Captured by the Moment: Tower Books, Part 3

Looking back on my bookstore years, it's amazing how many things I remember with perfect clarity. Mundane, everyday moments are captured for eternity. I'd worked retail before Tower, but not consistently 40-hour weeks. That was new territory for me. I had naïvely thought that everyone who came into the bookstore would be nice. People who like to read are polite, aren't they? Not necessarily. That was rude awakening #1. People, whether they're readers or not, are just plain cranky if you don’t have what they want (even if they don’t know exactly what it is). Our being out of the book of the moment was the most common complaint. Never mind publishers underestimating print runs or distributors failing to deliver. It was our fault if we didn't have a given book.

The phones kept us as busy as the customers in the store. The following might seem scripted, but we really got calls like this every day.

Clerk: Tower Books, may I help you?

Customer: Is this the record store?

Customer: Do you have the book that was on Oprah today?

Clerk: Which book?

Customer (incredulous): Didn't you watch Oprah?

Customer: Do you have (Book of the Moment)

Clerk: No, I'm sorry, we're out right now.

Customer: How can you be out of it? It's so popular!

Clerk from Watt Avenue: Can you do a book check?

Sunrise clerk: Sure, what's the title?

Watt clerk: The Donner Party Cookbook.

(There was a certain amount of hazing when new employees were hired. Our neighboring record store used to send their newbies over to borrow the shelf-stretcher).

As anyone who has worked retail can attest, dealing with the public can be...challenging. And while I have enough rude customer stories to make me inclined to agree with Ron Swanson, there were plenty of nice customers too, our regulars, who just enjoyed hanging out in the store, browsing away an afternoon, looking for the next book to put on the must-read stack. Rainy days were especially busy. There's something about a stormy afternoon that makes a bookstore the perfect respite. The old Sunrise store was small and cozy, with dark wooden racks in the aisles and along the walls. Away from the sales counter, away from the ringing phones, beeping registers (the best of mid-80s technology) and clerk/customer exchanges, there was, at times, an almost library-like hush, as if people thought they could keep the clamor of the outside world at bay a little longer if they could preserve that peace.

I've always said I'd have stayed at the bookstore forever if I didn't need to work to make a decent income. The harsh reality is that retail doesn't pay a living wage. I mean, if your idea of "living" includes fewer than three roommates and a vehicle that runs. It was clear that the managers at my area stores weren't going anywhere, so I made the decision to transfer to the main office in West Sac. It was the right move, but it took a few years to embrace. I was still technically a bookseller while working in the advertising department, then later as a buyer, but the immediacy was missing. What I've come to realize in the nearly eight years since Tower's doors closed for good is that for those of us who truly love books, being a bookseller isn't just something we do, it’s something we are. 

Fear Factor

Fear is a complicated, multi-dimensional emotion. We can be afraid of specific things, like spiders or public speaking. We might fear new situations; the unknown is nearly a universal phobia. There's even the fear of fear: phobophobia. But what of primal fear? That paralyzing feeling that emanates from our animal brain, chills our internal organs and triggers the fight or flight response?

The raging wildfire burning in El Dorado County, about 60 miles from here, is triggering that response in me. As of this morning, it's still only about 10% contained, has burned over 82,000 acres, caused 2800 people to evacuate and is being battled by 7800 firefighters. The smoke is lending a surreal yellow-orange cast to the sky that was particularly vivid around sundown last night. Intellectually, I knew I was perfectly safe. But as my growing anxiety illustrated, the deepest part of my primitive brain was trying to tell me when the sky is that color I'm in danger.

So why does fire do this to me? Like anyone with Southern California roots, forest fires set off warning bells, but one extremely traumatic incident is forever imprinted. During the fall of my third-grade year, a large fire broke out in Big Bear, just below the dam. Like the King fire, it was determined to be arson, making it all the more difficult for an eight-year-old to understand. Someone did this on purpose?? I woke up that Friday morning (the 13^th) to my family hurriedly preparing to evacuate. It was the first time I'd ever seen my mother scared and I'll never forget what that felt like. It was a terrible moment of realizing there were things my parents couldn't do anything about. As I packed a box with diapers and baby food for my toddler brother, I watched my father dash in and out of the house, packing the car. We were going to stay with my grandparents in the valley, but we had no way of knowing how long we'd be there and if the house would still be standing when we got back. My mother told me I could bring one "special thing" I couldn't part with, but we just didn't have room in the car for much. Looking back, I have no idea how they packed three kids, a dog and our suitcases into a Volkswagen bug but they did.

My grandparents made us very comfortable, but I didn't have the vocabulary to express my unease. My parents were glued to the TV, wanting to catch every bit of news about the fire, but I couldn't stand to watch—I didn't even want to hear them talk about it. I left the room every time there was an update. We stayed there for nearly two weeks, and then, thanks to the mercy of shifting winds, my hometown was spared, and the fire was finally extinguished. We could go home. We still had a home to go to.

Driving up the mountain, through the burnt-out moonscape that used to be the San Bernardino National Forest is another vision permanently etched in my brain. A forest decimated is a harsh reality to witness. Our house was unscathed, save for a layer of ash on the patio furniture and the lingering smell of smoke in the air. I had no way of knowing what else would linger. But over the years it became apparent, as a siren in the distance or a single whiff of smoke would trigger the impulse for flight. I didn't know what a panic attack was; I just knew that I suddenly needed to be elsewhere. I got better at dealing with my fear as I got older, and don't think about it much until an incident like the King fire occurs. Then I remember the utter helplessness and panic. And send prayers of safety and success to the firefighters.    

A Day in the Life: Tower Books, Part 2

I loved everything about the old Sunrise bookstore (called such even though it wasn't actually on Sunrise Blvd. It was a holdover from the days when the original record store was in fact on Sunrise, about a block away. That was the case with a number of Tower stores—the names didn’t make much sense until you knew the backstory).

I settled into being bookseller immediately. I shadowed veterans at the register the week of my training, and was given the Home & Garden and Crafts sections to take care of, the latter of which was in complete disarray and hadn't been looked after in over a month. I was to arrange it by subject, alphabetical by author within those subjects, and make it look nice and neat. Oh, and it would be a bonus if people could find books they were looking for. I jumped in with both feet my first day and got lost in that little alcove, arranging, rearranging, alphabetizing and bringing order to that wonderful chaos that was now my responsibility.

I'd found my home for sure. I was around other people who loved books. I met publisher representatives who came in to sell to the buyers (I desperately longed to be a buyer. What could be better than buying books with someone else's money?), who were witty, intelligent, articulate and fun to talk to. I so wanted to be part of that world. And, as I re-filed misplaced books (the best way to get to know that store), cared for my sections, worked the registers and helped customers find books, it happened: I became a bookseller. A soul-stirring, life-defining moment, every bit as powerful as the moment I realized, "I'm reading, I can read now," in first grade. I was a bookseller and it was a perfect fit.

We're Going to Cite You for That

Not that anyone would take them seriously, but at least a few times a day, I wish I could issue citations for criminal disregard of punctuation, capitalization and basic grammar rules. I realize I'm among the minority who bother with capitalization and punctuation in texts and IMs, but I'm really annoyed by the use of all lower case text. Is it that difficult to hit the shift key? I work in an industry in which quite a few vendors follow that lead and insist that the "correct" spelling of their brand name is all lower case. The subject was mentioned in a meeting today, and half of the people at the table, including the president, turned to look at me. I'm glad my predictable irritation is so amusing...

Then there's the abuse of punctuation. I have long had the urge to bust people for horrific misuse of apostrophes. News flash: they do actually have a purpose, they aren't for decoration, and for the love of all that is holy, do NOT use them to make a plural! I realize that interoffice emails aren't regarded as formal communication, but is it too much to ask for a little basic punctuation for the sake of clarity? A few colleagues like to taunt me with the idea that upper case letters and "unnecessary" punctuation will be phased out as fewer people bother with such formalities. (Insert joke about prying my Chicago Manual of Style from my cold dead fingers). Yes, language is dynamic, and popular usage does bring about change. But don’t think we grammar geeks are going down without a fight.

From the Beginning: Tower Books, Part 1

I've read that the path to anything worth achieving is anything but linear. That rings true for me. It hit me the other day that I've been at my current gig—copywriter at an online beauty & skin care store—for seven years. Seven freaking years. How is that possible? It means that as of this October (the 11^th to be exact) my Tower career came to a jarringly abrupt end eight years ago. It still feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago simultaneously. Were it not for Tower, my life would be remarkably different. I'd still likely be a voracious reader, but I believe the personal connection to the book world would be missing. Would I have found my path to being a writer? Possibly, but then again, perhaps not. I really have no idea what I would have ended up doing instead. So how did I get here, to this writing life? To answer that question, I need to start with how I came to be a bookseller. So after eight long years, it finally feels like it's time to tell my version of the Tower Records/Books/Video saga; my Tower story. The more I talk with my compadres and see their various posts and comments, the more I realize how different it was for all of us—even those I worked most closely with. Tower was an amazing experience, but it unfolded differently for each and every one of us. I'll attempt to avoid being a revisionist; I'm well aware of the power of nostalgia to soften sharp edges and brighten sheen. What follows is my best recollection of how it happened for me...

The year was 1985. Springsteen and Michael Jackson dominated the charts. There were no cell phones, a gallon of gas cost about $1.20 and the internet was still years away from even being a fanciful what if.  It was January, and I needed a job. My skill set consisted of retail experience and little else. Most companies had just let their holiday help go, or weren't looking to bring anyone else on board. What to do...I'd shopped at the Tower stores on Macy Plaza Drive and two people I had classes with at Sac State worked at the bookstore. One of them let me know they were hiring if I was interested. Well why not, I reasoned, I like books. I had no way of knowing that simple thought would introduce me to worlds I couldn't even imagine, make me part of the community of booksellers, bring me the people who would become my extended family and truly change my life forever. So I walked into store #323 at 7830 Macy Plaza drive in Citrus Heights to fill out an application. A week later I came back as employee # 10836. 

New Frontiers

 "Writing is easy. All you have to do is cross out the wrong words." - Mark Twain

For months now, I've been thinking about launching a new blog. I've grown bored with the old one, as my dwindling number of posts no doubt illustrates. It served its purpose as my intro into the blogging realm, but it just felt like it was time to move on and reinvent. Perhaps I’ve just said everything I had to say on that particular platform. I’m not sure, but what I do know is that I want to keep writing—I need to keep writing. Blogging seems the obvious way to do that, between freelance projects and the big project (read: novel). The first thing a new blog needs is a title, of course. Trying to come up with a clever, unique title that fits just right is enough to hone my procrastination skills to an even finer edge. Doesn’t that closet need cleaning out? Shouldn’t I mop the floor? The cats definitely need brushing...

Browsing blogs and searching domain names is not my idea of a good time. (See procrastination techniques above). Luckily, inspiration struck when I ran across the Twain quote at the top of this post. How much of writing is getting rid of the wrong words to make room for the right ones? Quite a bit it seems, especially for one so prone to edit as I write. (I’m getting better at writing first and editing later, but it’s still not second nature). And I couldn’t resist the old-school imagery of putting pen to paper that such a title evokes. Like the other one, this blog will focus on writing and language, a love of words, and of course non-sequitur observations and snarky commentary. As far as writing being easy, it’s a simple truth that one gets better at something by doing it. Will it ever be easy? Not likely, but I’ll keep at it. Game on, Mr. Twain.