The Politics Of Friendship

"So, you're selling out.  You're buying in to a system that you've fought against for the last ten years.  You're... defeated..." he said.  "Is that statement designed to make me feel better?" I asked angrily.

We sat together, he and I, for the last time.  He took one final draft of his latte, tipping the cup all the way back before setting it down on the counter.  I refused to make eye contact with him, and there was now only silence between us.  He pushed back the stool he was sitting on, its metal legs shuddering against the tile floor as it moved away from the coffee bar.  Turning, he rose to his feet and, as I looked up, he walked out the door, and out of my life.

Michael was an intelligent, affable and educated 27 year-old fellow.  A life-long student and the son of a corporate executive, he was well on his way to a master's degree in psychology.  His long brown hair tied back into a ponytail, he resembled a bearded Matthew McConaughey.  He was married to Danica, a homeopathic practitioner, and together they had two small children, a boy and a girl.

He had started hanging around the bookstore between or after classes, engaging me at first with small talk and later, when he got to know me, long conversations over coffee.  I welcomed his companionship, as our talks were interesting, dynamic and animated.  I appreciated the similarities of our world views, and looked forward to our meetings.  Philosophy, the Arts, politics, deep ecology, no topic was barred, and often customers and friends were included in the discourse.

I valued the time I spent with him, and we started meeting casually outside the store at a cafe nearby that offered great middle-eastern cuisine.  We became close friends, or so I thought at the time.  I'm not sure whether I offered him the job, or if he suggested that he work part-time.  In any case, I knew his erudition and friendly demeanor were just the ticket, and I had a renewed sense of optimism for the future.  It also gave me a chance to relax a bit, knowing there was someone I trusted looking after things in the shop.

He and his family fully enjoyed the regular community poetry readings and musical events.  He opened up new lines of communication with clients, developed relationships with performers, and helped with set-up and take-down.  During one performance, he and his daughter danced to the music of a very appreciative folk singer, charming the audience with their fluid movements.

He did have some trouble with the cash register, regularly making accounting errors that were easy enough to fix.  He'd leave me notes on bits of till tape or sheets of paper, outlining the circumstances around a mistake, saying: "Chris:  I charged someone a $7000.00 for a book..." adding cheekily, "I don't know if that was done right."  As I was paying him cash under the table at the time, he would go on to further admit: "I took $13.50 out of the till on friday for lunch."

Startling admissions to his wife over the telephone would spark misunderstandings between them, leading to a debate and ensuingly a discussion over semantics.  I extrapolated later that these disagreements often stemmed from his honesty, and his propensity to find himself in compromising situations with women.  In one instance, after having coffee with an acquaintance, he went with her to her apartment. Somehow she managed to get him in the shower, but he was clear in stating to me that he was still fully clothed when this occurred.  I struggled with the notion of his predicament, and had trouble feeling sorry for him when Danica found out.

On another occasion, he told me of a chance encounter he had with a woman in a cafe.  She approached him while he was paying for his latte, stating how attractive he was,  how much he resembled Matthew McConaughey, and that she wanted to make love to him immediately.  His stories were entertaining, but always understated, and never boastful.

At one point, circumstances in his family life were changing and I was afforded the opportunity to buy his 1979 VW Westfalia.  It was the missing piece of the puzzle for my life and the bookstore.  Nothing embodied my lifestyle better than an unreliable accordion on wheels, or "flying shingle", as my Dad called it.

One day, a housemate of mine, Paul, came home cheerfully announcing that he had procured a chunk of hash, and that he and his friend were going downstairs to bake brownies.  Hours later, with the house smelling of fresh baked goods, he emerged from the basement suite clutching two baking dishes, one for Lance, our other housemate, and the other for me. I initially refused this generous offer, however, on his insistence, I relented and promised I would find a good home for it. It turned out Michael's home was not the the best place, as their little boy managed to spot it at the back of the fridge where Michael had hidden the package.  He came bounding into the room, his face covered in chocolate icing, shouting excitedly "Mommy, mommy, I found cake in the fridge!" adding, "Can I have some?"

I figured out much later that, at the time of our parting and the store closure, Michael was losing something too.  My folks thought he was losing his hangout; my wife recently suggested it was possible that Michael had actually never been my friend, but a friend of the store's.

His little boy was just fine the next day.

Mom and Dad

I can't make the claim to have single-handedly found the location for the store, negotiated the lease, constructed the fixtures for the grand opening two weeks later.  There were a few key players, namely my soon-to-be business partner, my girlfriend at the time, and most importantly, my folks.

To be certain, my girlfriend and partner collected materials, including books, lamps and chairs, but the majority of the purchasing for the grand opening came from the diligence and hard work of my Mom and Dad slogging through garage sales.  Ever toiling in the background, while I continued to hold down my job at a store that would some day be our competition, they accumulated books.  For 3 to 4 days a week they would map out a route of garage sales listed in the newspaper, careful not to backtrack and end up at the same sale twice.  They made shopping for books as efficient as possible in both time management and fuel consumption.

They also secured my first loan.  A relatively modest sum of money yet, for me, at the time, a king's ransom. This would end up being my primary investment in the enterprise, with my business partner matching the contribution.  It was only 3 weeks later when we realized we didn't have enough funds to cover operational costs, most of which required cash.  Back to the bank, to raise the ceiling on my loan.

It took more than a year to amass 4000 books, enough to get us off the ground, eventually organizing them into categories on the floor of my parents' basement - the foundation of the eventual sections in the store.  As more and more books were collected, they became more knowledgeable and selective, and by incorporating trips to estate sales, thrift shops and fundraisers, were able to get their hands on some real gems.  I would accompany them on these forays whenever possible, and we would end up in discussions over which books should be purchased, and what materials should be included in a bookshop.

Dad's painting, store name blurred

Mom has been a lifelong reader, and, throughout my childhood I can't recall a time where she did not have a book on the go.  I guess that has always left an impression on me, feeding my insatiable curiosity.  She was a stay-at-home Mom to 4 children, and it is worth mentioning, a font of knowledge, and a culinary inspiration.  My Dad had worked for a large national corporation before taking early retirement in the late 1980's.  I think his heart may be in his art though.  He works in acrylics and oils, and one year presented me with a painting of the store, having whimsically added a character peering through the window.  It turned out to be the uncanny resemblance to a young man who became a regular in the shop.

Though neither of them had small business experience themselves, they really took the time, helping me methodically and logically plan the necessary chain of events to get the doors open.  It felt like they cared, and they really did.  Later, they became my sounding board when issues arose regarding my business partnership and lease negotiations.

Five years into operations, following an audit of our electrical system, we discovered we had been paying for the power use of 3 other businesses in the building, including a video game developer, an environmental organization, as well as a large, well-lit outdoor billboard attached to the building.  Dad helped me draft a letter to the landowner for compensation, and we got most of our money back.

They were always there, part of the store from it's inception to it's demise.  When attending musical and poetry events, they would almost always bring food, drinks and other treats to assure I had "bums in seats".  I don't think I'll ever get over the notion that I let them down somehow.

The Psychology Section

There was a woman who lived only steps away from the store in a Victorian home that had all the hallmarks of an orderly existence.  She was a mother of three very successful daughters, about whose achievements she would boast constantly.  Nearly 5 feet tall and around 60 years old, with an English accent, she resembled a character from Shakespeare.  She was a piano teacher who taught from home and, as most of her students were late afternoon drop-ins, her mornings were free to spend as she wished, and she would come to visit.

One morning, a little after 10, I looked up from my newspaper and cafe au lait to see the door closing.  I stood up to have a look, but couldn't see anybody.  A scuffling noise from in front of the recent acquisitions shelf told me that someone was in the store.  Up popped her head shouting in the queen's vernacular, "Right... SHIT!  What are you doing?"

"Good morning, Liz," I said.  "How are you?"  Refusing to answer, she instead decided to focus on the over-sized steps she was taking to walk to the counter.  Reeking of some type of alcohol, or combination of distilled beverages, she now stood before me with something cupped in her hands.

"Close your eyes!", she said, with her usual slow, baritone, regal authority.  I did as I was told, as I was always up for a new experience, and waited. "Hold out your hand..." she demanded.  "Why," I said, starting to get more than a little suspicious.  "Have you been a good boy?" she asked.  "Why?" I said, now thinking seriously of retracting my arm.  She said, "Don't get smart!"

So there I was, holding out my palm, and in it she deposited some kind of food.  I opened my eyes to reveal that it was Black Forest Cake, and she was using her hand as a spatula to scrape the icing from her hand, on to my fingers.

As quickly as she arrived she left me, standing there with cake in my hand.  I ate it.

During similar visits, I would open my hand to find a raw egg.  On good days, the egg would be boiled and, if I was lucky, it would even be shelled!  Sometimes I received a can of unopened tuna.

Liz also possessed the uncanny ability to terrify customers with congenial drunken outbursts.  She could be a little more than intimidating, especially to recently arrived foreign students.  She would come up behind a customer, cock her head around their shoulder, and loudly whisper one of her favourite inquiries: "And who are you busy being?"  This unfailingly led to moments of astonishment, followed by confusion, as the victim tried desperately to determine the relationship Liz had with the store.  Almost always, I found it necessary to step in to deliver the person from potential embarrassment, and hopefully, rescue a sale.

The Late Shift

Not long after my bookstore was painted and rearranged according to the principles of Feng Shui (the ancient art of Chinese placement), I was working the five to midnight shift.  Through trial and error, we'd found that between ten o'clock and 11:30 pm very few people would stray in to browse the titles or strike up a conversation, especially in the winter.  I would often play whatever music suited me during those hours, and on this particular evening I was playing Holst's Mars symphony.

It was at about the 5 1/2 minute mark in the music at about a quarter after eleven when a man came in to the store.  At the time we had the counter at the very back, and after traversing the length of the building, the man was now standing directly in front of me.  He was black, rather handsome with his cornrows and high-end winter jacket.

He seemed to be taking it all in, absorbed in the moment.  A smile came across his face when I said "Hello... is there anything I can get for you?"  Without a word, he raised his hands up, turning at the same time. He performed a number of turns, laughing that sort of comic-book villain laugh, theatrically in time to the music.  I was righting the stool I had been sitting on, wondering what was coming next.  I had witnessed peculiar behavior from customers before.  It seems to come with the territory in bookstores.  A gentleman had once practiced his kung-fu with his reflection in the doorway, and on another occasion someone pissed through the mail-slot.  I was ready for anything.

He introduced himself as Baron Roth, and proclaimed his love for the store, and in earnest asked if the owners were gay.  "No," I said, "they are not."  He zigzagged around the bookshelves, asking me more questions of "the owners", how long the store had been open, and if he could buy shares.  Returning to the cash register, he looked me squarely in the eye and said, "Can I ask you a personal question?"  "Absolutely," I said, "ask me anything you like."  "Are you gay?"  "No, I'm afraid not, as I am one of the owners."  After a bit of silence he cleared his throat and said "that's unfortunate!"  Then, feeling foolish, with one hand he covered his face in embarrassment, feeling better only when I assured him that I was flattered to have been considered and that he had nothing to feel bad about.

By this time it was almost midnight, and I was getting ready to shut the store down for the evening.  It was then he chose to reveal the true purpose of his being there.  He identified me as the individual he had been sent to look for, and wanted to return with me to "the other side".  Apparently I was one of the "chosen ones" who had gone astray in this dimension.  When I tried to convince him that I was quite happy in this reality, and had no interest in making the return trip, he frowned severely.  Unable to contain his disappointment, he reluctantly acknowledged my request to leave the store, but not before telling me that he would visit two more times, before disappearing forever.

He kept his word, coming back to the store twice, each time trying desperately to persuade me to join him in some inter-dimensional travel.  To this day I wonder if I made a mistake, that maybe I was one of the chosen ones after all.  Ha!

He did not, however, live up to his promise to disappear forever.  It was about three years later, when I drove past him on a busy street on the city's south-side.  Perhaps his quantum powers had been revoked, as he was waiting for the bus!  Dressed once again in his expensive outdoor clothing, but looking as though he had a hang-over.  I couldn't stop to offer him a lift as I was in the wrong lane, but a thought came to me as I went by.  Why does someone who claims to be able to travel through different realities need a transit pass?

Holst's Mars Symphony by the London Symphony Orchestra - directed by Richard Hickox (Innovative Music Ltd.)