I Can't Remember the Title but the Cover is Blue

  First published in 2018

  Copyright © Elias Greig 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ‘The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere’ in William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Lyrical Ballads (London: Longman, 1798).

  John Keats, ‘Ode on Indolence’ 1819 in Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of John Keats, ed. R.M. Milnes, vol. 2 (London: Edward Moxon, 1848).

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76052 945 1

  eISBN 978 1 76087 022 5

  Illustration of books: Shutterstock

  All other illustrations by Phillip Marsden

  Internal design by Christa Moffitt

  Set by Bookhouse, Sydney

  Cover design: Christabella Designs

  Cover images: Shutterstock

  To all my colleagues, comrades, and co-workers, past and present.

  Contents

  Introduction

  1 Saturday, 8.50 a.m.

  2 Sunday, 11.25 a.m.

  3 Monday, 12.15 p.m.

  4 Monday, 10.05 a.m.

  5 Saturday, 3.15 p.m.

  6 Tuesday, 9.30 a.m.

  7 Sunday, 11 a.m.

  8 Thursday, 10.30 a.m.

  9 Sunday, 2 p.m.

  10 Monday, 9.05 a.m.

  11 Saturday, 10.45 a.m.

  12 Saturday, 2.30 p.m.

  13 Monday, 4.15 p.m.

  14 Sunday, 3.20 p.m.

  15 Monday, 5 p.m.

  16 Sunday, 1.15 p.m.

  17 Saturday, 11 a.m.

  18 Monday, 2.50 p.m.

  19 Saturday, 12.50 p.m.

  20 Sunday, 3.30 p.m.

  21 Sunday, 10.05 a.m.

  22 Sunday, 11.40 a.m.

  23 Saturday, 10.15 a.m.

  24 Tuesday, 2.20 p.m.

  25 Monday, 1.20 p.m.

  26 Wednesday, 1.50 p.m.

  27 Saturday, 9.25 a.m.

  28 Tuesday, 11 a.m.

  29 Saturday, 10.20 a.m.

  30 Monday, 3 p.m.

  31 Monday, 5 p.m.

  32 Sunday, 1 p.m.

  33 Monday, 2.05 p.m.

  34 Friday, 12.45 p.m.

  35 Wednesday, 4.15 p.m.

  36 Saturday, 10.30 a.m.

  37 Monday, 11.50 a.m.

  38 Sunday, 1.05 p.m.

  39 Saturday, 12.15 p.m.

  40 Sunday, 10.15 a.m.

  41 Tuesday, 11.55 a.m.

  42 Saturday, 10 a.m.

  43 Sunday, 10.15 a.m.

  44 Tuesday, 3.15 p.m.

  45 Saturday, 4.40 p.m.

  46 Sunday, 11 a.m.

  47 Friday, 10.30 a.m.

  48 Sunday, 2.45 p.m.

  49 Sunday, 11.45 a.m.

  50 Wednesday, 3 p.m.

  51 Monday, 12.15 p.m.

  52

  53 Sunday, 10.20 a.m.

  54 Sunday, 10.40 a.m.

  55 Monday, 4.05 p.m.

  56 Saturday, 2.15 p.m.

  57 Tuesday, 2.30 p.m.

  58 Saturday, 11 a.m.

  59 Sunday, 3.35 p.m.

  60 Sunday, 2.45 p.m.

  61 Monday, 5.20 p.m.

  62 Sunday, 1.30 p.m.

  63 Thursday, 5 p.m.

  64 Tuesday, 12.20 p.m.

  65 Sunday, 10.05 a.m.

  66 Saturday, 9 a.m.

  67 Wednesday, 1.15 p.m.

  68 Sunday, 3.25 p.m.

  69 Saturday, 9.30 a.m.

  70 Monday, 11.40 a.m.

  71 Friday, 3 p.m.

  72 Saturday, 10 a.m.

  73 Monday, 4.30 p.m.

  74 Wednesday, 2.15 p.m.

  75 Sunday, 11.15 a.m.

  76 Sunday, 12.05 p.m.

  77 Saturday, 10.20 a.m.

  78 Sunday, 10.15 a.m.

  79 Monday, 5.25 p.m.

  80 Saturday, 12.30 p.m.

  81 Saturday, 10.05 a.m.

  82 Sunday, 12.10 p.m.

  83 Vectors

  84 Tuesday, 9.30 a.m.

  85 Sunday, 10.30 a.m.

  86 Saturday, 11.25 a.m.

  87 Saturday, 9.15 a.m.

  88 Sunday, 3.10 p.m.

  89 Saturday, 10.20 a.m.

  90 Friday, 2.25 p.m.

  91 Saturday, 11.45 a.m.

  92 Sunday, 10.05 a.m.

  93 Wednesday, 12 p.m.

  94 Sunday, 10.50 a.m.

  95 Monday, 4.55 p.m.

  96 Sunday, 2 p.m.

  97 Sunday, 10.15 a.m.

  98 Thursday, 3.40 p.m.

  99 Monday, 5.20 p.m.

  100 Sunday, 11 a.m.

  101 Saturday, 10.30 a.m.

  102 Christmas Eve, 8.45 a.m.

  103 Saturday, 3.30 p.m.

  104 Sunday, 1.25 p.m.

  105 Saturday, 9.50 a.m.

  106 Sunday, 10.45 a.m.

  107 Sunday, 3.40 p.m.

  108 Monday, 2.30 p.m.

  109 Sunday, 4.55 p.m.

  110 Sunday, 2.20 p.m.

  111 Sunday, 3.55 p.m.

  There is one thing that stands out grossly to the eye, and respecting which there can be no dispute: I mean, the servile and contemptible arts which we so frequently see played off by the tradesman. He is so much in the habit of exhibiting a bended body, that he scarcely knows how to stand upright. Every word he utters is graced with a simper or a smile. He exhibits all the arts of the male coquette; not that he wishes his fair visitor to fall in love with his person, but that he may induce her to take off his goods. [ … ] There is not a being on the face of the earth, with a heart more thoroughly purged from every remnant of the weakness of benevolence and sympathy. The sole principle of all this fair outside, is the consideration how to make the most of every one that enters his shop.

  Yet this being, this supple, fawning, cringing creature, this systematic, cold-hearted liar, this being, every moment of whose existence is centred in the sordid consideration of petty gains, has the audacity to call himself a man. One half of all the human beings we meet, belong, in a higher or lower degree, to the class here delineated. In how perverted a state of society have we now been destined to exist?

  WILLIAM GODWIN (1756–1836),

  FAILED PHILOSOPHER, FAILED BOOKSELLER

  Introduction

  This book, like most books, began life as a kind of therapy. After years of selling overpriced shoes, I’d gotten what I thought would be a calm, dignified job at a bookshop on Sydney’s leafy, beachy North Shore. I’d just started a PhD in literature and, at last, I thought, here was a part-time job where the product I was selling was something I knew and cared about; where I might be genuinely helpful, rather than sly, enabling, and mendacious – key attributes for any worker hoping to make it in Australia’s vast retail and service sector.

  As any customer service worker will tell you, customers can be kind, thoughtful, funny, and full of pathos – but also irrational, demanding, intrusive, abusive, over-disclosive, and brain-scramblingly, mind-bend
ingly strange. The fraught interaction between patron and worker – the counter between us; the commercial imperative brooding above – dims down certain inhibitions and has a hothouse effect on eccentricity. To work in customer service is to be paid (hopefully) minimum wage to remain polite in the face of rudeness, to pretend all requests are welcome and reasonable, and to encourage impulsive behaviour in hope of making a sale.

  All this, I thought, would be behind me. I was on my way to a better place, a place of culture and harmless entertainment, where my colleagues and I would take turns answering what I imagined as the most difficult question we’d be asked: ‘I can’t remember the title, but the cover is blue?’ And I wasn’t alone. The special place of bookshops in the popular imagination meant that many of my friends expressed something like envy: ‘Oh, how lovely! I’ve always wanted to work in a bookshop’. Bookshops were a place of comfort, a pocket universe of humanist decency only incidentally involved in the grubby business of getting and spending.

  The truth is that, far from being insulated from the absurdities of retail, bookshops seem to throw them into starker relief. Our curious position as nostalgia property, cultural dispensary, and ersatz community centre means customers feel no qualms asking for help that contradicts or has nothing to do with our status as a ‘business’ – from free day-care (‘Just for an hour, they’re no trouble’) to internet research (‘Thanks for the info, mate, I’ll get it on Amazon’). And while all retailers encounter angst and human misery, the nature of the product means this misery is uncomfortably explicit. In the shoe shop, certain purchases hinted at midlife crisis or divorce; in the bookshop, titles like Healing from Infidelity leave no room for doubt. Finally, as one of the few remaining places where you can spend hours without being expected to buy anything, bookshops are the natural resort of the idle, the elderly, the lonely, the romantic, and the legitimately mad.

  For my own sanity, and as a small creative outlet between part-time work and a PhD thesis, I started writing up my interactions with customers. My aim was to capture something that happened to me almost every day, to put the reader in my place, feeling my trepidation and incredulity – but also my sympathy, amusement, and delight. This book isn’t or shouldn’t be a simple record of misanthropy and spleen. Rather, it’s a collection of weird, sometimes appalling, sometimes touching, and hopefully funny anecdotes about our bizarre historical moment: to listen to customers in a bookshop is to hear the Zeitgeist come roaring out like the Devil at an exorcism. It’s a record of what the placing of a counter between people does to us, at a time when the consumer is replacing the citizen as society’s basic political unit, and service culture looks set to conquer the world.

  If nothing else, I hope these pieces remind readers that the person on the other side of the counter inhabits their own life just as fully. You might be curious to know what we see – particularly since what we see is you.

  Elias Greig, 2018

  1

  Saturday, 8.50 a.m.

  Buff gym-goer with a gym bag over his shoulder, sucking liquid breakfast drink through a straw, taps on the door before opening time. I let him in.

  Buff Suckler: Mate, I’m switching to the iPad. It’s just better.

  Me: … Right. How can I help?

  Buff Suckler: Do you do second-hand books? I’ve got piles of ’em – they’re not in very good nick and they’re probably not worth anything, but I’m looking for somewhere to dump ’em. I wouldn’t want much for ’em. *pauses to slurp through straw* Would you be interested?

  Me: … Not really, no.

  Buff Suckler: *narrows eyes; suckles* Why not?

  Me: … Well, for all the reasons you just said.

  Buff Suckler: Fair enough. Do you have sex tips? *straw slurp*

  Me: *blinks; buffers* … Third row back on the left, in Sex and Relationships. I’ll show you the section. *leaves counter and starts to walk to section*

  Buff Suckler: Look, not to worry mate, I’ll just get them on the iPad. *finishes drink, puts empty on counter, leaves*

  2

  Sunday, 11.25 a.m.

  Freckly lady in a rope necklace marches up to counter, pushes up her sunglasses, looks furious.

  Me: *cautiously* Morning – how can I help?

  Frecklefury: Do you have a copy of The Secret River by Kate Grenville?

  Me: We should do – let me check … Yep, we do –

  Frecklefury: *tight jawed* Good! I’ve got someone in mind for it.

  Me: *fetches it from the shelf* Who are you giving it to?

  Frecklefury: *with feeling* A Racist!

  Me: *blinking* Oh! Awesome! Want me to gift wrap it?

  Frecklefury: Would you? That’d be great.

  Me: *wrapping* So … how do you think this person will react to the book?

  Frecklefury: *snarling* I don’t give a shit! *pauses; narrows eyes* I hope the bitch cries.

  3

  Monday, 12.15 p.m.

  Jolly apple-cheeked lady customer: I love Matthew Reilly. I know it’s not clever – it’s heaps of fun, but.

  Me: Did you like his latest?

  Jolly Apple-Cheek: Yeah, but it’s not for teenagers, hey.

  Me: Really? Too sexy?

  Jolly Apple-Cheek: Yeah, it’s like about young Bess – you know, young Elizabeth – and she goes for it.

  Me: *enjoys this a lot* Oh?

  Jolly Apple-Cheek: And there’s … Well, there’s lots of, like, whores.

  Me: Really? Whores?

  Jolly Apple-Cheek: *blushes; lowers her voice conspiratorially* Yeah – you know – whores of the Early Times.

  4

  Monday, 10.05 a.m.

  Older lady with a perm, a limp, and a big black handbag: Hello, I know you’re a bookshop, but I’m desperate to find the Telstra store that used to be in the centre – do you know where it went?

  Me: *reluctantly* I … suppose I can check online for you if you like. *light googling* Says here there’s one at Warringah Mall, so I think that’s your best bet.

  Old Perm: *incredulous* There isn’t a closer one?

  Me: *rigorous googling* No, that looks like the closest one –

  Old Perm: *sharply* Are you sure?

  Me: *evenly* No, but Google seems to be.

  Old Perm: Thank you. *stays where she is*

  Me: … Is there something else I can help you with?

  Old Perm: Can you look up a restaurant? It’s called the European Grill. I think it’s in Newtown.

  Me: *suppresses a sigh* Why not? *gentle googling* It’s in Newtown, on King Street –

  Old Perm: *interrupts* Would you mind checking Urbanspoon? My son is taking me there for dinner.

  Me: *checks Urbanspoon* It gets very good reviews.

  Old Perm: *cranes around to look at the screen* Can you print this page?

  Me: No.

  Old Perm: …

  Me: … Would you like me to write down the address?

  Old Perm: Please.

  5

  Saturday, 3.15 p.m.

  Early Teen Customer (ETC): Do you have Some Faults in Their Stars?

  Me: Do you mean The Fault in Our Stars?

  ETC: Is that the one where she’s got, like, cancer, but he loves her anyway?

  Me: Yep, that’s the one.

  ETC: *eagerly* Yeah, do you have that one?

  Me: We do! Did you want the regular cover, or the movie cover?

  ETC: Um, the movie cover? Is that the one where you can see her cancer, like, coming out her nose?

  Me: Yep.

  6

  Tuesday, 9.30 a.m.

  Woman in pearl earrings and a purple tracksuit: Do you have a children’s picture book about the Holocaust? I’m looking for something inspiring.

  Me: … No.

  Pearl Tracksuit: Have you heard of anything like that? Could you get one in?

  7

  Sunday, 11 a.m.

  Small girl in pink swimmers repeatedly throws hardcover Wind in the Willows on the f
loor while Listless Hipster Dad watches on.

  Me: *wincing as book hits floor* Everything alright?

  Listless Hipster Dad: Oh yeah … Sorry man … *looks blearily at daughter* Hey Lily – don’t do that, hey?

  Me: *wincing as book hits floor again* Ah, maybe you could take it off her …?

  Listless Hipster Dad: *wryly* Parenting is hard. She’s three.

  Me: I believe you. *winces as book hits floor again* Do you mind if I speak to her?

  Listless Hipster Dad: Sure man! *thinks for a moment* Don’t yell at her, but.

  Me: *gently* Lily, if you throw that book one more time, I’m going to make your daddy pay for it –

  Listless Hipster Dad: LILY PUT THE BOOK DOWN RIGHT NOW!

  8

  Thursday, 10.30 a.m.

  Punch-drunk mum and dreadful tennish son called Justin enter the store – Justin snivelling, punch-drunk mum clearly engaged in some kind of mindfulness practice to help with the constant horror of Justin. They head for the children’s section. Dreadful Justin pulls a book roughly off the shelf, drops it on the floor, and opens it with his vile little sandalled foot.

  Punch-Drunk Mum: Justin! This isn’t the library! You can’t just wreck things!

  9

  Sunday, 2 p.m.

  Soberly dressed woman with bobbed blonde hair: Just this one, thanks.

  Me: No worries – that’s $32.99.

  Sober Bob: Can I use payWave?

  Me: Sure, just tap it on the side.

  Sober Bob: *taps card; EFTPOS machine makes unhappy noise*

  Me: *grimacing companionably* Sorry about that – our machine is pretty unfriendly –

  Sober Bob: Oh, don’t worry. This kind of thing happens all the time since I was struck by lightning.

  Me: Wow! WOW! Really? That’s fascinating!

  Sober Bob: *flatly* Mm, when I was training as a nurse the ECG machines used to go haywire every time I entered the room.

  Me: Extraordinary!

  Sober Bob: *matter-of-factly* Yeah, there must be some residual charge.

  Me: Wow! You have a dormant superpower!

  Sober Bob: *ghost of a smile* Mm, well, it hasn’t shown itself yet.