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.
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