Squawk Radio

As some of you know, I used to work for Barnes & Noble. Nothing glamorous, mind you. I didn't work in Manhattan at the corporate office or anything. No, I hired on as holiday help in the North Haven, Connecticut store in 1995, and after the manager realized she'd actually hired someone who knew about books, I managed to convince her to let me stay on at only eight hours/week. (Normally, you had to work at least 20.) Eight hours isn't much, but it got me out of the house, earned me some walking around money, and perhaps most importantly, got me a 30% discount on books. (I can't tell you how painful it was to start paying full price for books once I stopped working there.)

But the best part of working in a bookstore was, not surprisingly, the books. It was so wonderful just being around them. I loved knowing what all the new releases were, and there is nothing like the little thrill you get when you stumble across the coolest book that you know you never would have discovered had you not been shelving it.

Former booksellers also have a pathological need to tidy up bookstore shelves:

"Good GRAVY! What is the Bevarly doing in the middle of the Brockways!!! And don't they know that Outlander should be shelved before Dragonfly in Amber??? I don't care if it's in aphabetical order that way--it's just plain wrong!"

But you know, for the most part it was fun. And in honor of booksellers everywhere, I'm going to share the most bizarre, surreal, annoying, nice, really any adjective will do, moments from the three years I was there.


I learn that the café discount has been increased to 50%.

Strangely enough, this occurs during the holiday rush, confirming my suspicions that Mr. Riggio (the head of the company) wants to keep the peons sugared and caffeined.


I discover that I am wasting valuable portions of my brain on really stupid stuff.

A customer comes in with the following question: "I'm looking for a book. It was on this table. Or maybe that one. In July. I don't know the name and I don't know the author, but there was a dog on the cover."

I say, "Yeah, I know what you're talking about."


I am mistaken for someone with a way better bank account.

After chatting for five minutes about books, I tell a customer that I am actually a romance author. She looks at my name tag and shrieks, "Oh my GOD! Are you JULIE GARWOOD????"


I am mistaken for someone with a license to dispense drugs.

The phone rings. I answer it, always a mistake.

"Good morning, Barnes & Noble, North Haven. How may I help you?"

"I'm looking for a book. It's one of those drug guides. The one for nurses."

"Oh, yes, I'm fairly certain we carry that. If you hold I'll go check the shelf."

Goes and checks shelf. Surprises self by finding book.

"Hello? Yes, we have that. Would you like me to put it aside for you?"

"Oh, no. I don't want to buy the book. I was just hoping you would look something up for me. You see, my doctor just prescribed some new medication for me, and I'm not sure if I can take it with the other stuff I'm on. Could you look it up and see?"

"Excuse me. May I put you on hold for a moment?"

GAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

"Hi. I'm back. I'm sorry, but I don't think our insurance covers us for dispensing pharmaclogical advice."


I am mistaken for someone with a non-exploding head.

It's War in the back room. Bernie the periodical guy vs. Chris the stockroom supervisor. It's a duel of the transistor radios. On the receiving desk, Howard Stern. Near the magazine stack, Rush Limbaugh. And over by new releases shelf, there is an innocent romance writer, collapsed into a fetal position as she cradles her head in her hands and tries to drown... out... the noise.


Good morning Squawkland! It's nice to be here!

Julie Q.