Interlude - Last Sunday

Despite being already hired (twice), I went down to my scheduled interview at the bookstore. I couldn't help myself.

Half Magic is a chain of used bookstores -- and if there's anything better than a bookstore, it's a used bookstore. The local one for me is in the faceless mega-franchise sprawl of Redmond, WA, a world of Cost Plus, Red Robin, Claim Jumper (and yes, Borders) in their sea of parkinglots. Half Magic, though, is off in a forgotten little corner of town, where you park on uneven dirt by a wire fence near the railroad tracks. You open the door and there's the homey musty used-bookstore space, with creaky carpeted floors ramping gently from room to room at slightly different heights, poetry and travel sections big and central, the inviting display of old LPs in their original covers pulling you in. Tall slouched guys with interesting beards stand behind the counter, and soft frizzy-haired girls in aprons and nametags wander the aisles...

I followed a steeper sort of ramp downstairs for the interview, in a tiny windowless niche office with books and papers everywhere amid wall posters and humming computers. The manager was named Holly and was in her late twenties, a thin, intense, friendly girl with long brunette hair and heavy rectangular glasses--sort of the Laura Veirs look. We sat in tiny chairs almost side by side; I told her I was already employed, alas, but might be available for occasional weekend work; she needed someone who could do Mondays, alas; we wound up having a long fun conversation about our lives and histories. Then I browsed a little and headed home, as I knew I would.

Ah, to work in a bookstore again. She warned me that the job entailed lifting boxes and cleaning bathrooms; I tried not to show how much my computer-chair body rejoiced at the words. It paid $9.00 an hour: for a moment that sounded like a lot.