When I was a kid in suburban Maryland in the 1970s and ‘80s, bookstores seemed ubiquitous. We had two independent bookstores at opposite ends of a single shopping center. The mall boasted one chain bookstore after another. Books were everywhere, and everybody in my family had a preferred store based on stock, layout, lighting, and staff personalities.
I wish I remembered the name of my favorite independent bookstore back then. Though I can’t recall it, I can tell you exactly what the store looked like. Glass-fronted on two sides, it had a mitered corner so as not to obstruct the view of the treasures inside. In fact, the first time my parents took me there, I learned the term “miter” from my dad, as I ran my pudgy index finger down the subtle seam that joined the windows.
Once they led me through the door, I completely forgot about the glass. All manner of books lay and stood before me. To my left, dozens of low, square platforms supported glossy coffee-table books with lush photographs and illustrations, neat columns of fiction and nonfiction hardbacks, and stacks of comic books arranged like ziggurats and epic Marvel-versus-DC mahjong games. To my right, mass-market paperbacks lined row upon row of free-standing shelves and, beyond these, rotating racks of still more pocket paperbacks.
Howard Carter’s first glimpse of King Tut’s tomb couldn’t have felt more momentous.
Every weekend, I contrived a pilgrimage to that bookstore. Toys “R” Us never saw another dime of my allowance. From the checkout station near the door, a staff member always greeted us. Once they learned our tastes, they noted the newly arrived stock that would appeal to me and to whichever parent had the unenviable task of trying to limit my browsing and decision-making time. As if anything could be more important in their Saturday schedule than my evaluation of the relative merits of the latest Avengers and Justice League comics or competing titles that promised to unlock the secrets of Loch Ness, Project Blue Book, and the Bermuda Triangle.
In a way, I grew up in that bookstore. My interests expanded, and, guided by the always-helpful staff, I kept discovering new sections of the store I’d overlooked before. In my teen years, an allowance gave way to summer job money. A good thing, because the books that captivated me were more expensive. I learned to budget and save due to that bookstore. My first serious crushes were on the pretty cashier and several customers—which taught me how to deal with longing, rejection, and heartache.
I went off to college and, during spring break of my freshman year, I returned to find the store had closed, a victim of changing tastes and a sharp-toothed recession. This helped to teach me how to cope with loss.
Now, whenever I visit my local indie bookstore, I still get excited. Maybe I’ll discover something life changing.
I know exactly where on Earth I stood when I first felt that thrill of possibility.
Arthur
December 20, 2019 at 3:20 pm (4 years ago)There definitely is something exciting about entering and standing just inside the front door of a bookstore, particularly one that sells used/vintage books. I grew up in Atlanta in the ’70s and ’80s, and so Oxford Books at Peachtree Battle Shopping Center (the original location, down in the corner of the shopping center) was my first mecca. I used to wander the shelves, happening upon new and interesting titles and subjects (and I’d visit my friend Stacey who worked at the Cup and Chaucer there). More recently, I loved shopping at Books Again in downtown Decatur after I moved back to Atlanta from Boston; I was very sad when that store closed, as I found numerous lovely old books for myself as well as for friends and family.