But one of the first things I thought of when I heard my Borders (and my job) was biting the dust, and the one that saddens me the most right now, is what about all of the people who hang out at Borders, not so much customers but tent-pitchers, if you will? The people, dozens at my small store alone, who spent so much of their life's time in the store, most never buying much, but whose presence came to define the store for me as much as the books and employees. So many...
...the guy who showed up every morning at opening and read, held court, napped, whatever for hours. The very sweet crossing guard who would come in from out in the cold for coffee, browsing, napping--I never made her the Fine Young Cannibals mix I always promised myself I would. The late great Nate who would chat me up and gave me some hand-me-down sweaters. Johnny my decaf-hating buddy with the great laugh and the unrequited crush on the statuesque, impeccably dressed Avon lady who pretty much ran her business out of our cafe. The scruffy strange guy who walked in circles outside our store smoking "borrowed" cigarettes and who we'd find in some nook reading some deep book on world politics. The chess players would would set up camp and politely take on all comers. The handsome teenaged Orthodox Jew who would sit reading for afternoon hours fantasy books, political books, even romance novels. The lovable nutty guys who would show up Friday afternoons and besiege us with strange and eternal questions. The young would-be Romeo who wore a Buffalo Bills winter coat in all kinds of weather and would approach any female in the store with the same, unfailingly unsuccessful line, "Hey good looking, looking for a good man?" The R&B guy we called him, the guy who would call at opening on Tuesday mornings, new release day, and ask if we had the new Luther Vandross, or John Legend or Mary Blige or whatever CD, ask us if it was "any good," ask us how much it cost, ask us if $20 would be enough, etc. The old guy who looked like a shriveled Gene Hackman who was always on the prowl for Bonanza DVD box sets. And Bonnie, the sweetest person I've ever known in my life, skinny as a rail and wearing short shorts all year long, asking our opinion if she should get another high calorie chocolate drink, or if we thought her proposed lunch of wieners and beans was any good. The same woman who, on the day when Sting was making an appearance in the store, asked me if it was all right to go into the bathroom and try on the new underwear she had just bought at Wal-Mart, to which I said, sure, why not, and then proceeded to walk through the teeming store, oblivious to the hundreds of Sting-hungry fans all lined up, go right to the restrooms, which Sting's handlers had commandeered for the past thirty minutes, and talked her way past a bodyguard so she could indeed go into the bathroom and try on those new drawers...
...all these people and so many more, who just needed a friendly place like Borders to go to and spend some time. What will become of them? Where will they go now? One of the saddest things I ever experienced was at six p.m. one Christmas Eve when we were closing and had to shoo out people who had nowhere else to go. Borders missed the boat--they should have applied to the Department of HHS for a grant for being a temporary social service shelter. But now, across the country, a few hundred more clean, well-lighted places are turning the lights out for good and allowing dust to collect forever. Good luck, folks.
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