The Poetry Reading

In the throes of working out the final details and last minute changes to some advertising for an event I had been working on with two employees, Claire and Matthew, I was paid an unexpected visit by local performance-poet Drew Ward.  He was a neo-throwback to the beat generation, and had a penchant for trying to shock people.  He had a reputation for taking his clothes off as part of his routine at adult-oriented programs.  In his early forties at the time, he was diminutive in stature, with thin skin over a boney frame.  He could prove to be unsettling to others in conversations that were most often both animated and contrived.  He was, in short, a little odd.  

He was delighted when I asked him to be a last minute addition to the open stage line-up at the poetry/music slam, but his face darkened when he asked if I knew of his poetic stylings.  I replied that I had heard of his dramatic disrobing during performances, and said that if he exercised common sense, we all could enjoy some of his "less revealing" works at what was going to be an all-ages event.  I was leaving it for him to decide, based on the turn-out, just how risque his material should be. 

Months earlier he had complained bitterly about having a sick parent living in Montreal whom he had not seen in quite some time, and conveyed his desperation in trying to find someone reliable who would temporarily take over his paper-route while he was away for two weeks.  My girlfriend jumped at the chance, pointing out we needed the money anyway, and we ended up freezing our asses off in minus 30 degree weather, picking up the papers at 3 in the morning, with a 3 hour window to have them delivered.  All while working 12 hour days.  Coffee, and lots of it...

Weeks later we find ourselves with about 40 people enjoying Matthew on guitar as the opening act.  He'd been practicing for weeks with a tremendous classical guitar solo.  Up until the last minute he was uncertain if he really wanted to perform it in public.  I'm glad he did, but wished he had invited family - this was his first public appearance after all.  Immediately after Matthew followed the headliner: a local rising star in the folk genre, a singer-songwriter named Grace who captivated listeners with acoustic renditions of her most popular works.

After a field of notable contemporary and local poets, it was on to the open-stage, and Drew was up first.  I steeled myself for his performance, having had second and third thoughts over the days leading up to the evening.  Silent, he placed his jacket down on a chair and took a deep first breath, turning to assess the audience as he searched for his focus.  The crowd (including members of my extended family) looked on expectantly, having enjoyed so much of the evening thus far.  Holding his papers with both hands, he began.  I became instantly aware that this would be a most memorable evening, as a crescendo of violent sexual imagery rose, directed from the protagonist in his poem.  With every breath he took, the air became more rarified, and the store seemed to shrink.  Drew appeared to get larger and larger.  It felt like he was reliving the moment in the words of his poem, angrily gesticulating about what he was doing with his genitalia.  His beady eyes, made artificially larger by the strength of his prescription glasses, sent a chill through the store as he glared about the room and delivered his version of the cold, stark reality in the dying lines of his first poem.  

I could feel from my position behind the counter, that there was now a palpable unease within the guests, and I glanced around the room to see people murmuring to themselves inaudibly between the first and second pieces.  What he would do for his next poem was anyone's guess.  I thought about pulling the plug, and moving on to the next poet; I looked to Matthew and Claire for some hand signal, some advice or wisdom on what to do.  They both shrugged, acknowledging the awkwardness of the moment, after all, there were young people with their parents in the shop.  As the owner of the store, I was the one with the ultimate responsibility to the audience, and it was only my own inexperience that left me unsure of what to do at that time.  I'd never had reason or justification to approve of anyone's material before a show.  It had never occurred to me.

Through clenched teeth, he launched into his next soliloquy, his ire also present in this new work, and he now found a focal point to direct his venom, locking his gaze onto Grace who, after having completed her performance, was leaning her chair against a back wall to enjoy the rest of the evening.  It is an understatement to say that she didn't look very happy and was trying to look away.  It didn't help that Brandon (a high-school student work-experience employee of the bookstore), here with his kid sister and very religious parents, started laughing aloud, which was unnerving but also served to punctuate the absurdity of what was transpiring on stage.  Drew's curled lips, now wet with saliva, unburdened himself of the predicament in his sexually charged rhyme.  He now gripped his papers with one fist, as he spat out the next lines of snarling poetics.  Shifting in her chair, Grace looked like a trapped animal about to spring as Drew leaned forward, almost over the first few rows of people, seeming to get closer to her.  Just as I thought "TIME'S UP", 35 people (including Grace) rose to their feet in unison, marching out of the store until only Brandon and a few others remained.  "Well...I guess I'm finished", Drew said, to which I replied "Yes, yes you are".  He collected his jacket off the chair, and returned to his seat, looking despondent.

As luck would have it, the audience gathered up their courage to return to their seats, having spent a few minutes outside on the sidewalk to catch their collective breaths.  My sister offered to read some stories submitted by her 13 year-old son; trying in earnest to salvage the rest of the evening, while cutting her eyes at Drew.  At the end of the night my brother confided in me that he was calculating his distance and the amount of strength it would take to subdue Drew, should he turn homicidal.

A week later I was enjoying a warm, sunny afternoon coffee with Grace at a cafe kitty corner from the bookstore, when Drew rolled up the sidewalk towards us on his bicycle.  He  said "hello" to Grace, acknowledging her as though they were two artist comrades.  Squaring himself off, he then addressed me, as though continuing a conversation, by reminding me that he "had warned me of" the racy material for which he was known.  He went on to indicate he was disappointed and pissed off with me over how badly things turned out for him that night.  I listened thoughtfully to his complaints, before recalling for him my request that he use "common sense" when deciding what material to include at the show.   I also pointed out that it had not been me that put an end to his program, but the audience who decided they did not want to listen to him.  "Yeah, well...that's true..." he said, mumbling something inaudible before saying, "see you later..." and pedalled off.

The Russian Weather Wars

A most unusual man with a most unusual preoccupation, aside from selling books, frequented the store for much of its existence.  He had a rather unique manner of dressing himself.  What set him apart from the other book dealers were the three pairs of eyeglasses he wore at once, including a pair of those yellow shooting glasses that hunters wear to increase contrast.  One pair had no lenses.  The third helped him see better.  He also had a cast-iron frying pan attached to his back, and one affixed to his chest.  Topping it all off was a blue construction hard hat, lined with aluminum foil.

His name was Raymond, and was a self-described veteran of the Russian Weather Wars of the 1980s.  Daily he donned his battlefield outfit to keep the aliens, who were allied with the Soviets, from reading his thoughts and controlling his heart through radio transmissions.  He told me that he spent sleepless nights on reconnaissance duties at nearby lakes outside the city, monitoring the UFOs which sucked up water to generate inclement weather elsewhere on the planet.

Perhaps he was on to something.  Let's have a listen to what prominent Russian politician Vladimir Zhirinovsky has to say about the weather in 2011...

It was obvious to me, and to the staff, that Raymond was suffering from undiagnosed psychological issues.  The one thing that remained a constant with him, was his friendly demeanour.  Soft-spoken and earnest, he would have poignant moments of lucidity, and he revealed to me that he had an estranged son, who was a popular national television personality.  He made it clear that he was proud of his son's accomplishments and spoke of him often, yet I detected some pain related to the distance between them.  They hadn't seen each other in years.

Inevitably, the clarity in his conversations would quickly evaporate and he would be back to talking about space aliens and Area 51.  According to him, he'd been there, observing the Americans and their experimental aircraft.  Undoubtedly a big fan of those late-night call-in radio programs, I used to wonder if Raymond had Art Bell [the former voice of "Coast-to-Coast" - the overnight show on the paranormal], on speed-dial.

Late one evening, I was walking over to the local supermarket a block away from my apartment to grab a few groceries.  As I walked past a dark lane with the neighbours' cars safely tucked away in their driveways and parking stalls, I noticed one very peculiar vehicle. It was a mid-sized 1970s Chevy Nova filled to the brim, save for the driver's seat, with old copies of Time magazine, clothing, and other odds and ends.  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light, and I finally realized there was a person sprawled over the top of the whole mess in the back seat, sleeping.  Quickly recognizing that it was, in fact, Raymond, I beat a hasty retreat, not wanting to violate what little privacy the vehicle afforded.  As I walked away, I turned for one final look, and saw a beautiful polished chrome sphere, about the size of a basketball, attached to the top of the car's radio antenna.  No doubt, I thought to myself, installed to ward off those testy Russians.

I had to remind him repeatedly over the years that we did not buy Big Juggs, Mayfair, or any other pornographic magazines.  Nevertheless, every week he showed up with a new batch, each smelling of a musty garage floor.  He always acted surprised when I put them back in his box but, luckily for both of us, he also brought in good paperbacks and the odd desirable hardcover.

Years after he'd become a regular supplier, Raymond uncharacteristically failed to make an appearance for several weeks.  A man stopped by the store instead; a friend of his.  Raymond had passed away from an asthma attack during the unprecedented heat-wave that had struck the city. He died in his car.

The Takeover Bid

Bora was a book supplier, trusted employee, and a welcome coffee companion.  He was outgoing and intelligent, pitching interesting intellectual battles with my co-founding business partner, Ethan, and I over political issues of the time.  He was compensated handsomely for the books he provided us.  It was because of the trust we had developed in him that we came to an arrangement whereby Bora, while on duty in the shop, would make a list of books he had in storage, but that we were lacking on the shelves.  He would then bring those books in on his next shift, putting them out on consignment labeled in red pen - essentially filling holes in our inventory.  It was expressed firmly that he could not put one of his books out on the floor if one of ours was there.  For this service he received 50 percent of the selling price of the book.  We programmed the cash register to create a specific category for Bora's books, to make accounting for them simpler.

My first inkling of a wheel falling off the wagon came when a long-time customer dropped by, mentioning he had driven past the store a few nights before, noting that it was 1:15 a.m. and saw that the recently acquired neon OPEN sign was still on, and the door open, with Bora busy putting books on the shelves.  This news came to me as a bit of a surprise, as we were only officially open until midnight.  I decided to have a look around the shelves.

To my surprise, I found many titles in duplicate in the Science-Fiction section, with one belonging to the store, and the other, priced lower in red, belonging to Bora.  I moved on to the Literature and Philosophy sections, where I made similar findings.  In fact, there was not a genre that had been left untouched.  If I asked you which copy of Hans Kung's Does God Exist you would buy if you had 2 identical copies, you'd probably say the one that costs less, if they were in similar condition.  Maddeningly, Bora had priced all of the books he put out to favour his copy.  Bastard!

I spent the rest of the day combing through the collections, removing every red-marked book.  I contacted Ethan, explained our predicament, expecting some insight or wisdom, but found only bafflement and frustration.  Ethan seemed upset with my discovery, but grew angry with me for having taken all Bora's books off the shelves.  "Can't we just continue until January, so that we can get through the Christmas season?" he asked.  "We'll owe him so much money, Bora will own the bookstore by then," I said, reminding him of the perilous condition of our cash flow of late.

The next morning, Ethan was working and I called him from home.  I pointed out to him that it was important for me to confront Bora myself if he came by, and asked Ethan to call me should he arrive.  He called me about an hour later, and when I walked through the door, Ethan gestured to the back room.

I could see from the way Bora looked at me that he wished me dead.  He looked down his long romanesque nose, head held high, trying to maintain his dignity, his black eyes squinting to register his disgust with my presence.   He made slow, methodical movements to check the stacks of his books I had neatly and carefully arranged on the table in the back room for him to remove from the premises.  About 3700 books in all, amounting to about 1/3 of our inventory.  I hadn't missed any - they were all there.  He began the slow retrieval of his books, loading his car to the ceiling.  By mid-afternoon they were all gone, and that was the last we saw of Bora.

Five Minutes - part one

It was a dreadful ride up in the elevator, and my heart sank when I opened the large wooden door to the office.  Making my way over to the counter, I greeted the executive assistant, giving her my name.  After checking the itinerary, she offered me a seat where I was afforded plenty of time to review the polished granite flooring, black leather over-stuffed chairs, and cherry-wood panelling on the walls.  This was where serious business transactions took place and I, truth be told, was out of my element.  My eyes grazed across the titles of the magazine selection on the table beside me: Report On Business, Forbes, Canadian Business, MoneySense.  Perhaps the other side of the lobby had a magazine more suitable for me: Roam on $5/day, or Homesteading Magazine.

Contacting the regional credit counselling service had been a first step on what I'd hoped could be the road to recovery, with an accountant whose keen skills could help dig me out of the hole I now rested at the bottom of.  Not that I was entirely convinced the shop could be pulled out of its nose-dive after the nearly 30 percent lease increase.  They had matched me with the firm whose lobby I now solely occupied.  About ten minutes after my arrival I was directed by the assistant to proceed to the office, and was assured I would not be waiting much longer.  The door closed and I was left sitting in silence.

It had been an exhausting 10 months since the renewal of my lease agreement. Sales were down simply because I could no longer afford to buy books in the same quantity.  The rent increase virtually eliminated my salary, and collection agencies were calling me 2 or 3 times a day.  My ex-girlfriend Amanda, who had also been my business partner was being telephoned overseas in the middle of the night with the same frequency.

Bill, as he introduced himself, came into the office, shook my hand vigorously and apologized for being tardy.  He wore a conservative pin-striped suit and was middle-aged, sporting a pinky ring and a Tom Selleck moustache.  He didn't waste any time getting down to business - he seemed to be rushing through the meeting as though he had a dogfight to attend.  Worriedly, I watched as he tapped a few digits out on his calculator.  He then looked over other documents I had been requested to provide him with - business statements, remunerations and income tax information from the previous year.  More tapping on the calculator.  Looking up over his reading glasses he said, "Yep, you're bankrupt," and then arranged my documents in a file folder. I started to feel sick, things were happening too fast.

The room felt suddenly cold.  What hope I'd mustered of resurrecting the store drained away, like the last bit of water in the sink.  I had convinced myself I would be introduced to a person who could help me set the store straight. Having been in business for 10 years gives one a certain sense of leverage, I thought to myself.  I had heard that you could make a consumer proposal to your creditors, fixing your interest rates at a workable 5%.  Instead, I sat across from a man who offered no other solution than the dissolution of my business.

Bill advised me that I should keep the store open to the end of the month, a mere 3 days away, and to remove any personal effects and files from the premises.  He made a date for a follow-up meeting, a week after this "initial consultation".  Bewildered, I shook his hand as I rose to my feet.  I was being shown the door, and I thanked him for his help, the way you do when you thank a police officer for giving you a speeding ticket.

My mind was blank and filled with mixed emotions as I made my way to the elevator, back down to the ground floor.  I unlocked the door of my VW van and for several minutes sat staring at the dash, feeling like a man without a country.

4 days later, at 3:38 a.m., alone and sitting on a milk-crate at at the back of the store, I broke down.

More days later I was back in that same office, being attended to by Bill, for our second and what would be our final meeting.  In the meantime, he had made some initial inquiries and had started the bankruptcy process on my behalf.  He had dozens of documents for me to sign in triplicate; my hand got sore from signing my name over my new title: "signature of bankrupt".  Bill went on to warn me there may be an inquiry as to how I let my liabilities get so far out of whack from my assets.  He also suggested that  I, "should have come sooner...".

I went home with a black hole in my stomach.  There I was, 35, at an age when I should have been at the top of my game, with nothing.

Post-script:

Through the media we learn that bankruptcy is a fate worse than death for business people.  Banks treat people who have gone bankrupt like criminals and simply refuse to open accounts for a person who is going through or has passed through the process.  I was told by my trustee that I would have no problem obtaining a chequing account, and that it was just a question of asking for one.  Not so, as I actually had several account managers from different banks actually turn their back on me, when I needed an account for a job I had.  Only with my parents intervention did I manage procure one, as it was required for automatic deposit.  I was fortunate, yet many are not afforded the same opportunity.

You'll find a link to part two here.

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.