(1) Anne, Carver, and I went to the Lincoln Square neighborhood of Chicago last Saturday evening, and we stopped in a bookstore called “The Book Cellar” (clever, eh?). We found the store to be charming and cool. Carver needed to have his diaper changed so we used the restroom, and Anne, perhaps having acquired one of my public-bathroom-using neuroses, mentioned that we were probably then obligated to buy something. That is a dangerous suggestion to make to me in a bookstore. My self-imposed severe restriction on book buying, which had been going well until a few months ago, went right out the window. So I decided to get Anne a bonus Mother’s Day gift and bought a copy of Asterios Polyp. I wasn’t sure if she had any interest in graphic novels, but I’ve had people whose opinions about books I trust tell me that Asterios Polyp is insanely good and people who haven’t read it should drop everything and read it immediately. And even if she didn’t like it, I want to read it (yeah, not the most thoughtful gift perhaps, but hey, it was a last minute bonus gift).
So here’s the point I want to make: I derived some small satisfaction from buying the book at a small, independent bookseller, rather than from Amazon or one of the big chains (not that I don’t like Amazon or Borders or Barnes and Noble—I actually like them all and buy lots of books from them). But the thing is, I paid list price for the book + the absolutely insanely high highest in the country sales tax that is imposed on those who dare buy anything in Chicago = around $33. Had I ordered it from Amazon I would’ve paid $19.77 total, and it would’ve been delivered to me (I don’t have to pay for shipping from Amazon and there’s no sales tax applied). A difference of $13 and change is nothing to scoff at when you’re buying a book with an MSRP of $29.99.
I’m reminded of the time shortly after I moved to Ann Arbor when the Borders employees were striking and demonstrating outside of the original Borders (Borders #1) on East Liberty and they were singing songs of solidarity and such, completely blocking the sidewalk, and then some jackass got in my face about “crossing their picket line” when I dared to, you know, try to get from point A to point B using the sidewalk. At which point I told him: to fuck off; that I was only trying to use the sidewalk and didn’t so much as hint at going in the store; that the level of arrogance and self-centeredness required to think that every East Liberty sidewalk user should be required to accept being put out, annoyed, and accosted by him and his comrades because they are chagrined at Borders is mindboggling; that while I had no intention of going in the store, now, after our little chat, I was going to go in the store and I was absolutely going to buy something just to spite him; and that he can go fuck himself. Anyway. So my thinking at the time was: how do they expect Borders to remain competitive, and by extension remain in business, if Borders has to pay their employees $13 or more an hour and provide them with health insurance? Borders has a hard enough time battling Barnes and Noble as it is, and they clearly cannot come close to competing with Amazon when it comes to price. I’m not one of those people who thinks physical bookstores that you can go in and browse in are going to all be gone in the next decade, but they do have serious challenges they have to face, challenges that are bad enough without paying a clerk $15 an hour to do the exact same thing the cashiers at Ross and McDonald’s do (who you know are making way less than that) and providing them with health insurance. [n.1]
So, yeah, supporting your local independent bookseller, while worthwhile, is sometimes an expensive endeavor.
(2) I was in Borders in Lincoln Park on Monday. While I was in the store I decided I wanted to look at a copy of Native Son. So I went to the fiction section and looked in the Ws for “Wright.” There were no books by anyone named Wright. I thought: there’s no way they don’t have a copy of Native Son, a famous and relatively widely read book that is based in Chicago, that was stacked tall on several tables in front during African-American History Month. After spending a couple minutes very carefully examining the entire “W” section of the shelves, in disbelief, I could not find it or anything else by Richard Wright. So I go to the computer they have set up for people to search for books and such. The computer told me that they had Native Son in stock . . . in the African-American Literature section. So I went to the African-American Literature section and, sure enough, there stood many copies of Native Son and other books by Wright.
I also noticed that the fiction section did not contain anything by Colson Whitehead—all the Whitehead books were in the African-American section. I noticed a pattern, and it was somewhat disturbing.
I don’t really want to use such a loaded word, but the Lincoln Pak Borders (all Borders?) has segregated its books. By putting Colson Whitehead’s books, and Richard Wright’s and lots of others, only in the African-American Literature section they’re doing a bad thing. They’re limiting interest in those books (trust me, wrong as it is there are plenty of people who would enjoy those books who would be turned off by the label “black fiction”), books that are very good and important, books that are precisely the sort of books someone who would be turned off by the “black fiction” label should read. But I also understand that the existence of the African-American Literature section is a good thing; people who are interested specifically in black fiction probably appreciate that the section exists, that the sort of books they want to find are neatly collected in one place. Ideally, I think, the store would have the books in both places, but I also understand that a bookstore probably wants to avoid doing that—it complicates their stocking and inventory and such. It’s a complicated issue, for sure. But I still think it’s messed up that black fiction gets excluded from the seemingly catch-all category that is “fiction.”
Note 1: I recognize that the Borders employee would tell me that they do much more than act as a cashier, that they’re educated readers who are helpful in recalling and suggesting books, and so on. [n.1a] Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t want that service, it isn’t a service I’m going to use, and I don’t want to pay for it. I just want someone there who will take my payment as quickly and courteously as possible so I can leave the store with the items I want without getting arrested.
I also want to note that I am not anti-labor. It’s just that I think unions have a place, and that place isn’t Borders. I also think strikers should not harass people on the street, block traffic, et cetera. And I am also often suspicious of unions as organizations—I have personal experience with more than one union that was led by obviously corrupt leadership and that also clearly had interests other than getting the best wage, benefits, and working conditions for its members. I could say way more, but this post isn’t the place.
Note 1a: This reminds me of two things: (1) that scene in You’ve Got Mail where Meg Ryan’s character, the small bookshop owner, is checking out the mega bookstore that just moved in around the corner and is going to put her out of business, and someone in the children’s book section is looking for a book that she can’t remember the name of. The mega store employee is not at all helpful, but Meg Ryan’s character not only knows what book the lady wants but has a whole warm conversation with the customer about the series or something; and (2) I was in a Borders in Lincoln Park a few months ago and witnessed a Borders clerk attempt to help two black women who were looking for a book to give as a gift to a relative. They wanted a particular type of black fiction, and this was clearly not the clerk’s area of expertise (if he had one). It was painful to watch. In the end he said, “Oh! How about To Kill a Mockingbird? I Just read it and it was great!” Umm, yeah. That’s a service worth paying a premium for, right?
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