Dear Ladies:

In my several years of book retail experience, I have become well aware of the near-rock star status afforded to those who, in the face of low wages, lack of social mobility, and absence of health insurance, bravely man the cluttered, Post-It littered counters of independent book outlets across America, driven by the belief that literature is a social, democratic animal and a conviction that the workplace is still an appropriate setting for playing old Spencer Davis Group records. It is a status that I am comfortable with, and one that, to a greater or lesser extent, I have exploited throughout the years, as the mood fits. Only egomaniacal creeps, the self-obsessed, and Vincent Gallo self-apply the "sex symbol" identity. However, if one happens to find themselves wearing those shoes as a vocational write-in, well, best to simply run with it, and enjoy fortnue's rewards gratefully. Especially if, as is the case with my store, the degree of regular female attentions is heightened to Jimmy Page-like proprtions by virtue of the fact that there are only two males on the entire staff. However...



I must state outright (and my co-worker Mike agrees with me here) that it is wholly unnecessary to deposit your frilly, crotchless negliges before our counter as a calling card before leaving the store. This is not the Copacabana, we are not in Las Vegas, and I am not Julio Iglesias (and, in spite of his dashing, Latin-American visage and exotic whiskers, nor is Mike). I understand that our presence can at times be intimidating, for it isn't every day that one finds themselves in the company of a real, honest-to-god bookstore clerk, but I would like to take this opportunity to shed the larger-than-life mythology for a moment and assure you that, behind the horn-rim glasses, Chuck Taylor All-Stars, and Sick Of It All pins, we are, in fact, an affable pair of honest Joes who enjoy a cold beer and an exchange of phone numbers as much as the next guy.

Not that we aren't flattered, of course.