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

  Me: *gathers himself* Well. You’re my first-ever lightning-struck customer.

  Sober Bob: Hm. We were struck as a group, my father and I, and some others – not all of us made it.

  Me: Oh. *sombre pause* Well. One of my colleagues has the dubious honour of having been attacked by a shark –

  Sober Bob: *quietly amused* Mm, that happened to me, too. I don’t usually tell that to people, though – it seems ridiculous on top of the lightning.

  10

  Monday, 9.05 a.m.

  Salt-and-pepper builder beard, trailed, at a safe distance, by mute apprentice: Mate, do you sell electrical extension leads?

  Me: No. No, definitely not.

  Builder Beard: *looks angrily from me to mute apprentice and back in search of conspiracy*

  Me: *foolishly attempts to defuse tension over predictable lack of leads with limp joke* We might have a book on electrical extension leads … ?

  Builder Beard: *puts a paint-flecked finger in my face* There’s no need to be smart, mate! *stalks out*

  Mute Apprentice: *looks stricken; silently counts to ten; scurries after him*

  11

  Saturday, 10.45 a.m.

  Woman who looks remarkably like a corella: Yehs.

  Me: *blinks* Yes?

  Corella Woman: Yehs. I need a book of nibbles for my grandnephew – he’s got five of them but his grandmother wants him to have more.

  Me: *translation software; memory palace* So the Aussie Nibbles early readers?

  Corella Woman: Yehs.

  Me: *reflexively* Yes. Ah, yes, we have them – do you know which five he’s read?

  Corella Woman: No. How many of them are there?

  Me: How many Aussie Nibbles?

  Corella Woman: Yehs.

  Me: Heaps. Shall I show you where they are?

  Corella Woman: Yehs. *pauses; thinks* But how will I know which ones he already has?

  Me: I’m not sure. Could you get in touch with his grandmother?

  Corella Woman: No. She won’t know. Do you know?

  Me: Do I know which five Aussie Nibbles your grand-nephew has read?

  Corella Woman: Yehs.

  Me: No.

  Corella Woman: Oh.

  12

  Saturday, 2.30 p.m.

  Brisk lady with a high blonde ponytail and a maddeningly fussy start-stop way of speaking: Hi. I’ll take this. *drops luridly pink children’s book on counter*

  Me: Sure –

  High Pony Start-Stop: Actually. It’s a gift. Would you mind wrapping it for me?

  Me: No worries –

  High Pony Start-Stop: Actually. Would you mind? I’ve got a few more. I didn’t buy them here. Could you wrap them up with it? *drops two more pinky-purple books on counter; winces a smile*

  Me: *cheerfully* Sure –

  High Pony Start-Stop: What colours do you have?

  Me: In the paper? We’ve got a few … *ducks behind counter to bring out rolls of gift wrap*

  High Pony Start-Stop: *leans over counter* Do you have pink?

  Me: *head in paper draw* Yep. *surfaces* It looks like this.

  High Pony Start-Stop: *sharply* And? What else?

  Me: Green, orange, and a sort of silvery black –

  High Pony Start-Stop: Actually. Would you mind doing all three in different colours? One pink, one green, and one black?

  Me: *bland smile* Sure –

  High Pony Start-Stop: And then just wrap one ribbon around all three?

  Me: Sure –

  High Pony Start-Stop: What kind of ribbon do you have?

  Me: … We’ve got a few different colours …

  High Pony Start-Stop: *raises eyebrows* Can I see them?

  Me: Sure – any particular colour you’re after?

  High Pony Start-Stop: *incredulously* Um … ? I won’t know until I see them?

  Me: Right. *manages not to grind teeth* Well … *makes a small pile of different ribbons on counter*

  High Pony Start-Stop: Wow. You’ve got heaps.

  Me: We do. So – *heartily* which one?

  High Pony Start-Stop: Oh. God. I’m not sure now. Pick one for me.

  Me: … Ah – what about this one? *holds up stripy ribbon*

  High Pony Start-Stop: *sharply* Yep. Looks good.

  Me: *begins to wrap presents*

  High Pony Start-Stop: Actually.

  Me: *wide-eyed, edging towards hysteria* The colour no good?

  High Pony Start-Stop: No. The colour’s fine. But can you do me a gift receipt, just in case they need to return it? It’s a gift, so … ?

  Me: Of course – one second. *writes gift receipt, slips inside front cover, and recommences wrapping*

  High Pony Start-Stop: … Actually.

  Me: *alarmed, wide-eyed, quiet breath out, still wrapping* Was there anything else … ?

  High Pony Start-Stop: *writhes closed lips* Nope. I can’t think of anything else to ask you for. *ghostly smile*

  Me: *still wrapping; manages a kindly smile* Getting your money’s worth, eh?

  High Pony Start-Stop: *with passion* Oh, absolutely! The minimum wage in this country is ridiculous. It’s completely over the top!

  Me: Oh. *measures out ribbon; cuts* Well. *evens and loops ribbon* I hope I’m justifying my wage.

  High Pony Start-Stop: *steely smile, pointed eye contact* We’ll see in a minute.

  Me: *ties ribbon in a bow, smooths, cuts rough edges* There we go – how’s that?

  High Pony Start-Stop: Perfect. Looks great.

  Me: Thanks. So, that’s $12.95

  High Pony Start-Stop: *sharply* Is it? How much was the wrapping?

  Me: The wrapping was free.

  High Pony Start-Stop: *Huskily, and with deep satisfaction* Good.

  13

  Monday, 4.15 p.m.

  Hairless man with very prominent teeth and a pronounced sibilance in his speech: Exsscuse me – do you have Bram Sstoker’ss Dracula in the Oxford World’ss Classsicss edition?

  Me: *delighted* Yes!

  14

  Sunday, 3.20 p.m.

  Gaggle of unaccompanied children enter store and swarm into the children’s section. One small boy, probably two or three years old, strains for a large animal encyclopedia just out of reach until his sister (four or five) hands it down to him. He hefts it, throws it flat on the carpet and begins to jump on it. Swooping in to rescue the book, I reel back, eyes watering from the ripe, rich aroma wafting from the jumping child.

  Me: *to sister* Is this little guy your brother?

  Sister: Yes.

  Me: *blinking through the stench* I think you better take him to find your parents.

  Sister: Why?

  Me: I think he’s filled his nappy.

  Sister: *surprisingly hearty snigger* He’s not wearing a nappy!

  15

  Monday, 5 p.m.

  Sporty older lady customer in gym shoes, lycra, and a pink hoodie: Aw, hi! *scrunches up face, snaps fingers* Aw! What was it? I just saw it …

  Me: *encouraging midwife smile* Was it a book? What kind of book?

  Pink Hoodie: Yeah – yeah. A crime book – can’t remember the name …

  Me: A new book? Maybe by a foreign author?

  Pink Hoodie: YES! A foreign author … Aaaawww, what was it?

  Me: Jo Nesbo? Henning Mankell? Andrea Camilleri? Stieg Larsson?

  Pink Hoodie: You know, I just can’t remember. Isn’t that terrible? I just saw it …

  Me: What did the cover look like? Was it a new release? Or something you’ve been after for a while?

  Pink Hoodie: I think it was a bit white with some black and red writing. God, I only just saw it!

  Me: Where did you see it?

  Pink Hoodie: Well, I saw it in the paper … and in town, and in a bigger shop, I think it was Myer? You’ve definitely got it.

  Me: We might do, yeah. Is it [new title]? Or [slightly older title]?

  Pink Hoodie: No, no, none of those.

  Me: W
hat about [etc]?

  Pink Hoodie: Nup.

  Me: *apologetically* I’m not sure … with a bit more info, I’m sure we can track it down, but I’m not sure we’ve got it.

  Pink Hoodie: *impatiently* Look, I know you’ve got it.

  Me: *bemused* How do you know?

  Pink Hoodie: Because it’s in your window! *nasal sigh*

  Me: …

  Pink Hoodie: …

  Me: …

  Pink Hoodie: Can you get it?

  Me: … Yes.

  16

  Sunday, 1.15 p.m.

  European man in orange jeans: Hhello, I bhought a bhook here rhecently, it was call Zhe’ro Wauhn T-hoo, by Pehter Zhiel – hit’s habout starrt-hup bisnehs. Do you have a nohther wauhn?

  Me: *vigorous computer searching* Right … Is it Zero to One, by Peter Thiel?

  Orange Jeans: Yhes, ehxacktly!

  Me: We should have it – it’s in the Business and Finance section. *walks to section, followed eagerly by Orange Jeans* So it should be here, give me a second. *squats on heels, scans bottom shelf*

  Orange Jeans: *stands uncomfortably close; orange crotch eclipses half my vision* Khan you see hit?

  Me: *eyes front, orange crotch blazing in peripheral vision* It should be here – just, ah, give me a minute –

  Orange Jeans: Zher! Zher it is! *crowds in further; points with toe*

  Me: *closes one eye against crotch glare, relieved* Well spotted –

  Orange Jeans: Yhou haf t-hoo poosh for what yhou whant – it’s what zhe bhook teaches! *minute pelvic thrust*

  Me: *recoils; stands up very quickly*

  17

  Saturday, 11 a.m.

  Infectiously peppy primary teacher: Hi! I have a book to pick up! Indian in the Cupboard?

  Me: One sec … Yep, here it is. I remember loving this as a kid.

  Infectious Pep: Me too! I’m reading it with my class!

  Me: *catches the pep* Cool! I’m sure they’ll love it.

  Infectious Pep: Yeah! Though I’m leaving out one bit.

  Me: Oh? Which bit?

  Infectious Pep: You know, the part where they become blood brothers.

  Me: *chuckles* I can see how you wouldn’t want that to catch on in the playground!

  Infectious Pep: *leans in with bulging eyes* I KNOW! I mean, HELLO! AIDS!

  18

  Monday, 2.50 p.m.

  Lady in sun visor: Yes, I’m after a book … I can’t remember the title, but it’s quite unique …

  Me: Do you remember what it’s about?

  Sun Visor: It’s about a French woman, and she finally tells her story. Do you have that one?

  19

  Saturday, 12.50 p.m.

  Righteous magpie lady and her drooping, sweetly bespectacled son approach the counter. Bespectacled son puts a lavish new cookbook from Yotam Ottolenghi on the counter.

  Sweet Specs: He-ey … Can we have this one? And can we, um, get it gift-wrapped?

  Me: Sure. This is a great cookbook! *scans it* I’ll just wrap it for you – is it for a man, or a woman, or doesn’t matter?

  Sweet Specs: Uhh –

  Righteous Magpie Lady: *swoops in* Why does THAT matter?! Why are you asking that?

  Me: *winces; holds up hands* I know, I know! It’s just people are sometimes particular –

  Righteous Magpie Lady: Well, I don’t see why you should PANDER to them!

  Me: *wincing even more* No, no – I know –

  Righteous Magpie Lady: I mean, you’re just wrapping a present! Why would you … ? *waves hands violently, trying to think of the deeply iniquitous, patriarchy-high-fiving thing I’m doing*

  Me: *still wincing; helplessly finishes her sentence* … Why would I reinforce strict gender binaries?

  Righteous Magpie Lady: Exactly! Why would you do that?

  Me: *making self small* It’s just that people have asked me to re-wrap things if they think they’re not feminine enough, or vice versa – I know it’s a fig-leaf, but that’s why I throw in that third option –

  Righteous Magpie Lady: That’s ridiculous! Why would you give in to that sort of thing?

  Me: *writhes* Pandering is sort of part of my job … *trails off dejectedly*

  Righteous Magpie Lady: *obviously disgusted* Well, this book is for a MAN! But I don’t want MASCULINE wrapping!

  Me: No, no, of course! *takes a deep breath* How’s purple?

  Righteous Magpie Lady: Purple is fine!

  Me: *wraps present with shaking hands*

  20

  Sunday, 3.30 p.m.

  Muscular father and son duo, both tanned and wearing grey singlets, enter store with sense of purpose, scoop up and pass from hand to hand a copy of Cheryl Strayed’s Wild. At Muscular Son’s urging, Muscular Father places book on counter and gestures brawnily at it.

  Muscular Father: That one, mate.

  Me: *tight-jawed approval* Great book. *blokey nod and smile-frown*

  Muscular Father: *hands over money*

  Me: Did you see the movie?

  Muscular Father: Nah. Any good?

  Me: *more blokey nodding* Great film. You should go.

  Muscular Father: *twists mouth; pained expression* Yeah, but it’s got whatzername in it, doesn’t it?

  Me: Reese Witherspoon?

  Muscular Father: Yeah, see, she doesn’t do anything for me – physically – and I can’t be bothered watching anyone I’m not attracted to for that long. She just doesn’t do it for me. *thinks for a moment; faraway Hemingway look* Bit like Meryl Streep.

  Me: …

  Muscular Son: *wordlessly pushes Muscular Father – hard – out of the way, picks up book and meets my eye, smiling desperately* Is it a good book?

  Me: *Equally desperate smile* It’s fantastic –

  Muscular Son: Awesome! *gives absurd thumbs up*

  Me: Enjoy it! *absurdly returns thumbs up*

  21

  Sunday, 10.05 a.m.

  Disputatious couple enter store arguing steadily at medium volume. As they pass counter, both pause to say hello – the woman tight-lipped but polite; the man with a shaved head and brain-scrambling, toe-curling halitosis. They stop in the children’s section and argue about which book to get for a friend’s child.

  Tight-Lip: We could get The Gruffalo but they’ve probably already got it but it’s really a good one and kids like it and I don’t know what else to get and how much should we spend?

  Halitosis: *makes mooing noises; loses interest; drifts away across the shop leaving a skunk-trail of mouth smells*

  Tight-Lip: *still talking* Do you reckon they’ll care if they’ve already got it? Todd? Todd? *realises Halitosis has drifted away* Todd! Where are you? Where did he go?

  Me: *from behind the counter* He’s in the travel section.

  Tight-Lip: *exasperated* How do you know where he is and I don’t?

  Me: [I can smell him I can smell him I can smell him I can smell him I can smell him I CAN SMELL HIM] I can see over the shelves. *gestures at height*

  22

  Sunday, 11.40 a.m.

  Curly-haired sarong lady fresh from the beach enters shop with sense of purpose; strides into the fiction section. Emerges moments later with growing urgency, interrupts my conversation with another customer.

  Curly Purpose: I can’t find N –

  Me: *distractedly* Hold on one second for me – *finishes up with other customer* How can I help?

  Curly Purpose: I can’t find N!

  Me: *thinks very hard; skips many questions* So which book were you after?

  Curly Purpose: Suite Française –

  Me: I know it. *checks computer* We’ve got it – it’s by Irène Némirovsky –

  Curly Purpose: *becoming exasperated* I know who it’s by, I can’t find –

  Me: You can’t find N – ahhh, I see. Fiction is over here. *leads the way*

  Curly Purpose: Yeah! *walks with me* I got up to M, but I couldn’t find where N began – where do you start N?
r />   Me: *awed silence*

  23

  Saturday, 10.15 a.m.

  Blokey, curly, surfer dude who might be Rob Palmer, host of various outdoor shows: Mate, do you have … *reads from his iPhone* Ma-DAM Bo-VAR-ee, by Goose-TEV Flow-BERT and … *reads from iPhone* There-EEZ Rak-win by AY-meal Zol-uh?

  Me: Yep.

  Might Be Rob Palmer: Aw, good. They’re for my wife.

  24

  Tuesday, 2.20 p.m.

  Richly dressed, clearly miserable woman, followed at a distance by two surly, teary-eyed children under the age of eight, peers at me through her despairing fringe like a driver through heavy rain.

  Misery Fringe: Do you keep Rachel Cusk?

  Me: *blinks carefully* Yes. Yes we do. *knows the answer, but asks anyway* Which one of her books were you after?

  Misery Fringe: The one about divorce.

  Me: *blinks even more carefully* Sure. I’ll check.

  25

  Monday, 1.20 p.m.

  Sprightly lady with a swishy haircut and a cheerful air of competence: Hello! I’m looking for a dreadful book about a criminal.

  My Colleague Arthur (MCA): *enjoys this a lot* We’ve got lots of those – was there one in particular you wanted?

  Sprightly Swish: Yes, actually – it’s called Mayhem. It’s about Christopher Binse, the bank robber.

  MCA: I’ll check.

  Me: *has sudden Sherlock Holmes flash of dropping a whole pile of this book while shelving* We’ve got it – one sec.

  MCA: *making conversation while I return with book* So why this one in particular?

  Sprightly Swish: *beams* Well, I used to work in a bank, and he held me up.

  Me and MCA: Really?

  Sprightly Swish: Oh yes – he put a shotgun in my face.

  Me and MCA: *mutual goggling, wowing, etc.*

  Me: *flourishes cover of book with picture of Christopher ‘Badne$$’ Binse on it* So is, ah, this the book you wanted? *mock gravity* Do you recognise this man?