dijous, de febrer 21, 2008
A little story about books, New York, bookstores, purchases, being criticised, freeloaders, etc
This story is actually a rerun of something I posted on another site, which I forgot to post here. The plot isn't tied to any given point in time, therefore I figure it can still be enjoyed today.
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The carpet is plush, the wood dark, the whites are a bit off, and gold trimmings abound in all obvious places, yet these ingredients combine into something quite common. After all this is only a book store, a four story one at that, but a nationwide chain purveyor of books (plus cd's, pastries, writing tools, coffee goods, and various types of knick knacks).
The crowd of shoppers ambling about seem divided into two groups, one dead set on making a purchase, and another consisting of quieter folks who have a lot of time on their hands but little cash. Fortunately for them, chairs are provided, uncomfortable chairs, but ass perches nonetheless. The more courageous (and tenured) of the strapped for cash group lie about lazily on the floor, staking claim to columns and shelf space, as if they received an exclusive memo announcing that certain authors or genres would pique no interest on this day. The one thing unifying these two groups is the desire to avoid talking to one another, resulting in mumbled "um excuse me" and sass-filled eyes, as the brave floormongerer is surprised to learn that their section had not been closed for the day.
Fortunately for me, the author I want is on the top shelf. Unfortunately for the reader on the floor this section is not closed to the public today, but if it is any consolation prize there is a nice view for him to enjoy as my crotch saunters about at his (i.e. the reader on the floor) eye level. Although reading in the bookstore may seem like a very affordable activity, this squatter is learning that sometimes the price is paid in different ways. Sure, the words 'excuse me' are uttered, but I make sure to take my time deciding whether the predetermined title is what is best for me. Time probably drags for the person sitting at my feet, but my mind can not help but wonder if this whole situation is awkward, and that it could be much worse if I had worn shorts or not washed as 14% of the city's inhabitants tend to do.
Down towards the cash register, through the multiple escalators, past the magazine minions and the macchiato multitude, I make my way, doing my best to overhear conversations without being critical. At the end of the line my education and common knowledge meets the end of commercial America on the tip of an epiphany that this chain of bookstores must have paid some good money to an idea extortioner (i.e. consultant), who in turn suggested that wait times would decrease, and customer satisfaction thus increase, if all consumers were made to wait in one line for the multiple cashiers. But, as with many cattle tactics applied to humans, this advice does not completely translate to the real world due to good old fashioned human incompetence.
What seems as another mildly interesting conversation, that is not including me (once again), going on, off to my right, turns out to actually be two cashiers doing their best to prove that a certain range of work ethic (i.e. none to low) qualifies adults for low waged retail jobs. One of the more motivated cashiers points them out to me and the other customers, leading to my interaction with the reluctant book hawker. Thankfully the need for him to press his fingers against an object, wave a book in front of a screen, and swipe a card (in a preset order) does not cramp his mood, and a small conversation breaks out. The exchange goes along the lines of him saying "David Foster Wallace? Are you serious?" while cycling through various eyebrow contortions. As thoughts about the high level of pretentiousness present in the New York retail population run through my head, the cashier attempts to atone for his berate by suggesting other titles from the same author (also proving his memory is fully functional). Perhaps the cashiers do not ever exchange responsibilities with the other workers who stock the shelves, yet the fact that books by the same author are grouped together has always seemed common knowledge to me. I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt (I've always imagined there are people who just grab anything off the shelf because they just love reading that much, and maybe, just maybe, this cashier makes sure to cater to those types). After hearing about how much he dislikes books by the author I have, now shamefully, chosen to purchase I am allowed to take my receipt and leave. At least now I know not to tell anyone which author I am reading nowadays.
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The carpet is plush, the wood dark, the whites are a bit off, and gold trimmings abound in all obvious places, yet these ingredients combine into something quite common. After all this is only a book store, a four story one at that, but a nationwide chain purveyor of books (plus cd's, pastries, writing tools, coffee goods, and various types of knick knacks).
The crowd of shoppers ambling about seem divided into two groups, one dead set on making a purchase, and another consisting of quieter folks who have a lot of time on their hands but little cash. Fortunately for them, chairs are provided, uncomfortable chairs, but ass perches nonetheless. The more courageous (and tenured) of the strapped for cash group lie about lazily on the floor, staking claim to columns and shelf space, as if they received an exclusive memo announcing that certain authors or genres would pique no interest on this day. The one thing unifying these two groups is the desire to avoid talking to one another, resulting in mumbled "um excuse me" and sass-filled eyes, as the brave floormongerer is surprised to learn that their section had not been closed for the day.
Fortunately for me, the author I want is on the top shelf. Unfortunately for the reader on the floor this section is not closed to the public today, but if it is any consolation prize there is a nice view for him to enjoy as my crotch saunters about at his (i.e. the reader on the floor) eye level. Although reading in the bookstore may seem like a very affordable activity, this squatter is learning that sometimes the price is paid in different ways. Sure, the words 'excuse me' are uttered, but I make sure to take my time deciding whether the predetermined title is what is best for me. Time probably drags for the person sitting at my feet, but my mind can not help but wonder if this whole situation is awkward, and that it could be much worse if I had worn shorts or not washed as 14% of the city's inhabitants tend to do.
Down towards the cash register, through the multiple escalators, past the magazine minions and the macchiato multitude, I make my way, doing my best to overhear conversations without being critical. At the end of the line my education and common knowledge meets the end of commercial America on the tip of an epiphany that this chain of bookstores must have paid some good money to an idea extortioner (i.e. consultant), who in turn suggested that wait times would decrease, and customer satisfaction thus increase, if all consumers were made to wait in one line for the multiple cashiers. But, as with many cattle tactics applied to humans, this advice does not completely translate to the real world due to good old fashioned human incompetence.
What seems as another mildly interesting conversation, that is not including me (once again), going on, off to my right, turns out to actually be two cashiers doing their best to prove that a certain range of work ethic (i.e. none to low) qualifies adults for low waged retail jobs. One of the more motivated cashiers points them out to me and the other customers, leading to my interaction with the reluctant book hawker. Thankfully the need for him to press his fingers against an object, wave a book in front of a screen, and swipe a card (in a preset order) does not cramp his mood, and a small conversation breaks out. The exchange goes along the lines of him saying "David Foster Wallace? Are you serious?" while cycling through various eyebrow contortions. As thoughts about the high level of pretentiousness present in the New York retail population run through my head, the cashier attempts to atone for his berate by suggesting other titles from the same author (also proving his memory is fully functional). Perhaps the cashiers do not ever exchange responsibilities with the other workers who stock the shelves, yet the fact that books by the same author are grouped together has always seemed common knowledge to me. I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt (I've always imagined there are people who just grab anything off the shelf because they just love reading that much, and maybe, just maybe, this cashier makes sure to cater to those types). After hearing about how much he dislikes books by the author I have, now shamefully, chosen to purchase I am allowed to take my receipt and leave. At least now I know not to tell anyone which author I am reading nowadays.
Publica un comentari a l'entrada