Chapter 4: Well

Carolyn Pierce glanced at her watch. It was nearly 4:00. One more interview, well, two more, and she would head home. Dinner would be simple, a warmed-over meat loaf. Still, she wanted to get home in plenty of time to have it ready when Bill walked in. For that matter, she was driving, and she wanted to get back to Evanston before the rush hour hit.

According to the Yellow Pages, there were two book stores on the same block fairly near here. She needed to know what the owners reported on the cohesive forces which brought them together and the -- evidently weaker -- dispersive forces which made that propinquity inconvenient. She found a parking space on that block, luckily, considering the heat wave, and flipped a mental coin.

Second Foundation Books specialized in science fiction and fantasy. Despite its name, the space seemed to be allocated three-to-one to new books. The store had one browser, and the owner was willing to talk. He was a tallish man -- she’d guess 5’ 10” -- in his fifties with a thin comb-over.

“I get some local trade. I lived three blocks away when I opened the store -- live upstairs now -- and I knew some neighbors in the fan clubs. But you can’t make a living selling SF to people who live in walking distance. You’ll notice -- there are parking spaces on the block. I wouldn’t have taken this space if that wasn’t usually true. I advertise; I’m in two fan clubs and I know the leaders of most of the others in the city. Word of mouth is important, too. SF fans know each other, and the fans of particular authors sometimes know each other much better. Despite the name, everybody carries Asimov. If a Bester is in print, it’s in this store, and people half way to Waukegan come here because of that. For that matter, if a Bester went out of print in the last five years, I’m likely to have got some of the remaindered copies.”

“And how do you get along with Preloved Books?”

“Fred counseled me when I was thinking of starting up. I used to sell him used books when I was willing to part with them -- some of us run book stores ‘cause it gives us an excuse to keep so many around. I don’t touch magazines, and I tell people who want to sell used magazines to go down the street. Fred carries a good selection, and he’s almost always ready to buy some.”

“Do you get many of the same customers?”

“Well, if you want a new book to give for Christmas to a nephew who’s just starting out as a fan, you don’t go to Fred. If somebody’s looking for a particular used book, or otherwise my used-book selection doesn’t please, they can go down the block. That’s especially true of fantasy. I encourage that, really. I want the fans to say, ‘Go to John Darling, and you’re almost certain to get the book you want.’ Now, I don’t make a profit if they get the book from Fred, but I get customer satisfaction. And customer satisfaction is almost more important. And, really, I have a greater selection, so they come to me first the next time.

“Even in fantasy, I probably have a somewhat better selection. This, really, is a store for SF books that also carries fantasy.”

She thanked him and, despite the heat, smoked her third cigarette of the day before going into Preloved Books. The proprietor looked up as she came in, but didn’t welcome her, although she was his only customer. The counter was at the front of the store but facing towards the back. She walked around it until she was standing in front of him. He was a heavy man, no taller than her 5’ 6”.

“Can I help you? The description of the sections is on the signs at the tops of the shelves.”

“I’m here to pick you brain. I’m writing a dissertation in Regional Economics, and I’m interested in how book stores spread and cluster.”

“Well, this is a local book store. If you want to talk about regional issues, you’d do better talking to Krochs.”

“Regional Economics is a study of the economics of location, on any grain. People, not me, study why the grocery store is on the corner instead of the middle of the block. You’re a local bookstore; that’s location. What does that mean?”

“It means that more than half my customers walk here. I’ll have people walk in a few minutes before closing and tell me that they’re desperate -- they just finished a book. I say, ‘Okay, I’ll stay open, but this time buy two. What if you’d finished it a half hour later?’ There’s one guy who gets off the bus, saunters in, and looks at my shelves for maybe half an hour almost every night. He must know my inventory better than I do. Most nights, he doesn’t buy anything. Some nights, he buys two or three books. The next night he’s back looking. Most of the people within a five-block radius, I never see in here. The ones I do, I generally see often.”

“Yet, you’ve never seen me before, and you didn’t greet me or offer any help until I stood in front of you.”

“People either know what they want or not. If they know what they want, most of them can find it. If they don’t know what they want, they don’t want to say so. It’s between them and the books. I don’t want to interfere.”

Fred, whose name she knew only from John Darling’s report, was a fountain of information. Much of it didn’t apply to her dissertation; some of it was helpful context; some of it had direct application.

On competition and resulting dispersion: “There are a hundred, well dozens anyway, of kinds of bookstore inventories. You can’t pay the rent selling only one, and nobody has the space to offer them all. Maybe Krochs has the space, but they don’t use it for that. There’s a bookstore downtown that only carries publications of the federal government -- of course, they’re government themselves, so they don’t have to worry about paying the rent. So, do you compete with me? Not necessarily because you’re running a bookstore.”

On sharing customers and resulting cohesion: “Some people love to read. Every adult you see can read. Only some of them do, and only some of those who do read for pleasure. Maybe a tenth of those buy half the books -- half the used books, anyway. I’ve heard people in the business bitch about libraries. I’m not bothered by libraries. People who love books read library books and buy from me. People who wouldn’t darken the door of a library seldom come in here, either. You go to a university. You don’t see the non-readers.” She wasn’t sure about that. Absolute illiterates were kept out, but she’d known plenty of students who never read for pleasure. “So, you get a place which services readers. Sure, that book he buys from you he isn’t going to buy from me. But you feed his jones, and he’s likely to come to me to feed it, too. And, of course, used-book stores couldn’t live without new-book stores.”

About his relationship with Second Foundation Books: “John’s a great guy, used to be a customer, well a seller. There are some people who never buy used books but sell them to me. There are others who buy from me and never sell. I’d love to see where they keep them. Lots of people both buy and sell. Anyway, John was one of those who bought new, and only had so much room in his apartment. I’ll swear that was the only reason he ever sold. Of course, that meant that I only got the books that he liked least. Still, tastes vary. Anyway, he wanted to sell books, and I told him what I know. Considering his different tastes, it wasn’t a whole lot. People who drive far to his store sometimes come in here, too. Most times not, but I’d never see any of them if he weren’t here. Some of the locals shop in his used section, but I don’t lose much because of that, and lots of those books come through here, afterwards. As I said, some people buy used books and sell them again.

“And they don’t sell them to him?”

“Well, I’m sure that some do -- his buddies from the SF fan clubs, especially. But we pay the same, and lots of people are used to dealing with me. They only go to John because they have to see all the books that they can. Then, too, if you have a variety of books to sell, John will only take the science fiction and fantasy. So, John contributes to the flow of used books in the neighborhood. If he knows this, and I don’t think he does, he’d be happy. John is a seller because he couldn’t eat otherwise, but he’s an evangelist by nature. He wants you to read science fiction. If I sell more of it, he’s pleased.”

More on the book-store owners’ motivations: “As far as I know, grocers don’t enjoy eating any more than you and I do. But you don’t open a book store because you want to go into retail and books look like a rich market. You open a bookstore because you love books. You’d like to eat, too, but you get to live with books. John says that he used to have a fetish; now he has an inventory.”

Fred kept talking when customers came in unless they came to the counter. When a third customer came in the store while two were already there, she tumbled that people had come home from work. She looked at her watch -- after 5:30. These must be people who worked close. Still...

“Look, this has been fascinating,” she told Fred. “I, however, have obligations that I’m not going to meet on time. May I come back?”

“Certainly. We open at one every weekday. Weekend hours are longer, but I might not be able to give you as much attention.”

“You’ve been wonderful.” And she went out. The street wasn’t that busy, but she could see that the next four-lane street was. She needed to get home, and she didn’t know whether the expressways would be useful or parking lots. When she was moving in the car, she turned on the radio.

Instead of the traffic report, she got the national news. In testimony before the impeachment committee, Alexander Butterfield -- the name didn’t bring any details to her head -- had admitted that Nixon had taped almost all conversations at the White House.

She was incensed. Then she thought that Bill would be devastated. Bugging the Democrats was understandable, a crime, but an understandable crime. Nixon could deal with the Russians and the Chinese; they were competitive superpowers. The Democrats, on the other hand, were the enemy -- certainly Bill thought so. But bugging his own people? Could even Tricky Dick stoop so low?

Anyway, traffic was a mess, and the radio wasn’t much help. All the expressways were round-about anyway. They could get you from the Loop anywhere. To get from the Northwest Side to Evanston, you’d have to take two. She’d stick to the grid, but -- just now -- she was going west. She turned on Milwaukee, still going northwest. Then she got to Pulaski and a traffic light. She was now going north, crawling north, at least. Traffic was heavy.

Poor Bill would be worried. He expected her to be home before him, and she almost always was. And she still had dinner to fix, although that would be a breeze.

By the time she got to Dempster, it was nearly 6:30. Dempster was fine going east. (Westbound was a parking lot, but that didn’t affect her.) She got to the street in front of the apartment house in minutes. Finding a parking space took longer.

“Sorry about this,” she told Bill when she got in the door, “Last interview of the day turned into a gold mine. Have you eaten?”

“Eaten what?” His voice was surly. And there was no suggestion of a welcome-home kiss. Well, he might have neglected the food, but he hadn’t neglected the drink. The kitchen cabinet which held the whiskey bottles was open, and one of the bottles was on the table in front of him.

“I told you that dinner would be meat loaf.”

“You also told me that you’d fix it.” He sounded like a kid about to cry.

“Well, I don’t expect you to be able to cook. That takes the ability to understand a cook book. I do expect you to be able to warm up two slices of meatloaf.” She, of course, would cook vegetables, warm up the potatoes, fix a salad and serve a dessert. Still, before she came along, he’d been content with one dish for a meal. And, nothing on her list required real cooking except the vegetables, and that only boiling water. For that matter, the potatoes in the refrigerator, without the warming, would be perfectly edible. Anyway, she was hungry. She started on the preparations. He didn’t even get the dishes down.

“Look, I work all day and bring home a paycheck. I do some of the housework.” Damned little, even including setting the table -- a task which seemed to be beyond him tonight. “We agreed that you’d have this year for your dissertation, but also that you’d take care of the house. I don’t give a damn about the cleaning, but I do expect to eat dinner -- to, at least, see dinner cooking -- when I get home. I call you when I’ll be late. And you’re late for no other reason than you decided that your work was more interesting at the moment. And you don’t even call.” That was unfair. He had a phone on his desk. Should she have looked for a payphone instead of heading straight home?

“I’m real grateful that you condescend enough to set the table when I cook a meal. I suppose your neglecting that tonight is to teach me how much effort you make.” The meat loaf for tonight had been wrapped separately in foil, and she’d put in the refrigerator this morning. She had just got it out of the ‘fridge, unwrapped it, separated the three slices, and put each in the fry pan. “Well...” -- she got down the plates and glasses for the table, she got out the silverware and paper napkins, and she set the table -- “I’m not impressed. I’ve just spent an hour fighting traffic, I’m frazzled, I got a huge dump of information verbally that I haven’t had time to write down. One of us is sitting down relaxing, and it’s not me.” When the meat looked warm enough, she turned each slice over with the spatula. She got enough potatoes for this day out of the dish from the refrigerator and put them in the frypan, too. She put the dish back in the refrigerator.

“And I am impressed. Look how fast you’re working. And it’s only an hour after the food was supposed to be ready. And such lavish attention to the preparation, too. Warm up the meal in one frying pan.” That was unfair. She’d cooked this food, just not tonight.

“Well, I never claimed that operating the stove was an esoteric art. I even implied that even a man who needs someone else to find a file for him can learn to turn on the gas.”

“I don’t need someone else to find a file for me. They find the files because taking care of files is their job. It’s just that I’m used to people who actually do their jobs -- not to people who decide that something else is more interesting for the moment and expect me to do their jobs for them.” She was tearing the lettuce apart. She turned off the stove but left the food in the fry pan and the cover on it. The potatoes would continue to warm up.

She started the peas boiling, got the salad ready and got the jar of salad dressing out of the refrigerator. When the timer rang, she dished up the peas, brought the other courses to the table, and sat down.

“Do you want to eat,” she asked in her most saccharin tone, “or do you intend to get all your calories from alcohol?” He dished himself up a few potatoes and two slices of meat loaf. She’d intended the two slices for him, but it was a little selfish to take them right away.

“Well you drink, and don’t pretend you don’t.”

“The question, Bill, is not whether but how much and when.” She’d got pie-faced once in high school and once in college. Those had both been learning experiences, although you might have expected a bright girl to have learned from the first without needing the second. She drank socially, occasionally with Bill, and not more than two drinks a night.