Day 2
We have an annual calendar sale, the so-called earth's biggest (no one's disputed it). It begins each year Jan. 1 sharpish, and we offer scores and scores and merry scores of attractive, delicious, irresistible calendars in all formats, three for $10, which provoke, impel, and command immoderate buying. This helps keep us a happy and reasonably hale independent bookstore throughout the year and enables us to carry titles like In the American Tree, which is in the best of times dreadfully slow, if you want to use professional retail adverbs like "dreadfully."
It's extremely busy. The photographs above were taken during a late-day, second-day, momentary lull. During the best (or worst) surges, it's impossible to think about getting anywhere close to a camera.
We start the new year exhilerated, wacko, with tired feet.
3 RIDERS:
everyone looks fucked
like they go home and feel lonely
and then smash their TV with a baseball bat
and clean it up quietly
then step on glass and scream more than you'd expect someone who stepped on glass to scream
they don't smash their televisions.
they smash us lowly employees with bats made from the huge sense of privalege that (apparently) often comes with a full wallet and a berkely address.
why would they put back the 15 calendars they hoarded in their muddy paws when they can throw them on the floor and leave them for me to pick up and put away?
also, some of them have horrible breath.
but others make me smile, despite myself.
either way, i usually go home and feel lonely. sometimes though, it's just that my feet hurt.
rogue reporter, come comment on my blog
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