Titles, Inc.

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