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VALERIE. WHO COULD FORGET POOR VALERIE? We met through a friend of hers. Jackie would come hobbling into the bookshop every Saturday aided by a walking stick. There wasn't really anything wrong with her other than her failure to keep her mouth shut when she was around fattening food, particularly biscuits. She would rather eat herself stupid and live like a cripple, than occasionally abstain and lose a few pounds. She certainly left enough crumbs in the shop to keep our cleaner fit and lean.
The few regular customers I had couldn't be considered customers at all. They would always plead poverty. On the few occasions they felt embarrassed enough to buy a book, they spent as little as possible. You don't have to be in business long to discover regular customers are not what's going to pay the rent, let alone feed you. They just come in out of the wind and rain to offload their weekly facile domestic dramas that are of little, or of no interest to anyone other than themselves.
Jackie came through the door around eleven o'clock, dressed like she was expecting arctic weather, as usual, despite it being late May and beautifully warm outside. Just behind her walked Valerie, who Jackie quickly introduced to me. Being gregarious, Valerie did all the talking. You couldn't stop her. Whether it was nervousness or not, it came out like verbal diarrhea. She felt the need to reel off all the authors she liked and explain why she liked them. She spoke passionately about modern British poetry. "I'm just a simple romantic," she said.
I said, "I have a well stocked poetry section over there," pointing to a dark corner where few ventured and nothing ever moved off the shelves.
She looked to be enjoying herself. I could hear "Um, Ah, Oh yea," every so often. "This is a good book," she said, waving Plath's Ariel over her shoulder.
"I can do you a deal if you buy a few," I said.
She said, "I'm afraid that I'm financially embarrassed at the moment. Maybe next week."
Sure enough she came the following week, and the week after. Each time happy to browse and keep her purse buried deep in her bag. She had a good figure for her age. Nice arse. Great arse. So I tolerated her presence more as a distraction than for any fiscal promise.
"You mentioned an American poet last week. Have you got anything by him?"
"Here," I said, handing over a well thumbed paperback across the counter.
She flicked through a few pages, stopping suddenly to read a couple of stanzas, before moving onto another, occasionally looking up and smiling. She then flipped the book over to read the publishers blurb on the rear cover, which described the author as being the 'Poet Laureate of American low-life.'
"Looks interesting," she said, grinning lasciviously. "But I haven't got any money on me. I only have my bus fare home."
"You can pay me later."
Giving a collection of Bukowski's poems to a woman surely can't be construed as a valentine's gift or a fucking love letter, but something changed. The following week she came on to me. Christ! She was twice my age, had lank grey hair and a fucking front tooth missing. No wonder she masked her gaping orifice with her hand whenever she let out one of her nauseatingly raucous laughs, which made my ribs vibrate like there was a workman drilling in the road outside.
She was intelligent. I'll give her that. It made a change from the dumb shits I had befriended before her, and was perhaps the reason why we had such a good laugh. But I'm a shallow bastard and though looks aren't too important, I wasn't desperate to screw her, despite being single and in much need for some pussy at the time.
The following week she came in early, and alone. She was wearing a low-cut white frilly blouse, showing a large freckled cleavage, and tight fitting jeans. She looked rather plain and drawn as she wore little make-up.
"Thanks for the book," she said. "How did you know I'd like him?"
"He appeals to women. He comes across as tough and mean, but he has a vulnerability that women like."
"You may have something there," she said.
"I think men like his macho bullshit, his struggle for existence. The boozing..."
"Well... I think he does come across as a charming, if somewhat vulgar man with a great sense of humour. He's very funny."
The few regular customers I had couldn't be considered customers at all. They would always plead poverty. On the few occasions they felt embarrassed enough to buy a book, they spent as little as possible. You don't have to be in business long to discover regular customers are not what's going to pay the rent, let alone feed you. They just come in out of the wind and rain to offload their weekly facile domestic dramas that are of little, or of no interest to anyone other than themselves.
Jackie came through the door around eleven o'clock, dressed like she was expecting arctic weather, as usual, despite it being late May and beautifully warm outside. Just behind her walked Valerie, who Jackie quickly introduced to me. Being gregarious, Valerie did all the talking. You couldn't stop her. Whether it was nervousness or not, it came out like verbal diarrhea. She felt the need to reel off all the authors she liked and explain why she liked them. She spoke passionately about modern British poetry. "I'm just a simple romantic," she said.
I said, "I have a well stocked poetry section over there," pointing to a dark corner where few ventured and nothing ever moved off the shelves.
She looked to be enjoying herself. I could hear "Um, Ah, Oh yea," every so often. "This is a good book," she said, waving Plath's Ariel over her shoulder.
"I can do you a deal if you buy a few," I said.
She said, "I'm afraid that I'm financially embarrassed at the moment. Maybe next week."
Sure enough she came the following week, and the week after. Each time happy to browse and keep her purse buried deep in her bag. She had a good figure for her age. Nice arse. Great arse. So I tolerated her presence more as a distraction than for any fiscal promise.
"You mentioned an American poet last week. Have you got anything by him?"
"Here," I said, handing over a well thumbed paperback across the counter.
She flicked through a few pages, stopping suddenly to read a couple of stanzas, before moving onto another, occasionally looking up and smiling. She then flipped the book over to read the publishers blurb on the rear cover, which described the author as being the 'Poet Laureate of American low-life.'
"Looks interesting," she said, grinning lasciviously. "But I haven't got any money on me. I only have my bus fare home."
"You can pay me later."
Giving a collection of Bukowski's poems to a woman surely can't be construed as a valentine's gift or a fucking love letter, but something changed. The following week she came on to me. Christ! She was twice my age, had lank grey hair and a fucking front tooth missing. No wonder she masked her gaping orifice with her hand whenever she let out one of her nauseatingly raucous laughs, which made my ribs vibrate like there was a workman drilling in the road outside.
She was intelligent. I'll give her that. It made a change from the dumb shits I had befriended before her, and was perhaps the reason why we had such a good laugh. But I'm a shallow bastard and though looks aren't too important, I wasn't desperate to screw her, despite being single and in much need for some pussy at the time.
The following week she came in early, and alone. She was wearing a low-cut white frilly blouse, showing a large freckled cleavage, and tight fitting jeans. She looked rather plain and drawn as she wore little make-up.
"Thanks for the book," she said. "How did you know I'd like him?"
"He appeals to women. He comes across as tough and mean, but he has a vulnerability that women like."
"You may have something there," she said.
"I think men like his macho bullshit, his struggle for existence. The boozing..."
"Well... I think he does come across as a charming, if somewhat vulgar man with a great sense of humour. He's very funny."
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About Andrew Lander
After ten years in the print industry, Andrew Lander set up a bookselling company which he has now run for the last nine years. He writes and paints, when time allow... <read more>
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