I
was reminded recently of another perversion that takes place in bookshops (and
other emporia, no doubt) and, although I have already touched upon it
previously, I thought it should have its own moment to shine. Or leer.
Whatever.
It
takes place like this: there you are going about your day – filling customer orders;
re-stocking; cataloguing like the wind – when a fellow (and it’s generally a
fellow) breezes through the door looking smugly self-satisfied and as if
suddenly surprised to find himself in a bookshop – a BOOKSHOP! – despite the
sign above the door outside. He will make some general introductory remarks
regarding how books smell, how many of them there are, and whether they might
be in some kind of order? Then he will leap straight to the real reason that he
has deigned to darken your door.
Might
you have in stock, he will say, a particular book I’ve been looking for? He
will offer the handy morsel that it’s very difficult to obtain and that it’s
unlikely to be simply languishing on a bookshelf in your – your! - store. Usually there will be an accompanying observation that
they’re probably just wasting their time even asking…
‘Yes,’
you say. ‘Over there in the military section, third shelf.’
Instantly,
the world-weary smarminess drops away. The punter will blench, their eyes
widening and their Adam’s apple will suddenly go into a series of spasms as if
it’s developed an intense need to high jump their collar.
‘Really?’
they gulp.
‘Really,’
you say. And then you tell them the price. And often, because it is such a hard book to locate, that
price will be high.
‘Oh!
Right,’ they mumble. ‘Look, I’ve left my wallet in my car – I’ll just pop out
and get it…’
And
you’ll never see them again.
(The
best times are when all this palaver post-dates the gratuitous displaying of
said wallet, in order to prove that they are, in fact, a Player of some note.)
It
makes me wonder about several points. Do these guys keep lists of rare books in
their heads to trot out for just this purpose? Is there research involved? Do
they keep track of where and when they’ve attempted this ploy and the times it
has failed, in order to never face the ridicule of having to enter those bookshops
ever again? And how insecure must they be to even attempt this kind of
stupidity?
It
seems to be a little-known fact that our job is to find books for people, no matter how obscure or hard to pin down. I
would have thought that was obvious.
I
was talking with a former colleague the other day and she reminded me that there’s
another version of this game that’s, if anything, even more poisonous. In this
iteration, the book, or books, in question are not that hard to find; the focus
is upon the perceived level of ability of the staff member due to the subject
matter in question and the gender of the employee.
‘Look,’
the punter will say, ‘you’d better go and get the manager for this one,
sweetheart: I’m looking for a book on the SS.’
‘Leibstandarte? Totenkopf? Prinz Eugen?’ the staff member will offer.
‘Um…
what?’ is the typical response
Deep
sigh from the staff-member.
‘Which
division?’ she will ask, enunciating
clearly; ‘was it a tank unit you were after?’
‘Um…
I’m not sure…’
‘Perhaps
a nice general history will get you started…’
At
which point the punter will mutter something about their lunch-break being over
and having to get back to the coalface.
(The
other thing which people – surprisingly - seem to be a little unsure about, is
whether people in bookshops know anything about what it is they’re selling.)
This
little big-noting game is a relatively common occurrence in my world and in those
of my colleagues. There was a time - back in the 80s when the mantra “The
Customer Is Always Right” was in vogue - when there was no defence against it;
in the days when, if your boss pissed you off, you could pop down to the
nearest shop and vent your spleen against some nameless peon who had no other
option but to sit there and take it. Nowadays, we live by other truisms, and we
don’t play games anymore. Instead, we will make you regret even trying it.
