I’m going to share a dirty secret with you. I worked at Borders for nearly four and a half years. Yes, I was one of those unlucky creatures who did the bidding of corporate overlords. I sold my soul for minimum wage and free coffee. (Or should I say free acerbic sludge?) Nonetheless, I never once saw a famous person. You would think that a major contender in the book world — not to mention one of the longest-standing branches in the entire state of Arizona — could manage to round up some appearances by some well known authors. But no. While the college-town store on Mill Avenue (just a skip and jump from ASU) was hosting an event for Kirk Douglas on the publication of his memoirs, our store’s biggest “star” was instead Jerry “The King” Lawler, signing his own autobiography. Where were the people real readers wanted to see?
Apparently, they’ve been touring the independent circuit. The writers I wanted to meet were at The King’s English all along.
I’ve been working for the company for roughly a month now, and already I’ve met the eminent poet Mark Strand. (He looks less like Clint Eastwood in person.) I’ve bumped into Gordon Campbell, whose debut novel already has already shown promise of making him the next premier mystery writer. (Campbell is possibly the nicest man I’ve met in all my years of shaking hands with published authors.)
It was on just my first or second week at the store, however, that I was able to meet someone whose writing I’ve admired for years: Diane Ackerman. This woman is proof that brains, beauty, and a great sense of humor can indeed go together. She’s also proof that after publishing ten books a person can still manage to be down-to-earth and…well, human.
I recall one of our rare book signings at Borders one day. It was for a local author whose books, for some unknown reason, were quite popular. She called herself “The Queen of Clean.” Her reputation as an unorthodox housewife — using such things as Tang to clean toilets — preceded her; it was a busy night.
I was at the register, as were nearly all of our employees that afternoon, servicing an unending phalanx of customers. The line wound itself throughout a whole quarter of the store. I was at the tail end of the checkout stations, which was highly accessible from the lobby area of the store.
Suddenly an older gentleman (and I use the word merely as a descriptor) stepped straight up to my register, ignoring the rightfully next customer in line who was already half-way to my station. He tossed a book down on the counter between us and waited; the expression on his face defied me to say a word. But of course I had to say, “Excuse me sir, but you’ll have to get in line.”
Still, he stood there implacably, his face now a haughty entitlement. I tried again: “Sir, don’t you see the line? There’s a lot of other people who were here before you.”
“But,” he said, “I’m with the Queen of Clean.”
I nearly guffawed in his face; that would have been the appropriate reaction, after all, and not doing so has become one of my greatest regrets. Instead, I said, “I don’t care who you’re ‘with,’ you need to get in line like everybody else.”
In the end, he huffed and did as told. Ignoring the fact that it would’ve probably taken less time to ring him up and let him have his vicarious celebrity treatment, it was worth sticking a pin in his hot air balloon. I still imagine dinnertime conversations between the “Queen” and her “King.”
“Remember that time we went for that book signing and that little prick refused to ring me up? The insolence! That’s not the way you treat royalty!”
If your wife can call herself a queen just because she removes carpet stains with prune juice, then expect to be treated like a knave. Or worse: like a real person. And believe it or not, all of the authors I’ve met at The King’s English have been just that: real people.
God, do I love this bookstore.
