Titles, Inc.

Spooky #2, Or Is It 3? 4?

She said it, not me.  "Weird."

Can you take still another story that's a variation on a theme?  A lady came in to ask whether I know a binder.  She has an old family Bible that is falling apart and she wants to save it.  I gave her the card of a local binder.  She was grateful and tucked it in her purse.  Then she looked around.  "I love books," she said. "I loooove books," she said.  She walked to the back wall that has the leather bindings, reciting her mantra, "I love books."  Silence.  "How much is this?"  "That's a two volume set, the price is in volume one."  I showed her.  "I'll take it." 

It was Montaigne.  "I have been looking for Montaigne.  Not actively looking.  I hoped I would come upon it.  And here it is.  I just walked straight up to it.  With all these books on the wall I walked straight up to Montaigne."

She took her package, and I walked with her towards the door, while she picked up the refrain, "I love books."  She stopped, and reached up, stretching for a fat old tan leather book, a tiny bit shabby, no print left on the spine.  She said, "I'm studying French. I should be looking for books in French."  She pulled it down, and opened it.  It was a French/English dictionary.

She looked at me.  "Weird," she said.   "I only came in for the name of a binder."  She repeated, "Weird." 

"I know."  I said.

---Florence

Snow

The new heavy snowfall is "a thing of beauty" but not "a joy forever" because it will melt, drip, turn dirty grey.  (I know, you spell it with an A, but I learned it with an E and besides it looks more grey with an E).  If you can forget that the beautiful snowfall will lock your car in the driveway, or send the car skidding on the street, or make you slide onto your backside then it is indeed beautiful.

This morning I looked out at the magnificent scene and it was breathtaking.  The ground was white and the trees were covered with snow.  Where a branch bent it held an overflowing cup of snow.  The art of it emerged.  It was gorgeous because it wasn't all white.  The trunks were white on one side with the sharp contrast of the black stripe on the untouched other half.  And the branches piled high with snow showed black on the delicate bare undersides. The threading of the dark branches flowing and curving throughout the mass of white turned it into an etching.  It was hard to leave the window.

Bundled in that big furry coyote coat, I walked out to my igloo of a car.  I had to demolish that art work so that I could peer out the windows and watch the continuing beauty of the snow as I drove to work.

---Florence

What If....

The end of this little episode will telegraph itself before we get there, so I will say Spooky right now.

A lovely young lady in the shop said to me in a whispery voice (and there are a lot of whisperers out there, never mind that I wear hearing aids, it’s still your fault, so I got pretty good at lip reading) that she thought she should come back to tell me about the book she had bought here.

She reminded me that she had come in (because she happened to be in this town for her job that one day) to ask whether I had The Poky Little Puppy.

 

(Everyone has read The Poky Little Puppy. Right? Next sociological study – why did that story of all the Little Golden Books catch every child’s imagination?)

She wanted to buy it as a nostalgic gift for her older sister who always loved it. I did not have that one. I had The Poky Little Puppy’s Naughty Day. There are four Poky Puppy titles, this one being incredibly scarce. She told me that even though it wasn’t the one she wanted, she thought that the name Jennifer already scrawled in the box, This Book Belongs To…. might amuse her sister, Jennifer.

When her sister opened the gift, she screamed, “This is my book!!!!!!!!!”

Is that marvelous, or what? What if her job had not brought her to town that day? What if she did not need a gift? What if she hadn't noticed my shop?

Or, what if I had the book she asked for: The Poky Little Puppy?

---Florence

Sunday Morning Non-Service

Sunday morning, Art was the program speaker at the Ethical Humanist Society of Chicago, in the suburb of Skokie.  It was a very engaging slide show with commentary.  I especially enjoyed the appreciative response from the audience, and their immediate laughter at the subtle humor of the projected photos.

When we arrived, early so that the equipment could be readied, the first people coming into the auditorium were certainly seniors.  Those that followed were seniors.  I sat in the front row, and turned to watch the sparse arrivals, and noticed the man behind me had already fallen asleep without being lulled by the speaker.  Shortly before the program was to begin, a burst of attendance.  Young people, some with children, some with babes in arms soon filled the room. 

(Project for a sociology paper:  Is it typical for the elderly to be early, and the young people to arrive exactly on time or a bit delayed?  Do we care?)

The program started with two members, guitar and mandolin playing a song about friendship, with the children singing lustily along.  After the song, the children were accompanied to their Sunday school class.  I had asked a little girl earlier whether she was learning Bible stories.  She said, "We learned about Martin Luther King, and then we made craft projects about him."  I was starting my own education about Ethical Humanism.

The ringing applause that greeted the introduction of the speaker brought the snoozer to the alert.  I turned back in my chair to enjoy the program.  I know all the photos and the stories behind them, and I still react with pleasure.  (Loyal wife!) The follow-up questions brought something new to the discussion.

Afterwards, to the refreshment room where we were set-up with a table and chairs so that members could meet Art and buy a signed copy of his latest book (Nelson Algren's Chicago).  A young lady invited us to join them at lunch in a local Moroccan-Israeli restaurant.

While we were eating this delicious food (I recognized the hummus), it was my turn to ask the questions.  My first question was Is the Ethical Humanist Society a religion?  A man and his wife answered at the same time: she said No, he said Yes.  His explanation was that it is a religion about no religion. 

More questions gave me to understand that they believe in Deed before Creed.  They join for a sense of community.  While there are officers and a board of directors, there is no leader.  Money to support the society is through pledges and donations.  Their heritage might have been any religion (I was discussing this with a young man of Polish heritage, raised Catholic, and a member also of The Center for Inquiry, their membership being largely in the sciences.)  The Ethical Humanist members have no religious affiliation now, it is humanistic, secular.  Atheist and agnostic are two more words that come to mind.

They reminded me that Jane Addams had been a member of the Ethical Humanist Society.  I asked about their professions: Production of commercial and industrial videos specializing in sound, teaching English to foreign students at Truman College, retired doctor, physicist, school psychologist, retired teacher.  A mix you will find in any traditional congregation. 

I told them I thought it was intellectually bold to be an Ethical Humanist, but I'd be afraid to take the step.  I think G-D would be annoyed with me.  They understood.

---Florence

Where Was the Editor

For the growing list of Where Was the Editor:

From Stephen Cannell's ludicrously lurid Final Victim, a story about a multiple personality psychotic killer - well, the lady helping to solve the crime says he is not psychotic, he is a psychopath, a fine psychological distinction.  However if the killer surgically cuts up the body to save some parts, I prefer the old-fashioned psychological term: he's wacko out of his gourd crazy.   

A minor character in the book gets a package, she unwraps it carefully.  "A human hand fell onto the purple shag.  It had been severed at the wrist and it lay there...." 

"Tashay Roberts stared at the hand and then slowly picked it up....  She looked at it carefully."  And then a long paragraph as she tries to decide what to do with it.  She doesn't know whether to give it to her boyfriend to whom it was addressed, or to the county sheriff, who was her first boyfriend, and was also her step-father.  (You can see the character development here.) 

The writer continues, "She looked at the hand, which was lying on the shag, fingers up."  No way, lady, you already picked it up and examined it. 

This is not worth writing about, except that I am getting impatient with the carelessness of professional writers.  Yet, it's fun to find these glitches.  You can get high on that feeling, "I'm smarter than you are."

It's a Mystery

The telephone voice said, "I am calling from England."  Unstated was the message, drop everything and listen to me.  Responding like a trained puppy, I dropped everything, took the phone out of earshot of the customers I was chatting with, and said, "Yes?"  He asked about a Sax Rohmer book of mine he had seen listed on the Internet.  I checked my database, which did list it, but I explained that I like to have it in hand to be sure it was still in the store, and can he hold?  He held, and I rushed to the shelf with six books by the Fu Manchu author.  Yes, I had The Golden Scorpion.

"Are you sure it is a first?"  I assured him it was - it said First Published 1919.  "Does it look like an old book?"  "No, no," I assured him.  "It's clean and the golden-yellow print on the cover and spine are fresh and bright."  "So, it's a new book?"  I repeated that it was an old book from 1919, but it looked like new.  He was suspicious, "How do you know it is from 1919 if it looks like new?"  Patiently, I explained that the binding, the paper, the print had the look of a book published at that time, but it had been treated well and still looked fresh. 

He gave me his charge card and mailing address, and it turns out he's a prominent British book dealer, obviously used to dealing with idiots who list on the Internet.  Or he's the idiot, himself.   

The temperature was something like zip outside, but we had a lively flow of customers who chatted with each other: a CEO who mountain climbs and has brought back admirable pictures of himself on the heights, a scholarly head librarian of a not-too-distant library, and his fund-raising wife, a building custodian with his real estate management wife, a non-identified man.  I apologized for leaving them, and showed them the Sax Rohmer book, which they all admired.  They made their purchases (not everyone), and drifted out.

A few minutes later a man and woman came in.  He looked around vaguely, and asked:

Do you have any Sax Rohmer?

Now, if I were writing a movie script, would you have believed that?  I gaped at him.  "Uh, yes, I have a nice group of them. Here are five more.  I, uh, just sold one."   He chose two.  "What did you sell?"  I brought out The Golden Scorpion, and he groaned.  "I need that one."   Unhelpfully, I said, "If you had only come in a half hour ago...."  He turned to his wife, "We shouldn't have stopped for coffee."

Well, never mind that.  Think of this.  Who names their baby Sax?  Sax, stop playing with that chord, you'll choke yourself.  Sax, watch out - look sharp!  Sax, stop hitting your sister, Viola.  Hey, this might be fun!

---Florence

Closed and Closed

Our nephew was visiting from London, and we chose to meet at Wolfgang Puck's in Evanston as we had done at his last visit almost a year ago.  We chose to take a "long cut" going south on a suburban road that curves and turns and is also slowed by speed limits.  But you are constantly moving which beats the stop-and-go of the unpredictable expressway.  I had set the GPS which tried frantically to revert us to the expressway at every intersection.  You'd think it would figure out our chosen route and proceed from there.  At one point it stopped talking to us entirely.  I reset it, thinking now it would recognize our alternative route.  To the end it was hollering, Recalculating!

We find a parking space on the street near the restaurant and congratulate ourselves on our good luck.  As we approach the place we see it looks dark.  "It looks closed," Art says.  "It's Wednesday night, it won't be closed."  It was.  Not only closed but Out-Of-Business.  We stare at the sign, remembering the bustling, noisy, crowded place of not so long ago.

Art waited for our guest in the doorway, while I scurried for warmth a few doors away in World Market.  I sat in a display chair watching the door for their arrival, and watching the activity through those doors as people left with packages.  And Wolfgang Puck was closed.

I rejoined Art in his vigil, and along came nephew, who stopped in front of the Closed sign, astonished, but annoyed too that they hadn't indicated their closure on the Internet where he had looked up the address.

We conferred, and decided on the Brazilian restaurant as our next choice.  My first choice, really, with the endless parade of different meats on spits: beef, lamb, veal, prepared this way and that, and sliced directly onto your plate.  And all this after you had visited the most varied salad bar ever.  It was a block away so off we went.

We arrived at the blacked out door.  Closed.  Out-Of-Business.  Two for two.  Instead of taking counsel about our next choice we stepped into the Thai restaurant nearby.

I said, "With all the high rise condos going up, and all the new office buildings, you'd think all the new occupants could keep these two favorite restaurants going."  Mark said, "Do you know that all those new spaces are occupied?"  "Hmmm.  No, I do not know.  They could be empty too." 

We puzzled over the problem in specific, the economy in general, and worried, until the food arrived.

---Florence

Over the Ocean III

Do you know, everybody has been to Paris?  Raise your hands.  You too?

I bring it up in the shop when making small talk with a customer.  A show-off thing, my husband this great photographer is having a one-man show in Paris....  And everybody tells me about their trip to Paris, or - get this - their apartment in Paris. 

I told the man with the apartment about being advised to ask for tap water, and he said, "Yes, you must. The tap water in Paris tastes great.  I don't know why, but their tap water is delicious."  So now I will order it, not because I am cheap (frugal, frugal), but because it is delicious.  He said, "Ask for de l'eau."  And everyone advises about his favorite neighborhood with a hotel room looking out at the Seine, the Eiffel Tower, the Left Bank, Notre Dame.

I gave up hitting the Internet hotel sites.  I found a recommended hotel and looked at all its listings.  It seemed absolutely charming, and only $200 a night (frugal, frugal).  I looked at each of its entries, finally finding one with a picture of a typical room.  The double bed touched the wall at the head and foot.  Really,  there was no space at the foot of the bed to walk around it.  First one in has to scramble across the bed to get to the far side. 

I gave up my independence and relinquished control.  I e-mailed the charming Frenchman at the Galerie Albert Loeb, and said, "Find us a room near the gallery."

I just got the answer, "Of course, and with pleasure dear Florence."  Oh, those Frenchmen.  I'm falling in love already.  Unless I have to crawl across the bed to get to the other side.

---Florence

Over the Ocean II

Oh, all right.  You world travelers have convinced me - we must fly to Paris Non-Stop.  Especially when Birgitta heard they had allowed us only 40 minutes to change planes in Zurich.  She threw a fit heard all the way here in Chicago.  It took another two days to cancel and retrieve the Mileage Plus miles, and to book the new flight to Paris.

The confirmation came through, followed by another email that said the credit card was rejected.  The next day at the shop, I got on the phone to tell them it was perfectly good card.  I'm no good understanding the voice from India, and he had as much trouble with my perfectly clear Brooklyn accent.  After holding forever while he investigated my claim, he came back to say Yes, sorry, their mistake, he will now let his supervisor know, and please continue to hold.

I am holding the phone to my ear, and chatting with a customer, explaining this interminable wait for the voice to return, and the man says, "You should use the Speaker so you can put the phone down," so I give him another hand set, and he shows me, "See?"   OK folks, you know what happens next.  Right.  He disconnects me.  I didn't know whether to cut my wrists or his.  But he is so horrified, that I assure him, "No problem."

When he leaves, I repeat the process.  This new person insists the card is bad, asks for another number, so I give him mine.  He tells me my credit card has also been rejected.  Completely out of patience, I hiss, "Impossible, I just this minute used it, it's fine. You check it again. I will hold until you find out it is a good card."   Bullied, he backed off, and in a few minutes accepted my card.

The e-mail confirmation that followed lists Art's "rejected" card number, not mine.   

Today I asked for an upgrade to business class using our Mileage Plus miles.  Nope, they do not upgrade on discount fares.  So what else is new. 

Now all I have to do is find a Paris hotel for us.  I started to look at prices.  I'm nauseous. 

But here's a happy piece of information from a recently returned Paris tourist.  She said, "Save hundred of dollars the week you are in Paris.  Ask for tap water."  I forgot the word she taught me, but I can pantomime turning on the faucet.

---Florence

Over the Ocean

That was exhausting.  I was on the phone trying to use my United Plus Miles to take us to Paris in April, two months from now.  I had used the Internet to find the flights I wanted, but used the phone to make the reservations.

When I was connected to the International agent, I told him the flights I had chosen.  He said they were not available.  "What do you have in that approximate time frame that is available?"  I interrupted when he started to recite a flight landing in Zurich, continuing to Paris.  "No, no," I told him, "I want non-stop."  "There is no non-stop available."  "Look for a flight a day or two earlier, or one day later.  I want only non-stop."  Nothing.  I asked, "Are all your non-stop flights completely booked?"  He told me something that astonished me.  "There are no non-stop flights for Mileage Plus tickets." 

Outraged, I hung up, and ran upstairs to rant to Art about how unfair the system is, expecting equal indignation from him.  Art, a veteran flier, said, "Just get the tickets.  The idea is to get us to Paris."

I ran downstairs, phoned again, cut through the automated directions by saying, "Agent", hoping I would get a different person who would deliver a better response.  A new voice.  I repeated my request.  He said, "We have no available flights that day."  Resigned, I said, "OK, how about one-stop."  He repeated, "We have no available flights that day."  "Yes, you do," I refrained from screaming, "You have a flight with a stop in Zurich."  "No, I don't show anything."  Screaming, but only a little, I said, "I just spoke to another agent and he told me about Zurich," and I gave him all the flight times I, luckily, had written down.  "Did you put a hold on it?"  "No, I had to consult with my husband. It was not even five minutes ago."  He said, "Just a minute."  And a minute later, he said, "Would you like a flight to Paris with a stop at Zurich, returning the same way?" 

Knowing when I was ahead, I said, "Yes, please."  And now he reserved the exact flight I had refused five minutes earlier which he said was not available.  I am completely bewildered.  But this is what I think: It is a ploy to make you extremely grateful for the flight you really didn't want in the first place.

You know, of course, the April in Paris trip is to visit the Albert Loeb Galerie which will be showing,  starting with the grand opening on April 12th, the photographs of Art Shay.