Titles, Inc.

Rebound

The binder returned the book to me proudly.  The new brown leather spine bore a new large shrieking green leather label with the gold lettering which was almost uniformly embossed.  Even high up on the store shelf the green label telegraphs itself to any casual peruser.  I should be brave and ask him for a do-over. 

When we first started in this book business, Sonja and I were not as cautious about buying perfect copies as I am now (with a few exceptions).  We had asked other book dealers for referrals to bookbinders, but only one person had a name to suggest.  He whispered that we were never to mention the binder’s name to anyone, it was our secret.  Because this old man was charging rates he established in the days of yore.  The select few who used his services brought bags of books to be restored.  He refused to be backed up.  You were expected to pick them up as soon as they were ready, and he only accepted as many as he could do in a reasonable time, another reason the book dealer didn’t want his name circulated.  I joined this secret society.  The binder made no small talk, in fact made no talk at all, and it seemed that he would prefer you to push the books through the door slot of his tiny store if that were possible. 

He did exquisite work for a pittance.  One day word came that he dropped dead in his store.  They said, “Well, he was old.”  I said, “He found out what bookbinding prices  really were.” 

The next bookbinder I located who under priced the Chicago scene was in Florida.  Including the price of shipping both ways he was considerably cheaper than the local binders.  One day I got my carton back with the restored books and a staggering bill.  He replied to my agitated phone call saying he was matching our local prices.  

A lady fortuitously dropped by to introduce herself as the new binder in town.  I admired her samples and reluctantly agreed to the going rates.  She returned my important book, now tightly encased in its original boards.  A quick inspection revealed a tear on the title page.  A tear!  On the title page!  “Sorry,” she said. And handed me the bill. 

My current binder usually does an acceptable job.  I recommend him to all callers who want to preserve their bibles for another couple of generations.  He can make the book sturdy again.  A solid utilitarian job. 

There are very skilled binders in the Chicago area.  However since binding has advanced from being considered a Craft to the more exalted position of Art, the prices have accelerated to match the new nomenclature.  

So I got a binder’s supply catalogue, and find I have the delicate touch for using the proper glue to tighten loose pages and loose books.  Shabby books remain on the shelves of the homes I am buying from, unless the content of the book merits being preserved with at least a pedestrian leather spine and label. 

But I’ll bet not one of the Fine Art binders has a piece of screaming green leather in his arsenal. 

----Florence

Books, Here today, Gone….

It happened again.  A man walks in, pulls a ladder up to see the books on the top shelf, and stares in disbelief.  “It’s not here.  I saw it last month,” and in horror, asks, “Did you sell it?”  Well, yes.  A couple of days ago we got an Internet order from Beijing, China, for this item, and had just mailed it.  Jazz, by Matisse, single sheets in a portfolio and then enclosed in a box, very handsome production.  When I got the order I checked the name wondering what nationality person had asked for this book to be sent to China.  It was a Chinese name.

I berated the customer.  “If you thought you might come back for it, you should have told me.  I would have held it for you.”  He said, “I didn’t have the money, and didn’t think I would have the money.”  Now he has the money – a few days too late.

It is not an uncommon occurrence.  Several winters ago, when the snow was so high and the streets so slippery, someone walked in, took a glance around, quickly chose a book and was gone.  The next day I got a phone call.  “I was looking at a book the other day.  I couldn’t buy it because I forgot my wallet.  Can you take a credit card number on the phone and hold it for me?”  “Sure,” I said.  The book he wanted was the one bought by the hardy soul who braved the snows.  The phone caller said, “Nobody was out yesterday.  Nobody!”  I told him at least two people were out, me and this other crazy person.

Ah, this reminds me of a broken friendship.  Years ago, a New York book dealer who had become a friend when I used to go to the annual book fairs at the Armory, phoned about a book I had that she wanted to buy.  This was not the first call about the book.  She was arguing for a better price and I kept saying I couldn’t do better than the dealer’s typical 20% discount.  She said, “Think about it and call me back.”  A man in the store put a book on the desk and reached for his wallet.  I said to my friend, “Guess what, a customer just bought the book.”  She screeched, “You’re lying!  You don’t want to sell it to me!”  I tried to placate her, but she said, “I never want to talk to you again.”  And she never did.

What’s the moral?  Buy the book, ready or not.

----Florence

Smoke and Mirrors

When he asked whether I had any magic books I climbed the ladder and took down four items from the top shelf, my entire magic collection.  One pamphlet had my note on it saying This is a magic trick.  “Oh, I remember,” I told him, “a magician showed me how to use it.”  I looked at a penciled radiating sun which was a clue I had made to remind myself how it works.  “Do you know this one?”  He didn’t.  I looked at it carefully and could not remember its trickery, even after puzzling over the subtle clue I tucked in.  He didn’t want any of the books, and we chatted about magic for a while.  I said the only magician I knew personally was, “…ooh, I can’t think of his name, he was Chicago’s best known, I loved him, everybody loved him…”  He said, “Jay Marshall.”  Yes.

I remember taking one of my sons to Jay Marshall’s store to buy some magic tricks.  Harmon was performing at children’s parties.  I think he was about 12 at the time, carrying his big black suitcase with his painted-on name, Harmon’s Magic.  He spent some time looking at everything in the store and chose nothing.  Nothing?  He explained to me after we were outside, “I can make every one of those tricks.  We don’t have to buy any of it.”

My customer-magician was so amiable, I asked for his card.  “Maybe someone will ask me to recommend a magician.  It hasn’t happened yet, but you never know.”  He took a card case out of his pocket, and when he opened it, a flame burst out.  A real fire.  “Oops” says he, and snaps it shut.  He opened it carefully again and there was a charred dollar bill.  He pulled out his card and handed it to me, and slipped the case back into his pocket.  “Ouch!” he said, slapping his pocket, “it’s still hot!”  Cute little show.

His card also said Hypnosis.  I asked whether it was party game hypnosis or the real stuff, like cutting out smoking, for instance.  He said it was for fun.  I told him he should be doing hypnosis seriously.  He said he would have to be licensed to use it for medical purposes.  “So get licensed,” I insisted.  I told him that I had my last baby delivered under hypnosis.  A few of us volunteered to meet with the obstetrician several times while he went through the hypnosis process.  He told us that we would be very comfortable when we went into “labor” and he demonstrated how he would press our shoulder when he visited us at the hospital to reinforce the suggestion that we would not feel serious labor pains.  It worked. (Hi, Steven!)

I was so impressed by that experience that I later hypnotized a young friend who was helpless at losing weight.  After getting her signature releasing me from any harm I might do her (yikes!) we had several sessions and she started going to a gym.  Ultimately she lost a lot of weight.  She wore tight tee shirts and shorts, she was that thrilled with her new self.  She moved away, and when I met her again years later, she was back into her old body.  Apparently my hypnosis was effective only if reinforced.  Yes, I’m a believer.

Hmmm.  Now if I can figure out how to hypnotize people into buying books….

----Florence

Continued: Buying Books #2

So the next day, I get a phone message, “It is now 6 PM and you never showed up or called.  I will be expecting you tomorrow at the same time.  I have these cartons and I can’t keep them here waiting for you.”

I called back leaving an equally irate message, “If you don’t answer your phone, how could I find you on that dark lane?  And your directions to the neighborhood had me making a right onto a street with a big sign saying No Right Turn.  It’s snowing hard, and having seen your lane, I bet they haven’t plowed.  I can’t make it back tonight.”

He phoned at 5 PM and reached me.  See, he phones after 5 PM because he told me he sleeps all day, and wakes at 5 and stays up through the night.  I assumed he had a night job. 

He “made nice,” told me he looked out the window and the private snow plow service that this lane uses has cleared the street, and everybody makes that Right Turn, never mind the sign, so I agreed to try again.  He said to phone when I am nearby and he will guide me in.  I reported back to Art and said I was reluctant to get lost again and could he drive with me?  We chose a gas station as a meeting place.

Well.  I walked across the street to the parking lot.  No, I couldn’t walk across the street because I couldn’t figure out where the curb was with all the snow banked up.  I went to the corner, crossed, and walked back on the other side to find the lot blanketed with snow.  There were only two cars out there, mine and another directly beside mine.  The snow plows had cleared the center by piling the snow back to the cars.  I plunged through.  I was pushing the snow off my car with the new longer brush Art had just bought for me, when I heard the man approach his car beside me and start scraping away also.

The young man came around to face me.  He said, “You will not be able to get your car over that bank.  I can, but you can’t.”  I looked at his small truck.  He said, “Get in your car, I will push you out.”  I got in and started the motor.  He was leaning up against the hood of my car.  He stopped and came over.  I put the window down.  He said, “You have it in reverse, right?”

The car wouldn’t move.  He pushed, and pushed, finally rolling me out.  He came back to the window, “Good thing the wall is right behind me, my feet were sliding.”  I thanked him and thanked him.  This is a situation I call beyond coincidence.  Two cars side by side in an empty lot.  Both drivers arriving at the same time.  The other driver being young, strong, and a good Samaritan.

I met up with Art and we drove to the house with books.  The man stood in the lighted garage and guided us in.

1.  He is retired and is awake through the night and sleeps through the day, by choice.

2.  His Christmas tree, and decorations covering the entire room, stay up until spring.  

3.  He had two very small cartons of books on a table.

4.  I didn’t like his books. 

----Florence

Buying Books

The problem with selling a terrific book is that you can’t replace it.  I was arguing with a customer who wanted a discount for a splendid book and when I said, “No,” he told me he negotiated for his new car, and the salesman was very accommodating.  “Sure,” I said, “He can call up and say send me another one.”  When his expression told me he didn’t get it, I explained, “I can’t call up to replace this book.  It’s a treasure, and I may never see another copy.”  Notice, I am not mentioning the title because this is a generic story.  I relive it every time I have a have a very special book in a prospective buyer’s hand.

So when I get a phone call to come buy their books, (and who calls me?  Widows, or children who don’t want their inherited books, people down-sizing their homes, people moving far away who have to leave the books behind), I am eager to go.

I had an appointment at 11 AM to look at railroad books.  I like railroad books.  I can sell railroad books.  The young widow had them stacked up and ready to show.  They were in fine condition in fine dust jackets (hooray!), but on examining them, too many were later editions and reprints.  (Lesson:  basically, a later edition is the same book having been printed again because it sold out.  A reprint has a new publisher and possibly a change in format.)  Her husband was a reader; he wanted the information even if he had to get it in a seventh printing.  And some were cheaper reprint copies.  I sorted them out.

Usually I am interested only in First Editions for the collector.  In this case, I figured there are railroad book readers out there like this (former) collector who wants the words, never mind the edition.  The first edition will cost more.

So I bought them all from this very nice lady who helped shlep (yes, that’s an American word now) these oversize books to my car.  I unloaded at the store, and was ready for my next house call.

I had scheduled a 5 PM house call for the same day.  He had been very cordial on the phone, “What do you drink?”  I answered, “Tea?”  He said, “No, it will be 5 o’clock.  I mean a drink.”  I parried for a minute, then agreed to Vodka and tonic, but then backed off.  “Really, a cup of tea would be nice.”  He asked, “Do you have a GPS?”  I assured him I did.  He said, “You’ll never find my house.”

He was right.  5 PM in January is pitch black.  His address was Ascot Lane which was not there. I drove up and down a street while my GPS kept hollering, “Recalculating” each time I reached the end of the block and made a U turn, She kept urging me to turn Right, or Left, depending on which direction I was driving on that damn street. There was no street to turn into. Nothing but driveways.  I crawled.  Wait!  That was a long driveway.  A single lane dirt driveway.  Lane!  I cautiously entered.  Yes, with set back houses.  This was it!  I could read the reflective number on the tree near the first house.   1105.  OK, I needed 20.  Opposite side.  I looked anxiously for numbers.  No further indication of numbers.  If you don’t know where you are going, this lane implied, Go Home.  I drove to its dead end.  Dark houses.  Long driveways.  No numbers.  I was hoping to find him in the doorway flagging me down.  I did the civilized thing.  I pulled out the cell phone and dialed.  Of course nobody answered.  Leave A Message it told me.

I was very rude.  “Screw this!” I shouted.  “You’re not even home!”

Will he call me back?  Will I go back?  Only if he tells me he has one of these spectacular books that I think I will never see again.

----Florence

Books, Every Size and Color

Some Saturdays are busy. Three giggling high schoolers, two girls and a boy, drifted into the shop.  The tall girl wore sheer patterned lace panty hose which today are called leggings.  The hose went up from the short boots to meet the bottom edge of her tee shirt which although short, did barely cover her, umm, private parts.  I think it’s described differently on the fashion page.  Quite compelling, so I felt compelled to comment.  “Gorgeous lacy hose.”  That’s when I found out, no, they are leggings.  I didn’t mention she forgot to wear a skirt, another fashion statement probably.  I went on, “Nice legs.”  She smiled happily, but her girl friend applied censure.  “I don’t look at girls’ legs.  I look at boys’ legs."

The three of us turned to look at the boy’s legs.  He looked down too, and obligingly squatted slightly so that his knees jutted through those strategic slits in his denims.  Pause.  “Naw,” I said, “they are just legs.”  I walked away and let them browse, but admonished them when they opened a book too carelessly, giving my usual lesson about not turning these crisp books into used books.  A man in the Signed Entertainer’s section growled to me, “You’re too patient.”  I took it as a compliment and said I was glad to see young people interested in The Book, even though they didn’t have the respect (or my reverence) for the physical object.  The kids didn’t buy anything but waved a cheerful goodbye.  The cranky man didn’t buy anything either.  Didn’t even wave goodbye.

But the next lady bought.  A lot.  Three long shelves full.  She was decorating her new “study” and had measured how much space she needed to fill.  I immediately started for the leather sets.  No, she wanted books, good books that she might read, for the shelves.  Hey, we can do that.  “What do you like to read?  Would you like to look around a bit?”  What she had in mind were books to pick up the color of her wallpaper. “I want to put a group of one color together, and then another group of a different color.”  Dear God.  We started with Blue.  Dust jackets were good, not necessary.  I guided her away from my wonderful signed first editions – I couldn’t bear to think of them as merely decorative.  We found a clutch of blue, different shades of blue, and moved on to green.  Some red. And black.  A three volume set of Freud ended up in the group of black.  Was he embarrassed?  Or sublimating his outrage?  There is some comfort to all this.  These are on borrowed time, visiting in her house, until the next venture when they will be dispersed again.

A young lady came in with her mother.  The mother said, “Do you have any Shakespeare?”  The young girl hung back, but I understood the request was hers and told  her I had a lot of Shakespeare.  I took her along and pointed out the three-volume boxed set, and getting no reaction, we walked through the store and I pointed out all the sets, and the single volumes, and saving for last, the wonderful three-volume set in leather for $750.  Eight varieties of Shakespeares in all.  No response.  She didn’t reach out for any of them.  I said, “You walk around.  Think about it.”  I went back to my desk while her mother trotted after her.

She came up to the desk, finally, with Shakespeare I had forgotten about.  They are slim, little 3” books with soft leather wrap-around bindings, called The Little Leather Library.    She had selected five plays at $3 each.  Her mother handed me the $15 plus tax.

So, happily, I still have my favorite three-volume Shakespeare published in London in 1855 in elegant leather.  It looks great here on my shelf even though it is not blue, green, red or Freudian black.

----Florence

Prestigious Literary Evening

It was the first of what promises to be an annual Chicago Literary Hall of Fame.  This first celebration of deceased Chicago authors honored Nelson Algren, Saul Bellow, Gwendolyn Brooks, Lorraine Hansberry, Studs Terkel and Richard Wright.
 
This is the way it played out.  Rick Kogan was the program host.  Rick, himself, had been named Chicago’s Best Reporter in 1999 and inducted in the Chicago Journalism Hall of Fame in 2003.  He has a weekly feature in the Chic. Trib, a radio show, and a new book with a collection of his Chicago columns.  I am proud to say I was allotted a page in that book.
 
Kogan introduced a Presenter of the award.  Those Presenting were themselves recognized writers who might well receive this award if living writers are included in the future. The Presenter said wonderful things about his/her assigned author.  Then Kogan introduced the Acceptor who received a statue of a hand holding a quill on behalf of his Hall-of-Famer, and then said wonderful things about this same author.  The person accepting the award was a family member, a son, a daughter, a sister, a niece.  Nelson Algren, alone, had no family member, so his close friend and documenter of a good part of his adult life, Art Shay, was asked to join the ceremony to accept Nelson’s award.
 
Each of the assigned twelve speakers had been asked to limit his speech to five minutes.  Art  practiced reading  his speech out loud until he reduced it to five minutes.  Sara Paretsky hit five minutes, Audrey Niffenegger said she timed hers to three minutes.  Many of the other nine spoke as though the clock were not invented.
 
Oh, yes.  As each honored name was announced, someone either read from the work, or a skit was enacted, or a guitar was played, a song sung.  There were other little performances intermittently.  Someone mentioned that many in the audience of about 300 in this handsome auditorium at Northeastern Illinois U. did not reappear after intermission.  What?  The program was only half-way through?
 
Art Shay delivered his speech about Algren.  I am happy to report he was masterful, entertaining, and it was by far the best speech both in material and delivery.  There was an impromptu interchange between Rick Kogan and Art as Rick recalled a ludicrous event he was involved in:  Art got the Chicago police to stop traffic on the expressway so that Art could take a picture of the air space on this expressway that had been the now demolished building Algren lived in. The audience laughed.  Rick’s delivery is professional – hey, he’s a radio show host.
 
There was finger food before the show, and finger desserts after the show.  The audience mingled while eating the desserts – everything chocolate was gone immediately - and we   talked about important things: someone admired my jacket, I admired someone’s hat and lamented that I look dreadful in hats, and we commented on a stunning ruffley leather purse another person was carrying which she admitted getting at an absolutely fabulous sale.
 
Yes, of course we referred to the program which was slated for 2 hours and ran on for 3 ½ hours.  Everyone said Art was wonderful.  I told someone I was grateful we got out before tomorrow, and he said, “Oh we are grateful we got out before Christmas!”
 
Unless Art is tapped again, I’m not going next year, never mind how exalted the event is.  Besides I already have the statue.  I’ll put it in the book shop.  Nelson Algren would like that.
 
----Florence 

A Tiny Retail Incident

The man on the phone introduced himself as calling from Seattle, no name.  “I do not use the Internet.  I like to call the dealers and talk with them directly.”  “That’s fine,” I reply, “How can I help you?”  He tells me he collects 20th century authors, and calls off a list of names he is interested in.

I have many of them, and suggest we start with Joseph Heller.  I say, “I have many signed Joseph Hellers.”  He barks, “Do you have a signed Catch-22?”

Aha, a chance to show off.  I answer smugly, “Yes, I do, but it is my personal copy.”  Very abruptly, “How much is it.”  “It’s not for sale,” I said, “It is my own copy.”  “So how much is it?” he presses.  I repeat, “It’s not for sale.  I knew Joseph Heller and he signed it for me.”

Sharply now he says, “Everything has a price.  How much do you want for it.”  Now I am sorry I brought it up, “It is not for sale.”  He says, “What if I offered 100,000 dollars?”

I laughed.  “You are right.  Everything has a price, and you just found mine.”

He said, “I don’t like the way you do business and I will never call you again.”  And he hung up.

I emailed the chat-line of my association (ABAA, Antiquarian Booksellers Association of America.  Very select group) and reported this unsettling story.  Immediately many responded, all recognizing the man, and they know his name.  They agreed he was extremely unpleasant, that he ties you and your phone up with lots of questions.  They are not sure he even buys books.  One suggested he collects fantasies, he doesn’t collect books.  Another dealer said he thought he was closing a sale as he assured this Seattle man that, “Yes, the book is fine in a fine dust jacket,” and this prospective buyer responded, “I will wait until I find one in better condition,” and hung up.

After this exchange of email we all agreed that in the future as soon as the man identifies himself we would hang up first.

Suddenly Joseph Heller’s signed Catch-22 doesn’t seem so precious anymore.  Call up – we’ll negotiate.  But mind, we start at $100,000.00.

----Florence

All Kinds of Customers

When he came into the shop, I greeted him with my usual, “Can I help you?”  I didn’t hear his answer so I went up to him.  He repeated, “Sure you can help me.  Are you a psychiatrist?”  “Close enough,” I told him, “I can tell you how to live your life, I’m good at that.  Even though nobody in my family listens to me.”  He says, “I can believe that.”  “OK,” I tell him, “You’re on your own.  I won’t help you now even if you beg.”  We continue intermittently at this level of abuse while he is looking at the books.  Both of us are enjoying the banter.

His cell phone rings, and after a few moments he moves away to the door.  When he comes back, I ask, “How come you are so sweet to her and so nasty to me?”  He says, “Because she just gave me a $10,000 order. I sent her a full box on spec and she bought it all.”  “That’ll do it,” I agreed.  “If you give me a $10,000 order I will be very sweet too.  It will be hard, but I would make the effort.”  I was dying to know what was in the box, but decided not to push it.

I didn’t recognize this man although he said he gets to town to visit family about once a year and always stops in.  He reminded me which books he bought on his last visit, and now I remember that this was our patter even a year ago.  Eventually he put his purchase on the desk.  It was a very handsome boxed two volume set of Dana’s Two Years Before the Mast.  As I pull out a sale slip to write it up, I murmur just loud enough for him to hear, “Hmm, he’s smarter than he looks.” 

He turns to Heidi back in the office, and in mock rage, says, “Did you hear what she said?  She’s a witch!”  I’m laughing, and Heidi is assuring him that I am really a very nice lady.  I put his book in a bag, and handing it to him, I say, demurely, “Thank you for coming in.”  He says, also very proper, “You’re welcome.”  

When he gets to the door, he turns and laughs, “I’ll see you next year!”

The next customer who came into the store does Spiritual Counseling.  I was very spiritual and polite and self-effacing. 

Boy, this is a hard job.  Look at all the roles I have to play.  It’s theatre and I love it.  Be myself?  Who’s myself? 

----Florence

Suburban Train

It’s been a long time since I’ve ridden the commuter train from the city.  I got in by car but I had to fend for myself on the return evening trip.  I was comforted by a friend who planned to be at the Fair, too, and assured me she would deliver me to the depot.

I was attending the book fair as a visitor.  It was put on by the Midwest Antiquarian Booksellers Association. Long ago I used to participate when I thought it was fun to pack 20 cartons of books plus folding bookcases, set it up, and dismantle it again after two days.  Not so much fun anymore. Besides it leaves large holes on the shelves in the store from the missing books until each one is back in its slot. 

It was a fine event in a beautiful facility.  I said Hello to dealers I hadn’t seen in awhile, and enjoyed looking at the large variety of books and even bought a few.  The attendance was only so-so.   People who attend love it.  But there are far fewer of them lately.

Had a lovely dinner afterwards with friend Lisa who then dropped me at the front door of Union Station.  I followed the sign to Tickets, stood on line and wondered why each ticket buyer was taking so long to purchase a ticket.  When I finally reached the window and announced, “Deerfield,” she told me I was at the wrong place.  Pointing way out there, she said, “See those windows with the white curtains, off there to the left?  Go there and follow the signs that say Metra.”  I did.  Lots of walking. And carrying two heavy books on my arm.  I got the ticket, found track 13, and went back to the snack/gift shop to buy a newspaper.  The woman, nodding at my books, put my newspaper in a bag with handles, large enough to carry the books. That was nice.

The trip home was uneventful although it was pitch black outside and I couldn’t read any of the station signs through the window, couldn’t recognize the sounds of the voice announcing the stops, and had an uneasy feeling I was riding off into the wild blue yonder.  Finally, “Deerfield” rang clear, and there at the platform was dear ol’ Art waiting to take me home.

But I am remembering another train ride into the city.  I was complaining about an aching back, and a friend suggested I visit his acupuncturist.  He would make an appointment for the two of us and we’d make the trip together.  Acupuncture!  I would finally experience it!  That morning I met him at our local station, and when we got off the train he said he always walks, it’s not far.  Sure, it’s not far when you are 6’3” and you can take one step to my four.  I trotted next to him as he strode through the city.  His wife is my size so he was used to someone panting at his side as he walked.  We got to the office exactly on time.

How was the acupuncture?  I wouldn’t know.  I was lying on the table trying to recover    from the race I had just finished.  I refused a follow-up appointment.  We got down to the street and I hopefully suggested a cab.  “For such a short distance?” he sounded surprised. “We have plenty of time for the train back.”  So I jogged at his heel all the way back.  “Don’t rush,” he said as we entered the station, “we still have four minutes to get to the track.”

Did the acupuncture do any good?  He swears by it.  I was swearing too.

---- Florence