It’s that time again. Time to get a job.
Drew’s already been on the hunt and has had a couple of phone interviews. His resume is making the rounds. But I’m not looking for another office job, in which I and my fellow desk jockeys roil around each other like ingredients in a stew, each personality trait reducing down to its most distinctive and aggressive flavor. I want to work with strangers, customers. I want the days to be different.
I’ve been joking about that plant-watering job (vitally necessary in Oregon), but what I’m really hoping for is a job in a bookstore before all the bookstores are gone. Of course it won’t pay much, but then Drew’s always been the one to bring home the big bucks anyway, and we aren’t spending much now that it’s just the three of us. So he’s given me the thumbs-up: do what you wanna do, Averil, and I’ll hold down the fort.
How I love that man.
Tomorrow I’m getting a haircut (the curls are out of control and my straightening iron has been repurposed as a pasta maker), and making some copies of my resume (do they need that for a retail job?), and on Wednesday I’ll hit the road and try to talk someone into taking me on. I feel good about my chances. Surely the management will recognize one of their own. I plan to wear my glasses and my I Heart Franzen tee-shirt, and carry my most well-worn Mary Westmacott novel as though I can’t bear to put it down. I will run my hands through my hair during the interview and speak frenziedly of the dark magic of Joyce Carol Oates. I will be earnest in my defense of the hardback and scathing in my comments about the 50 Shades series. If the talk turns to YA, I’ll profess my love for S.E. Hinton–and Lauren Kate, to show I can be modern.
What more can a bookseller want.
How do you recognize one of the tribe?