Titles, Inc.

The Mystical Book

My professional book association (ABAA), Antiquarian Booksellers Association of America, has been running a chat line of weird experiences concerning book buying. One man said he went to a book store while visiting in Fiji and bought back a book he had long ago sold to his local collector.

It brought to mind a couple of sales in my store.  A lady wanted to buy an early arithmetic book, a soft cover she had used in her fourth grade, to show the contrast to her daughter’s current curriculum. I looked at the women -– about 50 years old. I said, “Sorry, I don’t carry any school books, and no soft covers, none at all.” If I don’t see a market for a book, it doesn’t take up shelf space. I do buy odd-ball books that appeal to me personally, thinking someone else might share my quirky taste, and it works.

She wandered around, and returned to the desk with a floppy book, and says. “Here it is.”  I stare at the arithmetic book in her hand, astonished. What!!! I was speechless. I wrote it up, dumbfounded. She said, “Thank you,” and left.

Another time. A chatty lady walked in, an out-of-towner visiting for a wedding.  She said after kissing all those cheeks, she shoots out to her favorite stores when she travels, collectible book stores.  Drifting around, she reminded herself, “My sister had a favorite girl’s series book.  She loved the first in the series, and I try to find it.”  An obscure series, I don’t remember the name, but I did have one.  Only the second in the run.  She said, “OK, why not.”

I got a phone call from her a few days later. She said, “My sister screamed when I gave her the book.  She pushed it in my face, and said See, see, it’s MY book, here’s my name!” It went all the way home to Oregon.

You can’t get this with a Kindle.  God bless books.

---Florence

 

Hoity Toity Salon

I have been thinking forever of having a Salon in the shop. I’ve even named it in my mind: The Third Thursday Salon. I think it has a poetic turn to it, not to mention a reminder of when to tidy up and get the food out. I planned on having this intellectual group exchange pithy ideas (no politics please), philosophical thoughts, wisdom useful to us all. Maybe it was the tidying up part that kept me from this daydream.

Actually these same people don’t wait until that special Thursday to show up. But we don’t discuss smart things. We talk about how things are going with us. Like this really hot guy whose girlfriend drives him nuts. She’s either loving or mean. I tell him to dump her. He came in enraged one day: “That’s it! No more! I told her we’re through. I don’t need this abuse.” Good for him. Weeks later he had to tell me: “Don’t be surprised when you see Maggie at my birthday party. She told me she really loves me.” Yuch. Dumb men.

My lawyer/customer/visitor chats about everything except law. But he did discuss a case with me, and I felt very respected when he turned to me for help. He needed the identity of a local garage owner whose mechanic forgot to screw down the motor of his client’s car. Unfortunately the motor dropped out while she was driving. I read enough mystery novels to know how to solve a crime. I phoned City Hall and the Chamber of Commerce, but by golly, they did not know who owned that garage. This called for subtle maneuvering. I asked the service man at the station where I gas up. He didn’t know, but he asked another service manager and this chain continued until the hidden owner was revealed. The lawyer regarded me as another Miss Marple and I loved it. Then he came up with a new assignment. He asked me to find another elusive person. When I heard the name I said Fuggedaboudit. Even I recognized that name as Mafia.

Well, yes, I do have a guest who buys philosophy books and discusses them. Unexpectedly perhaps, he’s a major sports figure. He doesn’t hang out with members of the team: “All they want to do is talk about sports. I play the game. It’s not my life.” I like to listen to his philosophical ideas, but I got outraged and argumentative when he said there is no such thing as Love – it is all lust. I didn’t suggest that his recent divorce might have colored his judgment. I insisted there was Love. Every argument I offered, like what about parent to child, he had a substitute word for Love. When he got up to leave, I stretched up to hug and kiss him, our goodbye ritual. I said, “I am not accepting what you say. I love you.” He said, “I love you, too.” And we both laughed.

On reflection, it seems urgent to have these social visits to keep from being overtaken by texting. Let’s keep the pleasure, artfulness, joyfulness, intimacy of Conversation alive.

---Florence

But It’s So Old!

He was a cocky little fellow, about 12 years old, strutting to my desk at the far end of the shop. His mother followed timidly behind. He thrust a book at me, and said, “This is an old, and very valuable book.” I’m pleased when children show an interest in books, so I took the time to educate him.

It was a book of poetry by an author who may have been loved in his day, but is unknown today. I said, kindly, “I’m afraid there wouldn’t be any interest in this book because the author isn’t remembered today.” “Just because you don’t know him doesn’t mean nobody else knows him.” Uh oh. “Look,” I said, “See? On the title page? This book was printed in 1881, but the copyright here on the back says 1879. So this is a later printing. Collectors like first editions, the earliest printing.” “But it’s so old”, he insisted. I tried a different approach. “This book is very shabby, see - the spine is beat up, worn away at both edges, and the covers are hanging loose. The condition of the book is very important when we are considering value.” He scoffed, “When it’s this old what do you expect?” “I expect it to look like new,” I scoffed right back.

He said, “I took it to another lady who sells books, and she told me it was very valuable.” Holding my temper with difficulty, I continued the lesson. “See the title page? It says complete in four volumes. This is volume three. Do you have the other volumes?” knowing the answer before I heard his “No.”

“Well.” I said triumphantly, “If you had an antique table with only one leg, it would no longer be a valuable antique.” “Yes, it would. I’d have three matching legs made for it.” “It would no longer be a valuable antique,” I repeated.

He insisted. “That lady told me it is very valuable.” Losing my cool, I said a bit loudly, “So why didn’t she buy it?” He said, “It’s not for sale. I just want to know how much it’s worth, and You Don’t Know Anything!”

That did it. Outraged, I used the silent movie gesture swinging my arm across my body in a full motion and pointed to the door. “OUT,” I screamed. He stood there, his mother tugging at his shirt. “OUT,” I repeated, arm rigidly pointing. He moved backward, reluctantly, calling, “You can’t throw me out, my father’s a lawyer, we’ll sue you, we’ll sue you! You don’t know anything!”

My sympathies for the mother.

---Florence

Men, Teach Your Wives

Yes, men teach your wives arithmetic before they become your widows.

A phone call from a widow explained why I hadn’t seen the husband/customer for a while. He was deceased. Would I be interested in buying his books? Yes.

It was a very large ranch-style house with a full-size basement stretching the length of the house. Racks of bookcases filled the room, library style, with only enough room for a person to slide sideways between the stacks. He collected the sciences and medical books. Although not spectacular, I wanted them all, well, not all –- there were “popular” books in the mix.

I knew I didn’t have storage space for the huge quantity I was planing to buy. I pulled out a grouping of books. I said: “I will come regularly and buy a large group of books. Now, I will give you $100 each for the books in this stack and $50 each for this stack.” She said, “Oh no, I know he paid twice that for some of them.” Did I want to explain why a dealer does not pay retail? She said, “I have another name to call.” I asked her to call me and let me know how it went and I would be happy to come back.

She phoned me, triumphant, a few days later. “I got $ 7,000. He bought 1,000 books. He went right out and came back with a truck!!!!” I was stunned. I said, “You sold your books for $ 7.00 each.” “No,” she said shrilly, “$7,000.”

Slowly, I said,” If one book is $7 then 10 books are $70, 100 books $700, 1,000 books $7,000.” Long pause. I waited. “Well,” she said, “I got $ 7,000.” I said, pleasantly, “OK. You’ve established the price at $7.00 each. Do you have any books left? I can come back and buy the left-overs for $7 each.” She said that would be all right. I asked who bought her books. I did not know the man, but I called him immediately.

I told him I had seen the books and it was a heck of a deal for 1,000 books. He chortled, "1,000 books? I got much more than 1,000 books. She liked that number. I just kept loading the truck.” I told him there were several medical books I wanted to buy from him and I could wait until he unloaded the truck. He told me that they were all gone. He said he stopped at every dealer on his way back to Michigan, and unloaded the entire truck. He said, “There was no dickering. I couldn’t lose.” I don’t remember him. I didn’t want to remember him.

(I did learn something important from him though which fits into the lesson: Men teach your wives arithmetic. If you tell the seller, “I will give you $10 each for these books” it sound cheap. If you say, "I will give you $100” for the same group, it sound like real money.)

Back at the widow’s house, I searched through the remaining books. He knew what he was doing. Left were the commonplace books and lots of scholarly paper pamphlets. I took the pamphlets, many of which are still on my shelves and reduced down to $7.00.

--- Florence



So What’s On Your Mind?

Even after 35 years in the bookshop, I am still having a good time. By now it is as much a social venue as a commercial bookstore. People drop in to visit. Out-of-towners come in to revive the old friendship. Sometimes people even stop in to buy a book. And I stop talking long enough to write up your sale.

If you wander in, you are fair game. We discuss your shoes, your health, your occupation. A young man sitting opposite me at my desk with his purchase had an unkempt beard. “Your beard is a mess,” I berated him. “You have a fine face, great angles, the beard does you a disservice.”  (You can get away with a lot when you are an “older” person – they are reluctant to kick you in the shins.) The next week this very handsome young man comes in and, by golly, yes, he shaved it all off. “I think you are right,” he says, “everyone tells me I look good, and, actually, I like seeing my face again.”  I was flabbergasted.  

There is something about a bookshop, I think, that puts you in a comfort level. People reveal problems with children, parents, mates, the job. And it’s not hands off here. I tell everyone who looks needy how to live his life. 

Here’s a weird coincidence. After writing the above yesterday, a man came into the store and reminded me that he had stopped by about five years ago. After some small talk, he said, “I had to come in to thank you for your excellent advice.” I have no idea what my excellent advice had been, but he was beaming as though I surely remembered so I didn’t ask. Now he said he’s thinking of relocating out west. His father died, and left him and his three sisters a house in Montana.

There was a question mark in his voice, and I automatically fell into my role with my response. He considered, and slowly said, “That’s a Very Good Question.” This exchange followed several more times until I realized he had deliberately come in to ask for a new direction to his life. I just kept throwing questions at him until he could figure out what he wanted to do. Then, an obvious question.

I asked, ”What are your three sisters planning to do with this house you all just inherited?  Maybe you should find out before you cross the country to move in?” Pause. He answered, “That’s a Very Good Question.” We left it at that.

I should add another line in gold onto my window: Consultation and Therapy Inside.

--- Florence

 

Documentary in the Works

A documentary on Nelson Algren was filmed at Titles in Highland Park. At least a portion of the film. Being interviewed were ME, Art Shay (again) and surprise!, rock star Billy Corgan (Smashing Pumpkins).

Me first. They had to move the huge light stand to get my wheelchair in position. “Don’t look at the camera,” cautioned interviewer and producer Michael Caplan, Associate Professor and an Associate Chair of the Film & Video Department at Columbia College. “Address your answers to me.” Good advice – when I see Art’s camera aimed at me, I direct my most beguiling smile to this lens.

Since Nelson Algren hung out at our house long ago, Caplan was looking to me for some human interest. The first answer set the tone of our interview and was not what he was anticipating. He asked, “What was Nelson’s personality like?” “Personality?” I repeated. “He didn’t have one.” Mike baffled, just looked at me. I said “He didn’t have a Presence.” When he came to the house, we didn’t say, “oh look, Nelson’s here. He was just there.”

I had a few anecdotes to relate: Nelson shows up to join us at a party we will be going to. He asks, “Is this alright? I couldn’t find a belt.” He was referring to the rope through the belt loops. For Nelson it was alright. Do you think I’d let Art out with a rope?

Then Art, who has had two books published about Algren, “Nelson Algren’s Chicago,” and the second one, “Chicago’s Nelson Algren’s.” (No comment about the publisher’s choice of title on the second book – don’t get me started) was interviewed again with new questions.

Then Billy Corgan sat in the chair under the big lights. He had read all of Algren’s books and discussed them and how they related to his own life and this music. He discussed Nelson’s place in literary history. He spoke fluidly, explaining Nelson and his works.

We listened in awe at the scholarship of his presentation.

Thank goodness that’s not the Bily I know. The Billy I know buys books and chats. This other Billy is intimidating.

--- Florence

What About Rent?

The ladies in the store said yes, they hired this very nice young man I recommended. Not only is he a University of Chicago graduate who worked in the U of C library, but he is Lauren’s friend’s son.

He fills in on days a lady can’t come in and it works out fine. Unfortunately he can only help out until he has to leave for his real job. He’s very excited about it. And what is it? A not-for-profit organization. Acting in a motherly fashion instead of a reporter, my first question was not “which organization,” but instead I asked sharply ,“Are you getting paid?” He said “Not much plus food stamps.” Food stamps used as currency? Well, why not. Everybody eats. Oh yes, the organization is AmeriCorps.

---Florence

Rehab. I Love Detective Fiction.

When I left for the hospital I put a paperback in my coat pocket.  It was many, many days until I tried to read it. The paperback is too heavy to hold.

Bonnie cracks it in the middle and cuts it in two.  I try one half.  More manageable.  Can’t focus or can’t concentrate.  I slowly make my way through it.

And realized reluctantly that the Kindle might have a rightful place after all.  Larger type, no reluctant pages to turn and fold back.

My problem would be loading it with reading material.  For my entertainment I read detective fiction of all kinds, police procedurals, law and the courtroom, who-done-its.  I read fast and discard them.  Our local library sells paperbacks at their book sale 10 for $1.00 so I fill up grocery bags.  If I’ve already read it, it gets donated back anyway.  I was at a garage sale one Sunday.  There was a carton of paperback mysteries “$.10 a piece if you take away the carton.”  Done.   So I still have a reserve and would reluctantly pay $’s just for the Kindle’s convenience.  I can’t remember when I bought a paperback at retail.  And me in the book business.

---Florence

Rehab. Dreaming of Mexican Books.

I had chemo in the morning and I can’t fall asleep. I consider asking for the sleeping pill, but I am on the edge of sleep and it is pleasant. It’s quiet, not a restless turning. Very quiet and I am writing blogs in my mind, entertaining, witty. I consider reaching for the pad and pen to write a key word, but I don’t want to arouse myself from the quietness. It’s enough that I am telling myself these amusing stories (of course I remember not a one).

Then I realize I can’t fall asleep because these books arranged on top of my covers are all wrong. The ones surrounding the bed along the edges are of Mexican content. There is no interest, why would I do that? I am getting very agitated because I can’t imagine how I can ring the books around the bed edges without their falling off. Now I panic because I can’t move my arms from under the covers to sort the books. Then I fell sounder asleep, I guess.

After all my many years in the book shop, this is my first tiny nightmare ever, ever, about books. So maybe the chemo has begun its unpleasantries.

---Florence

Rehab. What the F?

It says here in the New York Times May 22^nd that a children’s bedtime story book called “Go the F--- to Sleep” by Adam Mansbach shot up to # 1 on Amazon, swept the Internet and has not even been published yet and is a run-away best seller.  Everybody is charmed and delighted with the cussing that’s in the title of the book.  The new rage?

Nothing to it.  Here’s my book:  Damn Tootin’

Just once more, little angel face,

Stamp your precious foot in a snit

You’ll find yourself

Locked in your room

Because Mommy doesn’t give a shit.

Mommy’s thrilled you copy her and say Please, Thank you and May I

in the good manners loop.

But worries each time you copy her and stoop

Not noticing Mommy’s plastic bag

As she bends to pick up doggie poop.

Pass this on to the publisher.  I’ll cut you in on royalties.

---Florence