Titles, Inc.

An Episode in Seattle

Geographically, Seattle is beautiful but weird.  From nearly any spot, you have a view of the water.  And if you are near the water, looking back you have a view of mountains covered with tall, tall trees. Off in the distance, people are proud to point out, is Mt. Rainier, a ghostly apparition rising from the horizon. 

Downtown seems recognizable as any other city center, except that you turn the corner and the street plunges down.  In outlying neighborhoods, there are the nice houses with their driveways lining the streets, and shortly after you are in the mountains, on winding roads carved through majestic trees, with driveways leading sharply down to the hidden house barely perceived through the forest.

I was visiting my son, newly settled there.  Yes, through his window you can see the water way down below.  I use the generic term "water", because sometimes it is Elliott Bay, and sometimes it is Puget Sound, and sometimes a water-way leading to either.  Maybe with a map I would understand it.

We (Steve, Laura and I) drove onto a ferry to visit Bainbridge Island.  We left the car to stand on deck to enjoy the ride.  We were at the stern and walked through to the bow (I just looked it up) so that we could see the approaching island.  Besides you know how picturesque it sounds when you stand with the wind at your face.  Except when you stand with the wind at your face.  "Let's get outta here!" so they obligingly returned me to where I had the wind at my back, and watched the shore slide by.

Bainbridge is such a tourist town, I loved it!  We spent all our time going through stores to find a gift, preferably a lamp, for their friend.  I assured my hosts I enjoyed shopping especially with a goal.  They rejected every lamp I loved, I said blah to their choices.  They bought an adorable hummingbird feeder, and a delightful, colorful perpetual motion ring-thing.  What lamp?

We ate outdoors and Steve got stung by a bee poised on his finger before either could get a bite of the sandwich.

Even the sandwich tasted better eaten in the state of Washington, and repose.

---Florence

Therapy Offered Here

A young man comes into the store with some regularity, sometimes to make a small purchase, sometimes to talk.  Since he has to take a train from a community about a half hour away, I asked him what brings him to Highland Park. 

He said he goes to the hospital, to the mental health clinic.  "Are you crazy?" I ask in wide-eyed wonderment.  I know whatever he answers to that will be much diminished in drama. "No," he answers, not horrified by the question, "Depression."  "Really?" I say, truly surprised, "You seem so solid, so grounded." 

We then have a two person group session, and guess what, his mother and father play a big role.  I have to admit he blames them, properly, for smoking in the house when he was such an asthma sufferer.  "They stuffed me with pills that made me as ill as the asthma."  I couldn't argue with his harboring anger with them for that - but in those days it might have been ignorance.  However, as a mother I was feeling very defensive about the rest of his complaints against his deceased mom. 

I matched him anecdote for anecdote.  I know I felt much better by the time he took his departure. He still needs some more sessions.  Let's see if he observes my first directive for changing his life: Get a Job!

---Florence

Another Book Boomerang

A young man selected a fat book about American slang,  and when I opened it to find the price I saw the former owner's name in ink.  Some people are reluctant to buy a book with a name already in it, so I qualified it by saying, "This was a very prominent Chicago lawyer.  He was Saul Bellow's lawyer, and Nelson Algren's." 

He looked at the name, seeing it for the first time, and said, " I know him!  He was my grandma's husband!"  I puzzled over that statement, then recalling the lawyer and his sequential wives, I understood why the young man did not say, "That's my grandpa!"

He was delighted with the coincidence.  "I must tell my grandma I have his book.  I wonder what she will think when she sees his handwriting."  My immediate thought is she'd be glad she outlived him.

He asked how I got the book.  I told him I was invited to the house to buy his books after he died. 

He said, looking at the book in hand, "But he died so long ago."

"Yes," I told him, "sometimes it takes that long until the exactly right person comes in to buy the book."

---Florence

Another Nice Customer

Sometime ago a young man came into the shop with a young girl.  He drifted around pulling some books, but settled in front of the poetry section.  The girl, maybe 15, just sat patiently in the chair near the desk. 

Finally he brought his purchases to me, and writing them up, I observed, "You like poetry." 

"Yes."

I asked, "Do you write poetry?" 

"Yes." 

I asked, "Have you been published?" 

"Yes." 

I say, delighted for him, "And would I have read any?'  He looks at me, considering.  Finally says, "No."  All this time the girl is snickering.  I don't get the joke.  I politely take his credit card, and make note of his name.

They leave, and I get on the phone to my son.  "Richard," I say, "A customer just left. Should I know William Corgan?"

"Billy Corgan was in your store?" he screams. 

"So who is Billy Corgan?" I ask stupidly. (Blame it on my generation.)

"Smashing Pumpkins!!!!" 

"Oh," I said.  Even I heard of them.

The next time Billy walked in, I said, "I know who you are."  He laughed.  He occasionally dropped by and we did not talk music.  Maybe because I told him I didn't understand his.

His poetry book had just come out, and he asked whether I would like to have him sign at the shop, and he'd do a small performance, and we would charge $50 and give it all to a local charity.  He had already had two signings.  "And how many people showed up?"  He said about 1500.  I looked at my tiny store, and said, "I have an idea.  The Suburban Fine Arts Center is across the street.  We can sell the book here, you sign over there, and you perform there.  And they get the money."

He gave me his agent's name to set it up.  I got Billy's limited schedule, only to find that the SFAC had events scheduled on all his available nights.  We never had the signing.  Well, my book is signed.  But don't ask me to recite from it.

---Florence

Drum and Toot

You don't have to go far to be entertained.  Yesterday a very tall, very skinny man came into the shop, shouldering two large bulky back packs.  He said he had attended to some business in Highland Park, and could he look around until his train left? 

Sure.  I indicated his back packs, and I didn't say You look like you're running away from home, but made mention of the ungainly bulk he was lugging.  He immediately set it down, and unzipped the large circular one, and it was a drum.  The shallow kind with a rather small drumstick tucked inside.  I remarked that the drumstick had two heads and did he strike with both ends?  He sat down and beat a wonderful marching rhythm that made me want to strut around the room. 

My wild enthusiasm prompted him to reach inside to extract a case of tin whistles.  Removing one, he played beautifully on it.  "What a delightful sound.  Is the whistle ever used in an orchestra?'  He told me it was popular for Irish music, and played another tune.  Yes, I could hear its Irish voice.  He packed it away.

His tee shirt said Yoga, so we discussed that for a while.  He said he doesn't sit on chairs, and demonstrated, sitting on the floor in the half-lotus position, very erect.  He said it helps your posture.  Baloney, I thought, "Either you got it, or you don't."  But he did sit that way as he circled the room looking at the lower shelves which are too often ignored.  It's not easy for a normal person to fold himself over to look that far down.

As he was getting up and collecting his encumbrances, a friend/customer came in, and I said, loudly, "You missed a beautiful musical session," nodding at our musician.  Whereupon the man stopped, unzipped the case and removed a larger whistle and tooted a lively song.

We applauded, he packed up, and promised to return.

I don't have to go to Musicales - the music comes to me.

---Florence