I order a book online to be picked up at a bookstore in town. As I do it well after they close, I expect to pick it up the next day. Instead, I receive this text.

Text: “We’re sorry! Your [Bookstore] buy online, pickup at store order has been cancelled; see your email for details.”

I check my emails throughout the day but never receive anything. I resign myself to ordering through a major online realtor… until the day after. My phone rings.

Me: “Hello?”

Caller: “Hello, is this [My Name]?”

Me: “Uh, yes. Who am I speaking with?”

Caller: “I’m [Caller] from [Bookstore]. I saw that your order for [Book] by [Author] has been cancelled. I guess the person pulling orders couldn’t find it and you won’t be charged for it. Well, I checked today and I found it, so all you have to do is submit a new order and come pick it up. It’s at the help desk ready for you.”

Fairly entertained by the whole situation, I submitted a new order and went to the store when it was ready. I ended up speaking to the person I had spoken with on the phone, who said they’d checked this morning and found the book exactly where it was supposed to be, and that they had no idea what had happened the day previous.

A woman walks up to my desk. She is wearing the required mask and has a slight, possibly Australian, accent. She says something to me that I can’t quite make out, and that sounds completely ludicrous. After a moment, I realize that what she was actually saying was:

Customer: “Is it all right if I pay with a card?”

I assure her that it is, then laugh and tell her:

Me: “For a moment there, I thought you said, ‘Is it all right if I play with a cod?”

Customer: *With a straight face* “Do you have one?”

We both cracked up.

I work in a small independent bookshop. Due to the current health crisis, it is recommended that any merchandise touched by customers should be quarantined for seventy-two hours before being offered back for sale. We have set a couple of large baskets in the middle of the shop, and there are hand sanitisers in several places along with large signs asking people to sanitise their hands and to only touch books they want to buy, and if they decide not to buy a book they have touched, to place it in the basket so we can quarantine it.

A customer comes in and browses for a minute or two, then pulls a book, looks at it, and puts it back on the shelf. I go over and take the book and drop it in the basket.

Me: “Hi, sir, if you touch a book can you please put it in the basket?”

Customer: “What? Why?”

Me: “If any books are touched, we need to quarantine them for three days. It’s fine if you want to look at books; just please put them in the basket when you’re done instead of back on the shelf.”

Customer: “I used sanitiser.”

Me: “I’m sure you did, but I’m afraid we still need to quarantine anything that’s been touched.”

He looks into the basket, which has about a dozen books in it.

Customer: “So what if I want one of those books?”

Me: “Well, if there’s one on the shelf, you’re welcome to buy it.”

Customer: “What if it’s the only one?”

Me: “It will need to be quarantined.”

Customer: “So I can’t buy it?”

Me: “No, I’m sorry, but any books in the basket are not for sale.”

Customer: “Well, that’s just stupid.”

Me: “Sorry, sir, it’s the rules.”

Customer: “What about this, then?”

He walks up to a shelf, rubs his hands over his face, and then rubs his hands all over all the books.

Customer: “Are you gonna quarantine all these, then?”

Me: “Yes. Yes, I am. Thanks for that.”

I started piling the books in the basket. He just stared at me and then left quietly.

Two boys, around fourteen years old, walk in and just stand inside the door, hands in their pockets, not looking at anything. I walk over.

Me: “Hello. Can I help you?”

Boy #1: “Yeah, we need books.”

Me: “What kind of books?”

Boy #1: “Dunno. Books.”

Me: “For yourself? Or as a gift for somebody?”

Boy #1: “Ourselves.”

Boy #2: “We’ve got detention and the teacher said to bring a book to read.”

Me: “Ah, I see. What kind of books do you like?”

Boy #1: “Dunno.”

Me: “Would you like to look around and see what we’ve got?”

Boy #2: “Nah, you show us.”

I start at the nearest display.

Me: “Do you guys like to take pictures?”

Boy #1: “Yeah, I guess.”

Me: “Here are some books about photography. This one’s about cameras and lenses and so on, and this one shows how to take a great photo with just the right colours and lighting. Would you like to look at them?”

Boy #1: “Nah, sounds boring.”

Me: “No photography books, then. Do you like scary stories?”

Boy #1: “Yeah, I guess.”

The two of them are “Yeah-I-guess” interested in adventure, technology, sci-fi, true crime, cars, animals, foreign countries, history, philosophy, whodunnits, superheroes, Norse mythology, politics, and romance.

Every book I suggest either “Nah-sounds-boring” or “Nah-looks-too-long.” They never take their hands out of their pockets. I wonder if I should send them to the library just to get them off my hands.

While I’m taking the two of them from display to shelf and from shelf to display, showing them everything except the preschool picture books, my coworker is helping other customers. The doorbell chimes and one of our regulars comes in.

Coworker: “Hello, Mrs. [Regular]! Over here.”

He pulls a book from a shelf and holds it out to her. 

Regular: “That’s the one. Thank you!”

She follows my coworker to the till, buys the book, and leaves. My two teenagers have been watching. 

Boy #2: “Why can’t you do what he does?”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Boy #2: “He just looked at that lady and knew what book she wanted.”

Boy #1: “Yeah, why can’t you do the same thing for us?”

Boy #2: “Or maybe he should look at us and give us our books.”

I suppress a groan, turn a beginning facepalm into a hair-adjusting gesture, and switch my smile back on.

Me: “My coworker has a special gift. If you’d like, we can go over and ask him to find the books you want.”

I walk them over. My coworker must have heard what we said, because as we are approaching, he squints at [Boy #1], then closes his eyes, murmurs to himself, and says:

Coworker: “Yes, yes, I can see it. You want, you want—” *points in a random direction* “—that one!”

He’s pointing at the technology shelf. [Boy #1] walks over, pulls out a book about the history of cars, and says:

Boy #1: “Yeah, this one looks good.”

My coworker repeats the process with [Boy #2]. Both end up buying books that they didn’t want earlier when I suggested them. After they’re gone, I turn to my coworker.

Me: “Mrs. [Regular] called ahead, didn’t she?”

Coworker: *Grinning* “Yes, she did.”

Me: “Why do you always get the easy ones?”

I was a bookseller for almost a decade but left for a high-paying Monday-to-Friday, nine-to-five job. I loved my job. After I left, I still frequented the bookstores in the chain a lot, browsing shelves, checking out new titles, and catching up with old coworkers.

I’m in my old store. It’s in an area that has access to a number of posh neighborhoods. It’s been maybe three or four years since I left. The staff has gone through its sixth turnover, and only a small handful of employees that I worked with are still there. I’m in jeans and my university sweatshirt and I have my purse over my shoulder and my cell phone out with earbuds in, listening to metal music. I’m clearly a customer. There is no uniform here, just casual clothes with a lanyard that holds a name tag.

I’m perusing the Sci-Fi/Fantasy section and one of the employees, one that I don’t know, comes up to ask if I need any help. I say that I do, that I used to work there, and that I am looking for a couple more books. I tell him what type of books I like, and he recommends a few good titles. We end up chatting more about the genre in general, about the classic authors, etc. I thank him and he goes on his way, and I’m two books richer.

I move on to the Mystery section, putting my earbuds back in, and I pick up an empty basket to put my books in, when I feel it. The finger. That hard few pokes executed by a boney digit tipped with a long acrylic nail. Then the words.

Customer: “Excuuuuse me!”

I take out an earbud.

Me: “What?”

Customer: “That’s not how you greet a customer! So rude!”

Me: “Look who’s talking.”

Customer: “What did you say to me?”

Me: “What do you want? And I don’t work here, by the way.”

Customer: “You do, I heard you chatting with that other employee over there. I need this book.”

She presents her iPhone that indeed has a picture of a book.

Me: “I don’t work here, lady. Back the h*** up.”

Customer: “What did you say to me?! How dare you?! You’re required to help me! I’m a paying customer!”

Me: “I’m not required to do anything!”

I turn my back on her and move farther down the aisle, hoping she’ll take the hint. NOPE! Instead, she grabs the back of my hoodie and yanks me back.

Me: “What the f*** is your problem, lady?! I don’t work here! I’m in jeans and a sweatshirt! I have my purse! I was listening to music, for f***’s sake!”

Customer: “I know you work here. I’ve seen you here before working!”

Me: “I used to work here, years ago, but I don’t anymore, so back up!”

Customer: “You’re still obligated to help me! It’s part of your code!”

Me: *Pauses* “Say what?”

Customer: “Your code! You have to help me, or I’ll speak to your manager and get you banned and fined!”

I’m staring now at this lunatic and then at her husband with an “Is she serious?” look. He can’t even look at me.

Me: “Fine, do it. I’ll get a manager. Let’s see who gets in trouble.”

I flag down an employee and ask for a manager. When they ask why, I tell them we just need a manager. The employee shrugs, gets on their portable store phone, and calls for a manager, who comes over. This manager was here when I worked here and is known for not taking any crap.

Manager: “Hi, what seems to be the problem?”

The woman, of course, starts her spewing, yammering on about how I insulted her, called her names, and refused to assist her. She plays no tears, just rage.

Manager: “Ma’am, please, there is no need for that kind of language or that level of volume.” *Turns to me* “Miss, can you tell me what happened?”

I give him my version, trying to hide my smirk. The manager is staring at the woman now like she’s an idiot.

Manager: “Ma’am, she doesn’t work here. I can help you find your book, but you can’t go around harassing people, be they employee or customer, even if they used to work here.”

The woman says some other foul things.

Manager: “Ma’am, you have three choices. One, pipe down and I’ll help you out. Two, keep going and I’ll have you removed and banned. Or three, just leave. Your choice.”

The woman and the manager had a staring match that lasted a good fifteen seconds. Then, the woman left with a scowl, and the manager and I shared a small high-five.