The bookstore manager

You know what, Mr. Spinner? I quit. That’s it. I won’t tolerate your rudeness or your sense of entitlement anymore. I don’t understand why you have to behave like you do, you arrogant, self-centred jerk. I won’t take it anymore. That’s it! How can you treat us like that? How can you show so little empathy for someone who has dedicated their life to you? Because I have, I hope you see it, but most probably you don’t. I neglected my studies and eventually I dropped out of college to work for you. I’ve lost all my friends, because every bit of my time and energy goes to you and your bookstore and by the end of the day, there’s nothing left of me. I can’t sleep at night because my mind keeps replaying everything that happened during the day and everything I’ll have to deal with tomorrow. I'm always on edge, and I don’t think my boyfriend is going to put up with it much longer. Honestly, if I were him, I would have left me already. I have been working in your damn bookstore for the last seven years, and for the last five, I’ve been running it, too. I’m working on weekends, on holidays, on Christmas, me and everyone else. We’re busting our asses every day, and instead of a thank you, a good job, a way to go, or even the smallest nod of appreciation, all we get are complaints, outbursts, random demands, rudeness, and a constant sour mood. Hell, Mr. Spinner, how can it be?

You’re never satisfied with anything. You cannot appreciate that the team is great, young, motivated, eager. You only ever point out what’s wrong, you tear us down, and then expect me to be the one to put us back together and keep on working for you. You want more, better, faster, cleaner, sharper. Always more. Attend the customers, be polite, even to the assholes, plan the shifts like I told you, bargain with Lethargy Books for a better discount, pack the orders, bring them to the post office, raise the numbers, rearrange the bestsellers, or better yet, change the entire setup of the bookstore, how the books are arranged, what goes where, how customers move through it. No, that’s not good enough. Again. I don’t care if you did it last week. Come up with something new. Because I say so. This is my bookstore, so you do as I say. And by the way, the shifts are no good. Why did you plan four people in the middle of the day? Oh, they work on eight-hour shifts and you all coincide in the middle of the day? Then divide the shifts. Four hours in the morning and four hours in the late afternoon, let’s say 8:00 to 12:00 and 16:00 to 20:00. I don’t care. Just do it. And if you don’t like it, remember you are free to go! But Robin has a wife and a child, Elsa has a debt, Bella is still studying and The Duke, well I don't know about him, but I know that we all have responsibilities and expenses. Otherwise we would definitely not be here. We have to work and obey the master, even though his demands are completely absurd. He’s the head, the chief, the boss, the tyrant of the little bookstore. Just obey, ask no questions, be content with a pitiful wage and expect nothing more.

We have to endure your rants, your accusation, your absurd ideas, your insensitive remarks, your volatile moods and your rude directness. In the same time, I have to follow your orders and make them clear to my team, no matter how nonsensical they are. And the team is great, all of them, and despite the circumstances, their work ethic is the best. Bella has a sharp eye for order, exactly what a bookstore needs. Her skill in arranging books is almost instinctive. Everything falls into place in a way even the most clueless can follow, and she effortlessly channels customer focus exactly where it’s meant to go. But Bella is hopeless at the register. You insisted I put her there, I never understood why, and then you complained that the numbers don’t add up. Of course they don’t. Bella was made to restore what’s been displaced, distorted, or hidden, Bella was made to arrange, structure, and bring order to chaos. Not for numbers. Then we have Robin. Robin is the oldest and has a child. He comes every day riding his bicycle. He’s laid back and often mysterious. Robin never complaints about anything. The only thing he ever asked for was a weekend day off as often as possible to be with his family. You insist I make him come on both Saturday and Sunday, because otherwise it’s not fair. What is exactly fair for you? Except for Robin nobody else has a family and nobody would object to him getting a day off in the weekend. I don’t understand, but I guess I don’t have to. There’s also our little firecracker, Elsa. She moves with boundless energy, dusting, pricing magnets, unpacking books, chatting with everyone, singing and spreading her positive spirit. Did you know she’s the only one who has the patience to deal with all theseconceited, rude customers, the very ones you grovel to, rushing to meet their every whim like the coward you are and feeding their sense of entitlement? But all you see is chatty, stupid, shallow, unkempt, sloppy. Yeah, you have used all these words to describe her to me. And what she truly is, is the heart of this bookstore. And finally there’s of course Joseph, The Duke. He’s always well dressed, clean and freshly shaved, overly polite and skittish like a mouse. He’s the most adorable and impractical person I’ve ever met, but brilliant in lots of other aspects. Did you know that he has a Phd in history? I guess you forgot. You say with contempt that he is irritating and slow. You only see that he never takes initiative and that he freezes, turns pale and stutters every time he sees you coming. Sure, he’s quirky, and yes, I have to leave him a list of tasks because he doesn’t seem to think for himself. But he completes everything with pedantic precision and asks for more. He lends the bookstore and our team a noble, cultivated glow that’s fading ever since you decided to clutter the shelves with souvenirs, tacky statues, kitschy magnets, shiny trinkets, teddy bears, caps, and T-shirts instead of books.

And now you are making me choose, who’s next to go? Why would I have to choose? Are you doing me a favour, offering the illusion of choice, or are you just being a coward once again? How can I possibly choose one of us to be sacked? Once I told you, let it be me, and I meant it. You thought it was a joke and you laughed coarsely. It wasn’t a joke. I really hope I’ll be the next to go. That way I’ll be free of you and I’ll have the strength or the necessity to search for something better of different, away from you and your disgusting lipless mouth that never stops chewing even if there’s nothing in your mouth. That mouth that spits only insults and venom. It looks like a dark, shifting cave, twisting even your kindest words into something dismal. I think I hate your mouth more than the poison it spits, and yet I’m unable to look away of its unnerving perpetual motion.

I think you have some kind of egocentric ailment. I wonder sometimes if you were always like that. You once told us that you’ve worked hard in your life, that you faced hardship, and can relate to our perspective. But you surely can’t or have forgotten how it is. You don’t see us like human beings, that’s why you apply all this pressure. You install hidden cameras to spy on us, you watch us secretly from across the street, and then report to me the assumptions you made from your brief, contextless observations. If I tell you, that you crossed a line and that all this is not good for the team’s morale, you say: If you don't like it, feel free to leave. No one is forcing you to stay here. Really now? No one? What about the bills we have to pay? How are we going to live without our wages, miserable as they may be? You pay us the bare minimum and expect nothing less than our absolute maximum, and even more.

You expect me to tolerate your sexual deprivation and your latent desires. You live alone and are lonely, you frequently remind me of it. I can see it in your eyes sometimes when you look at me or my female colleagues. You don’t necessarily find us attractive. What you’re missing is the connection. The touch of the skin, the playful looks, the thrill of the game. So, we have to endure your lewd remarks and sexualized comments. “Nice blouse. I could sink my teeth into it.” Who the hell says something like that? And why do we put up with it?

Don’t get me wrong, I really like this work. The books, the exchanges with the customers, the meetings with the publishers, the sense of accomplishment at the end of the day when I turn the key and close the door, the solidarity in my team, the joy of working with good people, the rush when the store is full, the excitement of receiving new books and leafing through them in order to get the feeling, the sense of fulfilment after completing a task, any task, the satisfaction when every cent is accounted for in the register, the creative high of rearranging the shop window, the anticipation of unpacking boxes full of books, the rewarding feeling that comes from successfully solving the puzzle of the shift schedule, balancing all demands and fulfilling everyone’s wishes perfectly. I really like it, but I don't like you. You make it all a torture. You make me walk on eggshells, even if I know I’m good at what I do. I suppose, you know that, too. My stomach tightens, and a sick feeling rises every time I see you approaching with that dissatisfied look on your face, or hear your heavy, menacing footsteps behind me. My heart sinks, and I brace myself for the next wave of meanness and meaninglessness. This is by no means a healthy environment. It’s reeking of mistrust and complexes, of arbitrariness and insanity and I hate that I am part of it, but I cannot find a way out. I return day after day and put up with your shit. But no, I cannot take it any longer. That’s it. I quit! Yes, now. Today.

You destroy what I love by focusing on magnets, souvenirs, and T-shirts, cheap stuff with big profit margins. You don't see, that our bookstore is turning slowly into a souvenir shop. You don’t see the disappointment in the eyes of our regular customers when they see T-Shirts occupying the shelves that were once filled with the books they enjoyed leafing through, you don't see The Duke’s disappointment when boxes and boxes filled with thousand of magnets and other useless touristic stuff are waiting to be unpacked and priced, instead of boxes filled with books. You don’t see Bella’s broken spirit as she runs around filling the walls with magnets or folding T-Shirts or lining up Teddy-bears, instead of arranging books. You don’t see that every day more and more and more drunken tourists come in to buy T-Shirts and less and less and less book-lovers honour us with a visit and a worthy exchange. The passion is dying. It’s all about profit. Your profit. Now you tell me that money is not enough to cover all expenses and you want me to choose who’s the next to go. Me. I’m the next to go. That’s it. I quit!

“Sorry, Mr. Spinner, no, no, I was not daydreaming. Certainly. I’ll be right there. Let me grab the sales report. We need to discuss it and see what we can do. Most certainly, Mr. Spinner. I’ll be right there! Yes, sure, I have some thoughts about that, too. I’ll be right there.”

Fucker.