do I pay for them so that she doesn't realize he'd been lying to her and hate him for eternity?  I assured her he bought very cleverly, that the books had increased in value.  I had to do it to assuage my sense of honor. 

Oh, the games we play!

---Florence

Naughty Books

When someone has a few porno books in his house, he is a "dirty old man."  When the porno books are expensive and he has very many, then he is a respectable collector of pornography.  There is a delightful article in Forbes.com about a Virginia dairy farmer who built such a collection, which is now being offered at auction.  Highlighted is Fanny Hill with an estimate of $4000 - $6000, and it isn't even the first edition which came out in 1749.  But this copy has hand-colored naughty pictures.  Look it up.  Forbes.com shows a postage size sample. 

Victorian pornography might make you titter.  Today's pornography often masquerades as Sex Education in color photographs and they are Awful.  I know because I just bought one that was included in a carton with Abraham Lincolniana.  Gross!  Not a bit titillating.  Yuch.  I will hide it like any decent person would, and sell it surreptitiously.

I am reminded of a local auction many years ago.  I went to the preview with my catalogue, and after circling the large room, approached the area sectioned off.  A guard stood near the opening, and cautioned, "You might not want to see this group.  It may not be appropriate for you."  I looked at the catalogue and realized he was protecting me from the pornography.  He looked disapproving as I sauntered in.  I remember being entertained, not shocked.  I didn't bid on anything there.

I did have an adorable pornographic book in the store.  The book was a leather bound book of poetry, with gilt edges all around.  But, ah, when you fanned the pages slightly, there along the fore-edge appeared a painting.  This is called a fore-edge painting, a highly collectible category.  A book scout would make frequent trips to England searching out such books.  This art form was done in the 1800s, but now, again, in England these paintings are being produced.  Not as pricey as the early ones, they are collectible never-the-less.  Hang on to them 100 years or so, and you will be rewarded.

He made an occasional visit to sell them to me.  Mostly they were scenic paintings.  Then he showed me this one.  Our Virginia dairy farmer would have liked this.  It was a farm scene.  The dairy maid was bent over feeding the chickens.  The farmer was behind her playing his fiddle.  Very close behind her.  Closer still.  You got it!  While merrily playing his fiddle.  I burst into laughter and my bookman was relieved.  He had been reluctant to offer it.

It didn't even go to a fore-edge collector, or to a musician.  I sold it to someone whose laugh was even louder than mine.

---Florence

A Delightful Visit

One of my blog readers from LA was in Chicago and came to meet me.  I have a groupie!  It's very exciting, especially since she is an intelligent person with impressive credentials of her own.  Here's the thing - I kept calling her Lucy which isn't her name, and she was much too gracious to embarrass me by correcting me.  Lucy, I am more embarrassed now knowing I spent the afternoon using that made up name!  It does match how adorable you are.

She came in with her giant-size husband.  Not tall enough for basketball, but good for retrieving out of reach books on high shelves.  It was lovely watching them.  They enjoy books.  While looking at the cook books, Lucy (she’s stuck with that name now) said she knew five recipes when they got married, and she panicked on day six.  Her new husband suggested they go to cooking school together, and he loved it and provided sustenance for her while she attended law school. 

Husbands who cook are treasures.  I remember sitting in one daughter’s kitchen while her husband cut and chopped and minced and stirred while happily recounting anecdotes of another day.   The hateful days past when I cooked, my attitude was Don’t talk to me, can’t you see I’m cooking?

In another daughter’s kitchen, one Thanksgiving, three of the young siblings (two male), and mother were preparing the repast as if it were Fun!  There is a cook book called I Hate to Cook, but she was just kidding.  (Thank goodness for the Hot Food section at the local markets.  No, my husband does not know how to cook.  He's terrific at opening a can of tuna.)

I was happy when a customer came into the store while my new friend was visiting.  I would show her my expertise in salesmanship.  The customer wanted a gardening book with color plates for a retirement gift.  Several friends were chipping in, but she was assigned to buy the book.  There were three books that enchanted her.  She kept turning pages, admiring the beautiful flower prints.  Lucy, doing her job as a shill, murmured about the lovely pictures over the lady’s shoulder.  But, overwhelmed, the woman put them aside and said she’d return with her husband.  No sale.  Will she come back?  What’s the expression - I’m not holding my breath.

My fan and her husband chose a book of interest to both - law. We all said Goodbye.  Of course I kissed her.  And smiled the rest of the day.  What a heady experience.  Anyone else?

---Florence

Books with a Bite

He comes shuffling in wearing the usual baggy pants and big smile, "Hi, Florence!"  I never remember his name.  He lives in the Abbott House which shelters adults with mental problems.  This time he went to Erica Jong's poetry book, signed ($12.).  "I love Erica Jong," he said.  He stood there, reading. 

"When I get my Stimulus Package from President Obama, I am going to buy this book."  He grins at me and again I see a big space upper front, and the two teeth lying crookedly in an otherwise almost empty bottom jaw.  A cartoon mouth.  "Use your stimulus money to fix your teeth,"  I advise.

"Is something wrong with my teeth?"  Is he pulling my leg?  I tell him, "Your teeth are terrible.  Your teeth are awful, awful!"  (My Gahd, did I just say that?)  He says, "If I want an honest answer I know where to go."  He continues, "So when I go out, I shouldn't open my mouth?"   Backtracking as fast as I can, I insist, "You must smile.  You have such a cheerful, friendly smile.  Of course you should smile." 

That was last week.  He came in today for his book, handing me $12 his mother mailed him so he could make his purchase.  I talked to him about the Abbott House, and why was he there?  He said he was bi-polar.  "What exactly is bi-polar?" I ask.  He said they used to call it manic-depressive.  I see.  That's the new PC term for an old mental illness.  "Do you get depressed?"  "No, I get manic, real paranoid." He said he got it in the army, during the Viet Nam war.  "How?'  I asked.

"I was in Germany, that's where I was stationed.  I was in a Supply Detail and there should be three people assigned to it, but it was only me.  I never had two more people who should've been with me.  I worked all alone. I couldn't stand the stress."  "How old were you?"  "20."  "Did you ever work before you had this army job?"  "No, that's why I signed up.  I never had a job."   I said, "I can see how this would be too heavy a situation for you to handle."  He said, "That was the first time I broke down.  I'm on army medical disability."  "How old are you?" I ask.  "60."  Wow, that was a surprise.  I thought he was much younger.  He has such a childish openness.  I had thought he was "simple."

"I had breakdowns a lot until I got to Abbott House."  "Are you on medication?"  "Oh, yes.  I am on medication.  I don't get any breakdowns any more."

I said, "Since you are getting army medical aid, why can't they fix your teeth?"  (My fix-ation.)  He said, "They will give me a set of dentures.  I was thinking maybe caps, but they won't do that.  Anyway, I'm 60 years old.  I don't have a wife or children.  I don't even have a girl friend.  I don't think about my teeth."  I nod.  He adds, "You told me spend my money on teeth, but I'd rather spend it on your books."

"Goodbye, Florence,"  he calls from the door with his wide goofy smile and swinging his book in its bag, "I'll be back when I get my Stimulus Package!"

---Florence

A Machine Gone Mad

Well, that was a horrible moment that extended itself to about an hour. 

A man bought two nice books totaling $86.40 including our 8% tax.  I swiped his credit card (there's an ambiguous word - did I steal it or charge it (both, it turned out.)  The charge rang up as 10003.50.  I looked at it aghast.  Ten thousand dollars?

I had never had to reverse a charge and I frantically read all the names of the tiny buttons.  I fed the big number in and hit Cancel.  It canceled this new entry.  I was afraid to try another button.  Here's where they wring their hands in novels and I would too, except I don't know how. 

I called the customer into the office, and said, "Help me find the key that will reverse this $10,000 I just charged to your account by mistake.  I didn't charge it actually, the machine just went crazy."  He looked down and calmly said, "I don't know.  Maybe make a phone call?"  "That's what I was thinking," I agreed.

I know making a phone call means trying to by-pass the mechanical voice.  I know how long it takes.  His wife had stopped by to pick him up, carrying their dachshund, and we had all been playful about the dachshund (when the man patted its stomach it sounded like he was beating a drum.  No fur to muffle the tom-tom.) His wife went outside with the dog for the moment it would take to charge him and bag the books.

He went out to let his wife know he was delayed and he came back as I was hitting, 4, 5, 3, all the time hollering, "Agent", "Assistance", "Help", "Operator".  They kept droning with the numbers.

Luckily, Art came in - it was the end of the day and he was picking me up for dinner and movie - so I introduced the two men and they moved into the book room and sat down in coversation.  My customer was cheery, and calm, and patient.

Finally, the automatic voice gave up in despair and connected me with a breathing person.  I told her that something terrible happened, and she asked for endless information from his card and my card, and then transferred me to another person.  This one recognized my anguish, but went through the whole process again.  She told me to wait, and after a few minutes said she canceled the charge.  She told me to charge the proper amount.  "I can't. I'm scared.  It may run away again."  She told me to 'Go ahead, and swipe the card."  I did, and it worked.

I told this gentle, kind man that it was all taken care of, and we bantered a few minutes and he left. 

The next day I pulled up the balance and there was that glorious 10,000 dollars.  Today, three days later, my account still owns his money.  No refund.

Tomorrow I have to get on the phone again.  Sigh.

---Florence

The Doctor's House Visit

Are you astonished by the heading?  It's true.  A House Visit for medical treatment.  Actually, this house visit was skewed so that I, the patient, went to the doctor's home for medical service.  What a sweetheart!

It started last week when I tripped on the leg of a junior chair at McDonald's.  Earlier, in the parking lot, Natalie said, "You don't have to come out, I'll be right back."  I said, "I'll keep you company."  Always listen to your granddaughter.  Three steps into McDonald's I went flying, landing hard on my knee.  The order counter set-up is in their foyer, the restaurant is through the large arch.  So in front of the counter I lay flopped, the wind knocked out of me.  Natalie said all the right things: 911?  How are you?  Call Dad?  Hurt?

The McDonald employees were nowhere.  I thought, "They are not trained properly."  I said I would wait until the knee stopped hurting and then I would try to get up.  An employee came by and looked.  Another one.  Finally two concerned older employees (manager?) approached.  I told them, too, that I was not ready to stand up.  In a few moments, I indicated to Natalie that she could haul me to my feet.  Not bad.  I asked the men for ice, and one hurried away returning with a sealed plastic bag with cubes that I held against the knee.  Natalie pulled a chair from the dining room for me, running back for another chair to elevate the leg with the icepack. 

"I'm fine.  Get your order."  While waiting, a little girl came up and said in a tiny voice, "If you need help to get to your car, we will help you."  "What's your name?" I asked.  "Mariella." she said.  I said, "Thank you so much, Mariella, that is so, so kind of you, my granddaughter will help, you are very kind.  Thank you so much."

Food in one hand, Natalie maneuvered me to the car, and for the first time I let this competent driver with only a driver's permit put me in the passenger seat while she sat behind the wheel. 

Late the next day, Sunday, I figured the knee was not broken or I would be in pain, but as a precaution I went to the ER.  The doctor hurried in, "Which knee is it?"  I said indignantly, "I have beautiful knees, it's the swollen one."  Xrays showed no break, but the doctor advised I wear this long stiff velcro strapped, rigidly boned wrap around, and said there was tissue involvement, see an orthopedic man in a few days if the swelling doesn't go down.

After a week of walking like a peg-legged pirate, and noting that I still did not have matching knees, I reluctantly emailed my orthopod, who had been the official bone man for the Chicago Bulls, and has two huge trophy rings to prove it.

Darling, I wrote, I have a small problem.

Goddess, he answered, if you can get here right after you close, I will look at it.

So at 5 PM I shot out to his house in the neighborhood, where Art and I had joined them for drinks several times. He prodded, had me walk this way and that, and declared it a severe sprain which would not need surgery.  He held my arm as I walked stiff-kneed back to the car.

I will pay him as peasants did when they brought their doctor a sack of potatoes.  I will present him with a book I know he will love, an early edition of aphorisms. 

Why does he call me Goddess?  Because he is a discerning man.

---Florence

Opera in a Small Shop

How did the subject turn to singing?  He demonstrated how you can Sing, or how you can Sing from your Heart.  This operatic voice filled the shop to overflowing.  He did ask permission to sing before it poured out.  It was from the heart, all right.  Facing me and using the large theatric gestures, he had me completely enveloped in the music and his heart.  If the Italian translated to Run Away With Me, I would have been gone. Two customers holding books stood still watching raptly.

Another typical Saturday at the bookstore.  No, I jest.  Opera is not our usual fare.  Let me introduce you to our tenor, a lyric spinto scuro tenor.  He is one of  “The Three Other Tenors.”  Franco Martorana, age 45, with the barrel shape of an opera singer – but he has lost weight and is working on bringing it down another 15 lbs.  He was wearing shorts, and I remarked on his muscular calves (a little too personal considering I had just met him?), and he told me what I guessed – he is a body builder besides, and those thighs, too, are muscle, only the belly alas is, well, not muscle.  Longish brown wavy hair, a beautiful smile with a lurking dimple.  I digress.

He demonstrated the lyric voice, high and light.  He said he could not sustain that voice through an entire opera, his is the darker tenor, a huge voice.  He is singing to us, arias from different operas to explain the music.  He is wonderfully articulate with a passion for the subject.  He says attendance at the opera world-wide is diminishing.  He thinks the new young management, directors, producers are trying to popularize the performances.  The love scenes are more graphic with nudity, and he described an opening vignette (oh, OK, l’ll tell it – a long row of farmers seated on toilets reading newspapers, and singing.)  He said “they” are vulgarizing opera hoping to make it more attractive to a new audience.

Franco has been trained by coaches whose names he whispers in reverence.  They tell him he has a magnificent voice. 

He auditions (and has performed) all over the map.  Did you know the singer has to pay for an audition?  They not only incur the expense of the trip, but they have to pay for the audition.  It might be from $150 - $500.  He has two agents, the new one, he tells me, is Bob Swan, as if I should recognize the name because of his success as an actor.  “I don’t care if he was a good actor,” I complain, “his job is to sell You, and how is he doing with that?”  Franco is happy with him. 

Our singers, The Three Other Tenors, can be bought.  They sing at events, at parties.  And not opera music if the occasion calls for lighter melodies.  They sing Folk Tunes, and now Franco sings several delightful melodies that I recognize.

The mother in me comes out, “From this you can make a living?”

He says yes, and I’m guessing that having a wife who works as a music teacher (what else?) in the Chicago school system helps a little.  He also tells me, proudly, that he has a patron who underwrites him.  Very appropriate.  Yes, I am impressed. 

The name of their company is Bellissima Opera Productions.  “Italian,” I murmur. “Of course.”  Well, not exactly.  He tells me one of The Three Tenors is Korean. 

The room is still ringing long after he’s gone.

---Florence

The Chrysler Building

He asked, on the phone, whether I still had the book on the Chrysler Building.  He saw it listed on the Internet.  "Beautiful building," I murmured to him, scrambling through my mind for such a book in the store.  A quick look at my data base did not show the Chrysler Building.  But if he saw it listed, it was sitting somewhere.  I asked for his phone number so I could call back after I checked the shelves.  I explained that it might be either with Architecture or in Americana with New York. 

He said, "No, no, I will hold."  I was faking when I said it might be under New York.  I keep trying to organize the Americana.  First we tried alphabetizing the states, and when that didn't work, tried larger sections, The West, The South.  Of course that wouldn't work either.  What if you were holding a book about California but the only space on the wall was on the lower shelf towards the end.  Expediency says you put it in that slot, that of course you will remember it.  So the states slid away.  Memory does too.

We have taken to describing the book in its data base entry.  Short, fat, black, no dust jacket.  Shiny silver dust jacket, chartreuse print.  I like Ann's entries for skinny books or pamphlets.  In private notes she will add, Lots of Luck!  We spent some time looking for a book Ann described as having no print on the spine, poop color.  Not your typical cataloguer.

No, the Chrysler Building was not there.  Neither was it in Architecture.  Back on the phone, I had to admit defeat, I do not have a book called The Chrysler Building.

He said, "You have to have it.  I have been looking for this for 20 years, and it says you have it.  I printed out the listing.  It says, Build Your Own Chrysler Building.  A construction book, heavy cardboard, 9X12."

"Oh, that Chrysler Building."  I turn to see it propped upright on the floor in front of the books. "There it is."  He could have wept for joy.  "Put my name on it, I'll be right in."  That was a bit startling because the orders come in from around the country and around the world.  "Where are you?"  And he mentions a neighboring suburb.  "Isn't that remarkable?" he says, "You are the only one who has it and you are right next door!"

I look at it while I wait for him.  It was published in 1980, one of a series of famous world buildings, and is described as an exact, reduced-scale reproduction.  It gives the history of the building, its special features.  It is on sturdy card stock.  To construct this cardboard building, it says, you must have scissors, glue, X-acto knife.  It would also be helpful, they advise, to have a metal edges ruler, a toothpick, and a rubber band.  To this day, I am trying to figure out the use of the rubber band. 

He came in, caressed the book.  "20 years.  I had them all, the others are all standing.  My dog ate the Chrysler Building.  He's gone too." 

Before he left, he came up to me, and said, "May I?" and embraced me and kissed my cheek.

All this happiness for $30.  I just love this bookstore!

---Florence