Every time I open the store, and every time I close, I am struck by the quiet and peace that reigns over the store. The rows of books are lined up, the lights reflecting off shiny covers.
I feel as though I am a farmer, surveying my crops. What are we going to grow today?
In those moments of quiet, I sense such potential in the store.
I can imagine customers flowing in to find the newest book by their favorite author and then finding something new they've never even heard of.
Grab a cup of coffee, browse cooking.
Take the kids to the picture books. "Oh my gosh - I remember this one from when I was a kid!"
We have our regulars.
Mary, who waits by the cafe for her special cushioned chair so she can read the latest fiction picks.
Bill, an oddly tan man, often garbed in white, who comes in and grabs a mystery novel, heading for the seating upstairs. "Did you see this week's Glee?" he always asks.
A woman who for years told us every Friday night about her husband running away with his Yoga instructor. Now she talks about the traffic and movies, what books she likes.
The couple that spends their "date night" in the cafe reading magazines.
And so many, many, people, several of them octogenarians, that come into the store for coffee and company.
My bookstore is failing. It is taking its last breaths, shaking on weakening legs.
I can call it my bookstore because after working here on and off for five years, the last three as a supervisor - and shopping at this store way back when it used to be across the street - I feel like it belongs to me.
And if it belongs to me, then it really must belong to those who've worked here longer than me. And to the customers that come in and say "I feel like I live here."
This store has been many things to me.
I worked here once, five years ago for a brief time. Then I moved on. When I suddenly needed a job, there were people here who remembered me and I was rehired with nary an interview.
It has been my port in the storm.
My kindest friend.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a famous book critic, I imagined no better life than that of someone paid to read.
My wingman.
My live-action social network.
I've met the coolest people working in this store, both employees and customers. People I will worry about and miss if I never get to see them.
When people talk about the bookstore going out of business, they mostly talk about all the bad decisions that lead to the store closing.
We, the employees of this store, did not make those decisions.
When WE talk about the store closing, we talk about worrying for those who won't find other work. Or those employees that need this job for their healthcare benefits.
We worry about the future of books. Will parents teach their kid's to love to read when all the bookstores are closed? When libraries are cut to the bone?
We worry about a publishing world that continues to raise the prices on books and expects customers to buy books when an e-book is up to 75% cheaper. The new George RR Martin book is $35. The e-book version is $14.99.
I've spent the last three years of my life talking about books. What to read. What not to read. Books that have changed my perspective. Books that have angered me and those that made smile.
It's not a bad way to go through life.
It makes me sad to move on.
I will miss this dear old place.
Right now I want to romanticize the entire experience. To make you think there was never a bad moment.
There have been bad moments.
Customers are sometimes jerks. Employees don't always see past the "me" to the team.
We've had to weather some strange selling strategies, some even stranger discounting ones.
But I always knew, at the core of the business, was the culture of reading. Books have meant a great deal to me and I've enjoyed sharing that with others.
I agreed to come to work at this store, earn a wage, and sell books. Everything else is a bonus.
And I'll never regret it.
Well said Bry- I am still praying it won't happen. I can't imagine after 21 years that I won't work there anymore :(. Will miss seeing you and everyone else, too!
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