The used bookstore devotee-to-employee pipeline

How I got sucked in, and why I'll probably never leave

It’s been a minute since I last posted, I know. There are several reasons for this, but by far the most exciting and relevant for you, dear readers, is this one: I finally landed my dream job!

To be more specific: I got one of my many dream jobs. I’m not on assignment for The New Yorker or running the hotel library on a tropical island (yet). But I did land a part-time gig in my neighbourhood used bookstore.

Like many used bookstore employees, I was a regular customer first. Not regular as in normal—regular as in, once or twice a week. Sometimes more. I know this actually sounds a little irregular, as in out of the norm. But the bookstore is just ten minutes from my house, on foot, and also in the same plaza as the grocery store, drug store, rec complex, and a branch library. Any time I had to visit one of these places, I found myself stopping off for a little browse.

Five books I’ve brought home from the used bookstore, four of which I’ve actually read. One I’ve read at least four times in my life, and one I tried to read, but gave up after the first few chapters. Anyone care to guess which is which?

As some of you may remember, I radically downsized my personal library before moving across the province last summer, so I have some shelf space to fill. But I slowly began to realize I was getting more out of my trips there than my purchases. I mean, I didn’t feel the need to buy something every time I went. Sometimes, all I wanted was that deeply cosy feeling of being completely surrounded—as in wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling—by books, and the quiet, convivial company of fellow readers. The used bookstore had become my third place.

A third place, as defined by the urban sociologist Ray Oldenburg, is a “familiar public spot where you regularly connect with others, known and unknown, over a shared interest or activity.” It’s that ‘place on the corner’ where you can just show up whenever you need a break from your first place (home) or your second place (work).

Ideally, third places are either completely free or inexpensive to visit, and as

Nia

writes, they are increasingly hard to find, especially out in the burbs. They’re always in danger of being squeezed out by more profitable enterprises (in the case of say, a little neighbourhood cafe) or losing the funding they depend upon (like a library or public park).

The third places we do have need to be preserved, both by and for the people who depend upon them for their well-being. It was kind of funny to realize, after all these years of thinking of myself as a hard-core introvert who doesn’t need much face-to-face company, but I need this third place in my life. And I’m far from the only one.

Consequently, I often found myself in conversation with the owner of the store while waiting for the dreadfully slow Interac machine, or else elbow-deep, rummaging around in the central display area, which contains far, far more books than it was designed to hold. She was generally the only staff member there, and I began to wonder if it was a one-woman show, and how on earth she was managing it all. One of those times, I dared myself to ask her if she needed someone part-time.

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Freelance writing is a solitary pursuit, an often difficult task which is deeply, but only intermittently, rewarding—more often your effort goes unnoticed, is taken for granted, or is flatly rejected. In this regard, pitching stories is a lot like solo parenting middle schoolers, which is also something I do day in and day out.

Working at the bookstore is the ideal complement to freelance writing in that it is social—the relaxed, bookish kind, which is my favourite—and surprisingly physical. There is very little sitting still involved, and zero typing, unless you count punching the buttons on a truly ancient cash register.

It’s also more visible and routinely appreciated than much of the domestic labour I do. I get sincerely thanked for my help dozens of times each shift, and it’s just…nice. It shaves a little of the edge off all the unanswered pitches and dirty dishes left on the counter directly above the empty dishwasher.

Perhaps the best thing about the job—apart from the staff discount—is how much I am learning. Every shift, I learn something new, either about the trade in general, the books we sell, or the customers we serve.

In upcoming posts, I’m going to dig into all of these lessons. But first, I would love to know: have you ever wanted to work in a used bookstore? Have you any burning questions about the day-to-day operation thereof? Do you have a third place in your life and if so, what does it look like?