A Bookseller's Education

“You want to take it outside?” the man asked.

He had to be kidding.

“You sniffed and then bumped into me,” the guy, a middle-aged grizzled type, barked. “Where I come from, that means we go outside.” He stared at me some more.

“I'm sorry?” I was walking quickly and he was a big guy, so the simple physics would've made me aware of contact. Plus, though it wasn't reviewed in the employee handbook, I make it a point not to randomly assault customers.

This was the first time I'd ever been threatened, but I felt calm. The fear of confrontation that had plagued me since grammar school was gone. Two years ago, I would have apologized profusely or stammered around the situation, hoping this jerk would leave me alone. Then, I would have replayed the whole event in my mind like a Seinfeld rerun.

Now, I shrugged. The man, still angry, left into the bright Saturday morning. My manager asked if I wanted to take a break. I just laughed.

Working in a bookstore does things to a man.

I've worked at bookstores, both large and small, on and off, for more than two years. What started off as a nerdy adolescent fantasy—I'd impress customers with my scholarly knowledge of The Firm and Rising Sun while shooing away beautiful, bespectacled graduate students—has made me into a better person. By confronting humanity every day, I've become better equipped to handle the grind of daily life.

I've become a more attentive listener and have acquired patience. Working in retail is the art of holding your tongue while your hands are tied behind your back. I've learned to grin politely when someone asks me to gift-wrap magazines or asks me the price of a book that's clearly stated on the sale sticker.

I remind myself that I don't know every customer's story. I've seen enough uncertain and confused customers to know that going into a bookstore can be an awkward experience, like whenever I step into a hardware store. So I give customers the benefit of the doubt. Sure, anger is fun, but after eight hours it becomes an exhausting emotion. Over the course of a week, it's crippling. Therefore, I've become better at letting things slide. For particularly obnoxious episodes—such as the time a customer chided me for saying “Can I help you?” instead of “May I help you?”—a sympathetic audience can always be found in the break room.

Probably the most important thing I've learned is to not be ashamed of what I do. I love books, so what I do is ideal, even if the pay isn't great. However, there's a satisfaction in being an advocate, in showing a little hustle. I've read a book to a blind man so he could determine if it would be an ideal gift and have gone through suggestions for a customer looking for books about people overcoming problems. Both men shook my hand after I helped, which was immensely gratifying. I'd like to think both were steps in shattering the myth of the glassy-eyed, indifferent retailer archetype. And maybe, just maybe, I'll get a book—what Milan Kundera called “the emblem of a secret brotherhood... that single weapon against the world of crudity”—in someone's hand.

Selling books is certainly not a glamour profession. I've been snapped at, lectured to and dismissed, all of which could happen in an hour. But I'm comfortable in my own skin. I still sleep well every night. I'm not ashamed; I'm not on edge. That's probably the biggest life lesson working at bookstores has taught me: not one moment or exchange defines you. I'm 30 years old, an age when many people are suppressing their retail past with talk of graduate school and corporate conquering. The fact is that right now I'm happy with what I'm doing, and I don't feel the need to justify that. I can hold my head up high.

I may need to. Who knows when someone else will want to throw down by the Jodi Picoult rack?