"We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep."
--William Shakespeare's The Tempest
That word dream is the lifeblood of bookselling. Everyone who opens a new bookstore describes the experience as the fulfillment of a lifelong dream ("watching this dream come together is pure magic"). Enter "bookstore dream" in Facebook and watch the tote board light up. Readers fantasize about owning a bookshop, and novelists write about the dream. Even bookstores being put up for sale still hold onto the vision ("a dream of ours from the beginning"). Buzzfeed just featured a pop quiz: "Build Your Dream Bookstore Café and We'll Reveal Your Personality Archetype."
But what about the other bookstore dreams, the scary ones?
"Did anyone else have a nightmare or weird dream last night? It's gotta be the moon, right?" Anthology for Books, Geneseo, Ill., posted on Instagram Tuesday, sharing a text exchange in which someone had written: "Last night I had a nightmare you closed the bookstore. Don't do that." Anthology's reply: "I have no intention of doing that. I had a nightmare too."
Most of my bookselling memories are pleasant and nostalgic, even as I recall "the grind" of everyday bookstore work. But nearly two decades after leaving a great bookshop ("This Massive Three-Story Bookstore in Vermont Is a Readers Dream"), my recurring dreams can be stressful:
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| Black Friday at Between the Covers, Rigby, Idaho |
The sales floor is chaotic, with customers packed in the aisles grabbing books, and massed around the information desk firing questions at us like biblio-inquisitors. We triage, giving quick answers to the easy questions (Where's the history section? Do you have Stephen King's new book?) just to get those people out of the way, while simultaneously sorting out individuals from the crowd to answer their tougher queries like a bookish emergency room ("I only have one customer at a time" is our mantra). The demands keep coming at us, though.
The Latest Dream
My post-bookselling career dream recurs in different incarnations: I've forgotten my cash register code. I don't know where the sections are anymore. Younger booksellers don't see me as "on my game." Long-dead, but somehow still devoted, customers ask if that book they ordered from me ever came in. There's also a whole subcategory set at book industry conferences. Here's the most recent dream, from Monday night:
I've been away on vacation and they replaced the old computers with an entirely new system, hardware and software. As is often the case with computer changes in retail, everybody's learning on the fly, though my colleagues have a head start. I feel lost every time I try to look something up. I'd ask for help, but everybody's out straight as it is.
The new computers are on trollies, so they can be rolled to various locations in the store. They have keyboards, but the screens are detachable like tablets and have POS as well as touchscreen capabilities. Curiously, they have to be plugged in to an outlet once they are moved. And every time I go to use one, it's gone and I have to hunt for it, the customer I'm helping in tow, impatient. Once I find a station, I fumble with the system, trying desperately to be functional, polite, patient, and at least present the illusion of calm.
Strangely, the information desk still has terminals for our original computer system, from back in the early '90s. The screens are dark gray and the type eye-numbingly bright. While they are still functional, some key things are missing, including the ability to look up titles in inventory. A colleague about my age reassures me that I'll get the hang of it quickly.
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Noah Wyle, The Pitt (credit: Warrick Page/HBO Max) |
What Bookselling Dreams Are Made On
All the ingredients for this one were readily available in my subconscious. I've been watching the second season of The Pitt on HBO Max. If you're not addicted to it already, the short version is that each season chronicles a 15-hour shift in the emergency room at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. The Pitt's creators are obsessed with accuracy, which can lead to viewer exhaustion and TV-PTSD.
A specific bit of inspiration for my latest dream is that the hospital has been hit by a cyberattack this season, so the computer system is shut down ("We're about to go analog!"). And it's the Fourth of July. The staff is forced to go hyper "old school," frantically gathering a giant whiteboard for patient tracking, paper and clipboards for reports, a long-abandoned fax machine, "runners" to convey prescriptions and other orders/requests elsewhere in the hospital, and much more.
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The Pitt's Katherine Lanasa and Sepideh Moafi (credit: Warrick Page/HBO Max) |
Bookstore as ER? Go figure. Just so you know, however, I don't always dream about bookselling. In recent years, a recurring feature has been cameos by celebrities offering cryptic wisdom. In one I wrote down afterward, a car idles on a dark country road, with Jon Voigt at the wheel. Christopher Walken strides away, waving his arm in disgust. Across the road, Steve Buscemi fumbles with some small branches, and Voigt yells at him: "It's just a bunch of sticks, Steve!" Perspective.
On the same night the Anthology for Books customer had a nightmare about the store closing, I dreamed that my wife and I were in the backseat of a car driven by Willie Nelson, who told us: "Predestination ain't what it used to be."
But bookstore dreams still dominate my sleep patterns. I've long believed that once you have been a bookseller, you're a bookseller forever. And that seems to be the case, even in my dreams.