Charging up the camera battery for a ghost-hunting expedition in the suburbs. The last vestiges of the weekend's storm trailing off to the east, patchwork of cold blue sky and dappled sunlight. A strange sense of internal calm after the circus routinely accompanying the first of the month: rent cheques, paycheques, staff deductions all due simultaneously, coinciding with everyone in the neighborhood deciding that they need money more than books. Thus days like yesterday, with the paid-out tally well into four figures by noon, contrasted with a whopping $121.75 of sales. These stats even out over time -- even over the course of an average business day! -- but are certainly responsible for more than a bit of the encroaching grey in my remaining hair.

What did I do yesterday? Appraised six bankers' boxes of modern firsts: Jim Harrison, Richard Russo, Richard Ford & etc. Wrote a cheque. Bought twenty different collections from twenty different walk-in vendors. Politely turned vendors #21 through #37 down at the door. Cleaned, priced and shelved all the new arrivals. Paid the gas bill, the new book distributor, and the phone company. Ejected the door-to-door sales guy peddling "the world's smallest digital camera." Ejected the babbling crackhead. Ejected the guy with the fake $5 (not bad color; toilet-paper consistency). Politely tolerated the incomprehensible old French Canadian guy who looked more like a Seth drawing than anyone I have ever met (hunting cap with earflaps; plaid hunting jacket stretched tight over barrel-shaped chest; thick black rubber gumboots). Checked people in and out of the gallery. Discussed gallery business over Thai food with Adam Harrison. Discussed gallery business with Steven Tong out in the street, while making anecdotal snapshot photographs of Gene and his blower. Shelved science books, history books, erotica and self-help. Blogged. Locked up, drank Cannery Brewing Blackberry Porter. Swept the store. Washed the floor. Dry-mopped the floor. Sang along to Cat Power, to Stephen Morrissey, to good old androgynous Davey Jones. Caught the last bus home. Read 30 pages further into LBJ's unsuccessful adventures in southeast Asia. Rearranged the cats. Slept briefly, with a short excursion to the bathroom to cough my lungs out at 3:27 a.m.
- posted by cjb @ 10:37 AM