Home For the Hellidays
My brother already posted his thoughts about the holidays at http://10withamop.blogspot.com so I will have to abort the post I was writing. Trust me, it was negative. Anyway, I’d hate to ride his coattails and I am sure the people who come here also go there and one anti-Xmas diatribe is enough. Having been spared his brand of retail, I really cannot appreciate the depths to which humanity can sink the way a 7-year veteran of K-Mart can. Instead, I will share my favorite Xmas retail story, pulled from the forever in progress chronicles of my former place of employ, the Aspidistra Bookshop.
Aspidistra was a grand place. I loved it long before I ever worked there. It offered the best selection and lowest prices of used books in the city of Chicago. Well, Bookman’s Corner (AKA Chandler’s) did and does offer the same, but their precariously stocked shelves (more times than not with contents spilling to the floor) and cramped aisles make book hunting into an extreme sport. We were messy at Aspidistra but we at least made some effort toward organization.
No one believed that I had to work on Xmas eve. My family thought I was once again opting out of holiday celebration in favor of sitting in my apartment chain-smoking and drinking scotch. No one else wanted to work Xmas eve—or Thanksgiving or Easter or any of the other holidays. My boss didn’t want to work those days but he simply never wanted to work. Everyone else had family out of town and big plans. I decided to be a team player.
My efforts did not go unnoticed. At the end of a long, miserable day of serving the public, I was free at last. Ron, the boss man, descended from his nearby perch and helped me close up.
“You going to see your family?” he asked.
“I don’t know… I suppose it’s not too late to catch the train. What are you doing?”
“Tonight or in general?”
“Tonight.”
“I’d prefer to answer the in general question.”
“Okay.”
“Nothing.”
A quick trip to the bathroom and then I cut the lights. I could see evidence of the rats, their teeth marks all over the crumbling union of wall and floor. The giant heating unit rested above my head like the sword of Damocles, supported only by some plywood and water soaked telephone books.
Ron was much older than I, living alone at the time, drinking too much and trying to figure out every little thing that made no sense. Except humanity, which he had ceased trying to understand long before that time. I could see myself turning into him. A big beer gut, unshaven, over read and under paid, burning bridges and becoming estranged from wives and children. At the time it seemed like a fine and proper road to travel. So long as there were books to be read, I would have a purpose. Who needed people?
I got ready to lock up and Ron motioned me toward him.
“Here,” he said, slipping an envelope my way.
“Thanks.”
“Uh-huh.”
And we were out. Practicing my best etiquette, I didn’t open the envelope until after he was gone. It contained one hundred dollars cash. As I stood on Clark Street fumbling for a match, I ran into Ron’s son and the “vice president” of the store, Colin. I mentioned the envelope.
“Well, Vincent, congratulations. I think you’re the first person to ever get a bonus from the old man.”
God bless that curmudgeon, I thought. His simple, unadorned gesture made me feel an actual flood of Xmas cheer travel through my veins and into my black heart. I caught the bus and rode it to Union Station, phoning my mother when I got there to tell her I would be home soon.
Aspidistra was a grand place. I loved it long before I ever worked there. It offered the best selection and lowest prices of used books in the city of Chicago. Well, Bookman’s Corner (AKA Chandler’s) did and does offer the same, but their precariously stocked shelves (more times than not with contents spilling to the floor) and cramped aisles make book hunting into an extreme sport. We were messy at Aspidistra but we at least made some effort toward organization.
No one believed that I had to work on Xmas eve. My family thought I was once again opting out of holiday celebration in favor of sitting in my apartment chain-smoking and drinking scotch. No one else wanted to work Xmas eve—or Thanksgiving or Easter or any of the other holidays. My boss didn’t want to work those days but he simply never wanted to work. Everyone else had family out of town and big plans. I decided to be a team player.
My efforts did not go unnoticed. At the end of a long, miserable day of serving the public, I was free at last. Ron, the boss man, descended from his nearby perch and helped me close up.
“You going to see your family?” he asked.
“I don’t know… I suppose it’s not too late to catch the train. What are you doing?”
“Tonight or in general?”
“Tonight.”
“I’d prefer to answer the in general question.”
“Okay.”
“Nothing.”
A quick trip to the bathroom and then I cut the lights. I could see evidence of the rats, their teeth marks all over the crumbling union of wall and floor. The giant heating unit rested above my head like the sword of Damocles, supported only by some plywood and water soaked telephone books.
Ron was much older than I, living alone at the time, drinking too much and trying to figure out every little thing that made no sense. Except humanity, which he had ceased trying to understand long before that time. I could see myself turning into him. A big beer gut, unshaven, over read and under paid, burning bridges and becoming estranged from wives and children. At the time it seemed like a fine and proper road to travel. So long as there were books to be read, I would have a purpose. Who needed people?
I got ready to lock up and Ron motioned me toward him.
“Here,” he said, slipping an envelope my way.
“Thanks.”
“Uh-huh.”
And we were out. Practicing my best etiquette, I didn’t open the envelope until after he was gone. It contained one hundred dollars cash. As I stood on Clark Street fumbling for a match, I ran into Ron’s son and the “vice president” of the store, Colin. I mentioned the envelope.
“Well, Vincent, congratulations. I think you’re the first person to ever get a bonus from the old man.”
God bless that curmudgeon, I thought. His simple, unadorned gesture made me feel an actual flood of Xmas cheer travel through my veins and into my black heart. I caught the bus and rode it to Union Station, phoning my mother when I got there to tell her I would be home soon.
posted by ZombieDante at 9:33 AM
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