The St. Patrick's Day parade always marks a turning point in the business life of Westhampton Beach. After a long winter, seeing people line the street brings hope. Even if most are there to drink beer and just want to use the bathroom in your store, at least there
are people
. The St. Patrick's Day parade means that summer is just around the corner.
I started thinking about those busy summer nights and the Open Book crew today. Here is a little bookstore story to celebrate the coming of spring:
There were no job applications in the file cabinet at The Open Book. I never actually interviewed a prospective employee. Employees seem to just be there; usually, the right person showed up at the right time. My first employee was a quiet young man who needed a job before he went off to the Iowa Writers Workshop to hone his skills as an author. After he left, we welcomed the girls with names that sound like songs: Janelle, Antonella, Danielle. Full of light and laughter, they helped me find the joy in selling books.
The era of the bookstore boys followed after the girls went off to jobs and college. The first, Robby, came as a 12 year old kid, helping to unpack boxes, telling stories and singing songs. He wormed his way into my heart and onto the payroll. Rory followed and then Christian and two of his tall brothers. Bret and Vincent were the second generation. Jessica, our store manager, christened them “the Lost Boys of the Bookstore.” Richard was their God.
Richard is a 60-something guy who looks and dresses like the Marlboro Man. Unmarried, sardonic, not so fond of children, Richard worked on Friday and Saturday nights in the summer since the store opened. He was never around enough to become truly skilled
at bookselling, but he was patient and trustworthy and woven deeply into the fabric of the bookstore. At some point each year, on a crazy summer night he would look at me and say, “Beam me up Scotty, the aliens have landed.”
For some inexplicable reason, the Lost Boys were obsessed with Richard. I came into the store one night to find Robby and Christian electrified with excitement. “We found out Richard’s birthday!” said Robby. “Really?” I said, impressed “How’d you manage that?” Richard is extremely private about his age, birthday, background and anything else that cannot be determined by looking at his denim shirt and blue jeans. Christian showed me a computer printout, “We paid $10 to an online investigation service to run a search.”
Richard worried over the boys. He would come in during the week to check up on how this one was doing in school and whether that one is getting along better with his father. We would shake our heads and cluck over the kids, wondering what the future held them.
This is what the Lost Boys unearthed about Richard: He was raised somewhere south of New York; he was in the Coast Guard; he is Jewish, Presbyterian or Buddhist…maybe some kind of combination of the three; his uncle used to make him take care of the mentally disabled chickens on a farm. These facts and the $10 birth date make up the dossier on Richard.
One Saturday night, a decade ago, Robby ran into the bookstore, threw his arms around Richard and said “Aren’t you glad you get to work with me tonight?” Richard said dryly, “Thrilled, Robby. And I don’t do hugs.” Last summer, Bret came into work and picked up Richard in a bear hug. “Richard! It’s our Friday night shift!” This time Richard just shrugged him off and smiled. “Ok Bret. Let’s get to work. Why don’t you take the broom and sweep your little heart out?”
