11,471. RUDIMENTS, pt. 564

RUDIMENTS, pt. 564

(what was the name of that book again?)

I've seen lots of Winters and

lots of cold. Ice. Vermont.

Pennsylvania heights, way up

over things, where the regular

night air crystallizes and just

floats down as something but

you're not sure what  -  snow,

ice crystals, something in the

air. When I worked in Elmira

but still lived in Pennsylvania,

those 20 miles down to Columbia

Crossroads each Winter evening

could be a real trip; a snow-bound

panic. It took real guts sometimes'

to even think about traveling.

But I did it every night and never

did need any stay-over motel room,

though, sure, sometimes I wanted

one. Down by the Arnot-Ogden

Hospital there was a Dunkin'

Donuts, a few cheesy and low

down diner type eateries, and a

Holiday Inn, I think it was. They

had some girls there too, working

the double shift. Trouble was,

in Elmira, I liked mine with

teeth, and having such high

tastes as that, it sure cut one

out of the local loop. Thanks be.

My best friend up there, back

then, was a girl named Kristen,

from Hamburg, NY. She's dead

now; early on, actually, and I

still get sad.

-

What always ran me down was

just that  -  sadness. All my life

it was like it dogged me. Seeing

road kill often made me just hate

God. I never saw road kill come

back to life; and lots of times

I prayed over it  -  to that 'God'  -

that whatever lost life force had

been in that animal could be

turned back into me and I could

store it and make something of'

myself with it, and do some good

for everyone else. Never happened,

and I just ended up being the

biggest flop you'd ever want to

meet and I'm still sorry over all

of it. Lord knows, half the time

I spent hating myself could

have probably been put to far

better use of my own volition

and I could have quit annoying

this God-concept over it. What

a waste I was and even have

been. Nothing else ever bothered

me before, really, but now 70

sure does. I don't want to be

70  -  of course, I mean, I

WANT to be 70, and surely

hope I can be, but how the

hell this ever happened to me

is BEYOND the me of me. I'm

still waiting to be 10, and now

I get clonked with 70  -  like

getting a speeding ticket for

freaking standing still! I

sometimes think that whoever

knit this sweater of 'me' missed

a stitch or two, or hit knit when

they should have pearled, or

whatever the heck all this is.

I have people now making

concerned fun at me for being

cranky because I can't face

age. I tell 'em their wrong.

I can face age, but the dilemma

has no choosing and I'm not

cranky, just enraged...Oh, well;

all that's too over the top for

me to go on about, but it's like

jail-cell isolation when you get

stuck in these stupid routines,

every day traveling back and

forth to some dismal destination

to have to work and then drive

it all again back home. The cars

running, the wheels are turning,

underneath you the blasted

road is spinning by, your brain's

on fire with some few ideas,

you can't wait, you're in a hurry

but you can't really talk, nor

even hurry for that matter. It's

all just stuck in place, but you're

moving and so everything is

moving with you so it all looks

like nothing's moving anyway

except for the slow curvature

and turn of the distance against

your own foreground and that

difference is the stasis, the

more or less fixed point where

it is we all live, together, while

all else outside of us is just as

wildly speeding by and breaking

apart and making blurs and

shadows and sometimes noise.

Light. Speed. Sound.

-

Inside the place, this book

warehouse was a tough sell too.

Just like Barnes & Noble was,

and even later the actual store

at Princeton, it was always

difficult for me to accept, or

get into my head, books as

industrial commodities. In

these warehouse and volume

set-ups any book might have

been a widget. Something

that came in  a $7.71 cents,

say (cheap, random number),

came in in some quantity, say

a quantity of 12, and was

expected to sell and leave at,

perhaps, $11.50, all twelve of 
them. (Again random numbers)

are being used). It was hard

for me, used to thriving in

the old Book Row, Fourth Ave.,

stores  -  where each book was

in a singular, and precious, and

curious, and tidy, way. Back then,

to me, a 4 dollar book was an

expensive and dear item, need

I say 'commodity.' The old guys

running these places were dark,

and bent, and solitary. Little talk,

less business. Just look, browse

and, maybe, transact. But you

didn't have to. In 1967, the way

the book trade was working,

pre-B&N and superstores for

books, there was no push, no

merchandising, and, certainly,

none of this 'warehousing' as if

they were kid-toys or somesuch.

All these half wealthy, turn of

the last century old folk, were

dying off, and  -  in the eyes of

others  -  with them went their

dingy, old, homes and brownstones,

books and possessions, cabinets

and watches, jewelry and clothes.

Everything was on the market,

most especially all those old

properties. These Book Row

buys ended up  -  (you've got

to realize what prices were like

back then, in the 60's) being

sold with small scribbled pencil

numbers on the flyleaf  -  75 cents,

one dollar. A two-dollar and fifty

cents book was expensive enough

to maybe once have been owned

by Vanderbilt or Morgan. There

were no dust jackets, none of

the colorful graphics, images or

book-designs we get now. All

was dull, and looked about the

same  -  dark, blue or black,

fabric covers, pressed maybe

on the front and spine with gold

or whatever, for title and author.

'The Three Musketeers' looked

just like 'Moby Dick' which

looked about the same as 'Light

In August.' All the world, in

these terms, was equal. The

past was getting thrown out

like it was junk  -  the idea of

a 'book' industry hadn't yet

dawned. These were all textured

and letter-pressed pages with

strong, solid, plain covers. None

of that breast-baring, page-turning

stuff. If you were wildly, weirdly

lucky, you'd stumble on something

by Madame Blavatsky or Rudolph

Steiner and think you'd gone to

Heaven. There wasn't much

conversation inside; and some of

these places were dark enough that

at the end of each aisle, with a

little click-on reading lamp,

was a podium-type shelf-end

where you could do your

reading. It was insane. Ladies

would come dragging in with

three big bags of belongings

they traipsed the streets with,

just to sit a bit or use a bathroom.

Regulars enough so that they

never got scolded or even

scoffed at. Men smelled  - 

rank, or maybe of peanut butter.

Furtive crumbs and traces of

nut-shells; all so strange. I

can remember  at least 6 or

8 of these places,  from Biblo

& Tannen on  -  all gone now.

Killed by  ignorance? Or

maybe  just neglect.

-

Here's how the book industry, 

at this bulk level, works. At 

Millwood, in stocking the store,

even though remotely, books

came to us in volume  -  on

skids, corrugated-container

skids, for bulk shipping, and

self- contained. These things

are called 'Gaylords'  -  that's

a standard term for secured

bulk-packaging in the container

and cargo industry, named from

the Gaylord Container Company,

which first made them. These

Gaylords came to us after 

having been bought at auction

or otherwise purchased for

bookstore resale. Usually they

were by subject, 'I've got two

Gaylords of History, and one

of Psychology, coming in

today.' Again here, I'm 

guessing, but let's say 350 

books in the Gaylord, 

purchased at bid, for $2.30

per book (again, a complete

guess). We would go through

each, book by book, (it was

sometimes quite dreary), day

after day  -  looking up the

book on a bookselling 

reference site, by ISBN, 

online. From that would 

come the ranking, some

info, and an appx. sales-point

and price reference. All of 

which we each had to sort 

and enter for that book into

the inventory. The books 

were then re-packed, for 

eventual truck-shipment

to Princeton. Yes, where we

got to re-enter again, to proof

the arrivals, and then set up

for shelving and categories.

Whew, is right. A lot different

from those old  Book Row,

Fourth Avenue days. But that's
how, eventually and over time,
the whole idea of books as
business went. And I'd
stepped right in it.