The Bookstore Edition

I ran into Slam completely and utterly by chance, one afternoon of tripping around downtown - in the most literal sense of the phrase, harhar. We had worked together a few years ago, at St. Vital. She, ever the large, imposing Boss, stretched far too thin, and stressed far too much; and I, the passionate, naive, wide-eyed Follower of the Written Word, believer in all things Bohemian, eager to please, ready to work.

How unfortunate for our heroine, however, that never before that time had she come to know the world of retail. How unfortunate that she was unprepared for what was about to come, severely lacking in the training that would provide her with the skills she would need to survive, grossly unaware of the beast she was to face. Yes, how unfortunate indeed that our heroine was about to embark on a horrific journey, the very name of which sends chills of terror down the spine of any whom have come to know it... Christmas in Retail...

Needless to say, it broke me. That bookstore broke me. Raped me of all my dignity – repeatedly, and at various speeds. At the end of my seasonal term, after which they did not elect to allow me to continue my employment with them, I was different. I had changed. You don't go through Christmas in retail without having your mind, and at times your very body, warped and violated and traumatized until it is barely recognizable.

But, despite all that, I had some reasonably positive memories of That Place, though none, quite honestly, of Slam. Not because she was a huge bitch (she was) but because I spent too much time having my ass raped over and over again to have extended conversations with anyone, really. I was glad to see her all the same. She told me about the management position she'd just taken over at the little bookstore nearby. Ever the comedic genius, I snickered, “Hiring right now?” recalling in my mind how I had been the only seasonal staff to not be offered regular employment.
“Actually, yes. Drop your resume off on Monday.”
She paid for her tobacco and left. The next night I went out with this weird dude named Nathan. He stayed for the weekend. I applied for the bookstore job on Monday. I got it.

The rest, my friends, is history. And as with all histories, somewhere down the road, there is an ending... For the most part. I think. Can histories be ongoing, what's the definition of history, CAN SOMEONE GET ME THE GOD DAMN DEFINITION OF HISTORY?!

But I digress. On Wednesday it shall be my final shift at the bookstore I have come to know and love so deeply and intimately and passionately and sexually. I'm really quite sad about the whole thing. That store has watched me metamorph into the freakishly huge butterfly that I currently am, somehow tapping away at these inexcusably small laptop keys with my massive wings. Thank god for spellcheck, hey-oooh!

It really has seen me at my best and at my worst, that store has. I wish I could say that about it's employees, but alas I can't, because most of them are big fat immature jerk-faced hors who care only about themselves. Wait, did I say most of the employees? Because I meant Trina. What a bitch.

I've seriously come to know that store like the back of my hand (soft, and covered in skin, with some hair, if you were wondering). I love every single one of those books, I really, honestly do. One of the biggest perks of my job was getting to see and to touch new pieces of art every day. A lot of them were terrible, but the ones that weren't – the ones that stimulated not only the eye, but when you read it, the mind, and the heart, and if you were lucky, the groin... They made weeding through all the shit worthwhile.
There is so much pleasure to be gained from simply holding a book in your hands. The feel of the dustjacket when you run your hand over it. Can you feel the power of the words that lie beneath? The sound of the spine straining when you open it for the first time. Can you hear the sound of doors being unlocked? The look of the shape and size of the type. Can you see worlds unfolding at it's will?
Such small, beautiful things, so grossly undervalued by so many, and yet so necessary; so powerful in that necessity.

So this is my written farewell to you, Bookstore, though I will see you often, and shop in you occasionally. You represent so much to me, and have had a profound effect and influence on my life. I will miss working in you. For you. I'll miss your Fantasy section, under-stocked and neglected though it was. It was always my favourite, how could it have not been. I will miss your kids section, where countless times I sold “The Golden Compass,” the first book of my favourite trilogy of all time, and where I helped hundreds of parents and kids alike find the right reading material to awaken the Imaginary Dragon within them. I'll just miss being a part of you in general. You were good to me. I hope I was able to return the favour.

I won't miss processing returns, mind you. Or recieving. Or fucking SETTING UP SIDEWALK SALES. I won't miss working on Saturdays, and sometimes Sundays, and I definitely won't miss YOU, Ms. You-Know-Who-You-Are. For a woman of your god damn age, you should be fucking ashamed of yourself. My pot-smoking ass of a younger brother (I love you kiddo) has more maturity and common sense than you do, and the idea of you one day having a store of your own is one of the most sickening thoughts a smart girl like me could think of. Face it chicky: your life is going nowhere, and you either don't care, or are too dumb to have come up with anything better for yourself. Either way, it's stupidity that got you where you are today, and I reckon it's stupidity that will lead you to wherever you go. Probably for the rest of your life. I don't respect you, I never did, and I can't think of any reason as to why I should start. You're a sweet girl, and I do like you, but you fucking suck at what you're supposed to do, and your seniority lets you get away with that. Good luck out there baby, you'll need it.

And now finally, without further adue, I present to you...

An Open Letter To The Bookstore Customers

Dear Customers,

I fucking hate you. No, I mean it, I do. I reeeally do. There were a handful of you that were quite lovely, but they couldn't make up for all the terrible wrongs you did not only to me, but to the store, and my fellow employees.
You fucking reeked. All the god damn time. We literally walked around with antibacterial sprays, so we could disinfect all of the merchandise and surfaces you touched and came near. What the hell were you thinking? What. The hell. Were you thinking.
You stole from us. Some of you unabashedly, and without shame, because you're fucking idiots, so we caught you, and you got BANNED, hard. But most of you... You were sneaky enough. You were able to take advantage of us. That's why you're going to hell. So fast. You have no idea.
You sexually harassed me. Most of you with your eyes, you fucking sub-human degenerates, but a portion of you actually found the balls to vomit up cat-calls and inappropriate comments. I don't even want to TALK about you, Wheels For Legs. It's people like you, people who take advantage of a stranger's trust, who are destroying our race, you disgusting pervert. If I ever see you on the street, you are like so totally dead.
In closing, thank you for barely keeping our store running, and for making me miserable all the time. And by thank you I clearly mean fuck you.

Sincerely,
Unity
Former Customer Experience Representative