I type the last few letters of the caption, hit the “upload” button, and flick the app closed. Glancing at the time, I see I’m late, but only a little. Still, it’s at least a week since I’ve uploaded anything to Instagram, so it had to be done.
It’s been a long morning already. Up since before six, I’ve been toiling over the bookshop’s social media accounts. Two Old Queens Books & Tea has been operating in this same unfashionable East Village location since long before I was born. Since before my uncles were born, in truth, though in those days the name over the door was different. Bagshaw’s Books, maybe? I think there might be an old photo somewhere in Merv’s back room. I should try and find it. Might be a nice visual counterpoint to the piece I added this morning. But not today. I’m late enough already.
Luckily, I don’t have far to travel to work. My studio apartment is three flights of stairs above the shop. I’ve lived here almost two years, since the—literal—professional clown who used to rent the space disappeared overnight, leaving behind a disturbing number of popped balloons and sprays of confetti.
At least, I hope they were balloons. That’s what I told myself as I cleaned them up off the floor, and out of the tiny closet. And from inside the shower drain.
Anyway, this morning I got caught up posting a few new acquisitions to the shop’s #Bookstagram account, and lost track of the time. Generally, I agonize how to best present the latest book, shoot a few dozen possibilities, then narrow it down to my favorite. I post the shot first to Instagram, which auto-feeds it to Facebook, and then I post it separately to Twitter and Snapchat, so the full image appears, and not only a link. All of this takes time, but it drives more traffic to the bookshop’s site, and ultimately to the bookstore. At least that’s what I tell myself. And Merv.
Right about the time I graduated from college and started working full time at the bookshop, I promised my uncle that a few decent social media accounts would help us build our community. He grumbled that pictures in the ether didn’t sell books on the ground, but I know it’s made a difference.
But this morning? It’s only made me late.
Trying to keep the sound of my heels to a minimum, I hurry down the back stairs. These lead to the lane behind the building, but also to the rear door of the shop, which is always kept locked. Going this way means I can’t avoid the smell of the dumpster parked outside the back door, but it also means I might be able to sneak past the unblinking eye of Uncle Merv’s partner, Tommy, who is never averse to pointing out my shortcomings.
As I slip into the back room, the warm aroma from Tommy’s old coffee urn supersedes the dumpster stench, and—bonus!—there’s no one around. Immediately, I hurry over to finish a job from last night: sorting through a pile of books bequeathed to us by an old patron.
This happens a lot at Two Old Queens—somebody dies, and their kids or grandchildren aren’t readers, so they dump all the family books on our doorstep. Most of what comes our way in this fashion we can’t really use. I mean, we already have a full shelf of Jacqueline Susann paperbacks with lurid seventies covers, right? So, as low girl on the employee totem pole, it falls to me to sort out the dregs, and then take any titles that appear even moderately appealing to my Uncle Merv for the final decision.
By the time I finish culling the pile, I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself. I’ve got social media locked in for the bookstore, finished my assigned task, and mapped out my plans for the week in my bullet journal, all without being called out by Tommy for showing up a little late. There’s a long workday still ahead of me, it’s true, but tonight I’ve got a plan for a night in. It involves a giant bowl of pho and a Black Panther DVD I found in our discard pile, loaded with outtakes of Killmonger with his shirt off.
Don’t tell me I don’t know how to live.
Flipping open my bullet journal again, I cross off all the tasks I’ve accomplished for the morning. Then, making a careful largest-to-smallest pile of books to take out front for my uncle, I ass-backed