outside over there

A woman came into the store looking for a Maurice Sendak book that we haven't had in stock for years. She looked nearly seventy with fuzzy silver hair and riveting wrinkles around lucid, watery blue eyes. She wore a floral purple shirt that made me wistful for summer. She spoke softly but direct like a yoga teacher, her words slipping through her relaxed smile in a holiday tanned face. There was a silent friend of hers wearing white lurking off to the side somewhere.

The woman talked about a Vietnamese movie in which the book had been referenced. I thought about the weather in Vietnam this time of year. Buggy, green, lush and warm. Maybe she got that tan on a beach there. Or shopping at a market in Saigon where she first wore that floral shirt, still crisp from her suitcase. I had to keep blinking these thoughts away as I searched for her book.

I wrote down the reference information and sent her up to the special orders desk. On her way upstairs she turned and said in that Zen-French way, "Too bad you're in the basement on such a nice day". I flashed a painful smile and watched her go. Then I chatted with my colleague Elise about Maurice Sendak, showing her In the Night Kitchen and saying he was un peu particulier as a writer. That's what I say when I'm not sure how to explain an artist to someone in French. They always know what I mean. French is cool that way.

So I work in the basement of the bookstore. That means underground. I can hear the Metro rumble by in it's own underground lair somewhere nearby. Customers often confuse this sound with thunder, glancing worried expressions towards the cieling. I can hear the street traffic up above rushing by in front of the store, especially those high-pitched European sirene sounds and the occasional demonstration or strike. The revolutionary spirit is alive and well in France, though a bit more organized and less bloody than back in the Robespierre days. The latest to storm the Bastille were supporters of the ceasefire in Lebanon. In the basement the sounds were muffled but I still had the sensation I worked under a carnival that day.

Sometimes it's cozy down there, like when people come in looking wet and rumpled with their soggy umbrellas and frazzled eyes. Other times it's oppressive, like when a tan yogi French woman in a floral shirt makes a comment about what a shame it is to be downstairs on such a beautiful day. Oh yeah, and when I go into the stock room with the strange medieval air shaft where I hear the echo of voices. There's a sink just there with a mirror and a ghastly fluorescent light where I wash up after lunch. One day I heard the eery mumbles of mens' voices laughing and such through the stone and cement. I thought customers had suddenly rushed into the stock room. Toothpaste dribbling down my chin, I bent my head up and first noticed the shaft.

It leads to a place on the street above where some cluster of businessmen come for their cigarette breaks. Although I couldn't show you the exact spot above ground, and that's not from lacking of trying. None of my coworkers have been any help either, even the veterans to the place. The heavy odor of burnt tobacco hangs in the air of the basement stock room like a bar just after closing. I heard one time firemen had to be called when a cigarette butt found its way down there and smouldered away, filling the stockroom with smoke.

Dangerous stuff, fire, in our line of work. Good thing the culprits are mostly bankers and lawyers. They'll be able to read us the fine print on our insurance policy afterwards.