Christmas at the Bookstore

The tasks of a lowly bookstore employee are blessedly simple. Most days, I do book shelving. I start by sorting the loose books by genre (Literature, Fantasy, Poetry) and then rearranging them in alphabetical order. Then I push the book cart around and shelve the books. Sometimes I have to find sneaky ways to squeeze books onto overstuffed shelves, which is great fun.

Other days, I shrink-wrap books. It’s pleasant to while away 1 or 2 hours in the warmth of the shrink-wrap machine, cutting the plastic wrap and listening to the roar of hot air.

Sometimes I get a special project, such as revamping the messy poetry shelves, or unboxing stacks and stacks of pornographic novels that are the bookstore’s bread and butter.

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Book shoppers are normally a placid lot. But during the Christmas period, many were overcome by the task of buying gifts for the difficult-to-please people in their lives.

Over at Poetry, two girls tried to pick a volume for a profligate friend. They were forced to go with an unknown quantity, because “the problem is, once she finds someone she likes, she buys every single book of theirs.”

Another time I saw an entire Indian family trying to select a single book for their matriarch. “We have to get Grandma the perfect book or she will be be unhappy.”

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A harried, middle-aged woman came up to me while I was shelving Tolstoy. (You’ll be amazed at how many people read Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky still — or at least use them as social media props.)

“Quick,” she demanded. “What should I buy for my 13-year-old nephew?” You mean apart from Kleenex and hand lotion? I thought, sexistly.

“Hardy Boys?” the well-meaning aunt thought aloud. Please, no!, I thought.

“John Steinbeck?” I willed her to put down the copy of The Grapes of Wrath she was clutching like pearls to her bosom.

Finally she ran away to the kids’ section, probably to buy whatever the modern-day equivalent of Harry Potter is.

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One day, when I was squatting at Fantasy trying to reorganise The Wheel of Time books in series order, a woman asked me for help.

After a few cursory words in English, she lapsed into Chinese. I liked her immediately; she’s super Malaysian. “I have to get this book for my colleague for Christmas and I can’t find it.” She waved a piece of paper with the words “Dance With Dragon” written on it. “I don’t even read books!”

I steered her to the G. R. R. M. section and together we stared at the spines till our heads spun. The woman continued, picking out a copy of A Game of Thrones, “This book looks nice but it’s not the correct one. I did my research already. My colleague wants Book 5.”

I was touched that this non-book-reading person bothered to do A Song of Ice and Fire research for her colleague. We located A Dance With Dragons and she ran away to pay.

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The usual suspects did very well this Christmas. Big, thick, gift-y books like Dune box sets, clothbound Jane Austens, Proust’s In Search of Lost Time Volume 1. Also, cheaper stocking-stuffers like lite Japanese lit (Blah Blah Cafe, Something Something Cat).

But I think the biggest fiction hit this year was R. F. Kuang’s Babel. Copies just about flew off the shelves. Apparently, it ticks all the “dark academia” boxes, which is huge these days. I’ll probably read it (when I'm done with Infinite Jest...) — I hope it’s better than Donna Tartt’s The Secret History and Olivie Blake’s The Atlas Six.