Bitching Out Bette Midler

I used to work at the best Boston bookstore ever. Waterstone's used to occupy a lux brown castle on the corner of Newbury and Exeter, smack dab in the Back Bay. (Currently, a munchkin horde wreaks havoc there during school hours. GET OUT!) It was three and a half floors of pretentious book-y heaven.

There was a ridiculous lobby that served no purpose. The other three levels were outfitted in ruby red carpets, and black wooden shelves; green banker lamps at workstations glowed here and there. Books were stocked on the shelves and matching tables; the tables were tucked into each section's bay. Each floor had a check-out area and a separate information desk. The first floor was fiction, which can go suck it as far as I'm concerned. Not terribly interesting, and the layout was fakakta.

On the second floor, we kept the prosaic non-fiction for hobby lovers and those who want to earnestly get it right, like parenting, self-improvement and other blah-blah subjects. Art, photography, music, and pop culture were lovingly tended there, too. Children's books were stashed away in a cozy pirates' nest accessed by a tiny flight of stairs--the better to hide the frickin' mess created by spoiled brats ignored by their up-their-own-ass parents.

Brilliant books about "important" subjects sneered at the ignorant on the third floor. Science, history, and foreign languages are examples of what looked down from lofty shelves at the sunny, quiet floor. This floor had the most natural light, which fell through a giant circular window. I can't remember if it was stained glass or not. Methinks not. Maybe just tinted? It also had the best layout because readings were held up there and there was a lovely stretch of space for lounging with all the great books you found during browsing.

I say great books because the title selection was amazing. Of course, a booklover is going to enjoy the store because of the lush appointments dictated by a British sensibility (Waterstone's is a UK-based chain). But, if you hit the right section, you'd be delighted by the depth and piquancy of its array. For example, the lit crit section kicked ass thanks to Mr. JL. Before I started working there, I already knew about the section. (This is Boston. Three things its denizens know: books, beer, and the Red Sox.) My mom (poetry nut) and Harvard professors had name-checked it, so Lit Crit had mad cred, yo.

However wonderful the experience was for booknuts on the browse, working at Waterstone's was much more glorious. The place was 98% staffed with Americans (there was this quasi-Australian who skeezed around with a wine glass and a fake tan), but enough of the British ethos reigned to ensure that the break room was always stocked with booze. It was a chain, but it wasn't run like most American versions. The booksellers bought titles for their section. That's why the title selection was fierce for certain sections. If the subject was properly matched with a knowledgeable but still curious staffer, the results were stellar.

As I said, fiction was on the first floor. Fiction is for lemmings, so it was the busiest floor. Plus, a lot of people couldn't figure out how to get off the first floor. So, they'd circle endlessly until they either gave up (with a massive pile of NYT-bestselling crap), or they would ask one of us. To refresh, we had a useless lobby (it was the retail equivalent of a Victorian folly), which was counted in the English way--ground floor. People entered from the street and were immediately confronted by glassed-in displays and a flight of stairs to the right.

The stairs lead to the first floor ("But we're in America, why can't they call it the second floor? It's so confusing."), but the steps end right there. They do not keep ascending to the upper levels. As shoppers turned to their left, they would look across a seemingly endless floor of tables heaped with books. Far off in the distance, bookshelves lit with green lamps beckoned with even more books. Thinking back, it was rather dazzling. Does it excuse the stunning stupidity of the typical American consumer? Not to my bitchy eyes, but I'm not a nice person. (Niceness. So fucking bourgeois. And pointless. Just be bloody civil, and the world will work.)

There were two ways to move up and down my beloved Waterstone's. There was the lift/elevator option. But, it was hidden very well by its placement to the far left. Retail workers know that shoppers move forward or to their right. So, lovies either walked down the red carpet in front of them, or they drifted off to the wall units closest at hand. The red carpet led to FICTION (aka pompous waste of time), which hugged the majority of wall space. The lemmings would just stick to the wall until they found themselves back at the stairs from whence they sprang. Repeat the circle. Wander a bit. "The guidebook says it's three floors, honey. I swear." Repeat the circle. Furrow your brow. Repeat.

The registers were located alongside the red carpet on the left side. We booksellers had brass railings and small display fixtures behind us, and our money-collecting machines in front. The registers squatted on a long counter picked out in black wood, with artfully arranged tomes. During slow periods, the booksellers would sit there and watch bewildered customers circle, circle, and circle. When enough dopes were stuck in the loop, someone would call out "Derby Day, folks. Place your bets." We bet on who would be the first to break off and get directions to end their dumbassed-ness.

Poor things. When someone did ask at the counter, all they got was smug archness. I was the worst. In a level voice but infused with disbelief, I'd calmly ask them to turn around and look directly behind them. There, they would then perceive a rather large stairway looming over them. A modest flight led to a platform hovering at eyeline, but then branched off right and left adding that much more access to the second floor (third, for the Yanks). Embarrassment, stuttering and shame ensued on their end, and dismissive contempt followed on mine. Other booksellers would be nice. Not me. It was clear I thought they were fucking idiots. Jennifer (the fairest bookseller in all the land) was the best.

Stuttering dumbfuck: "Oh my God, how did I miss it!? You must think I'm an idiot."

Jennifer: "No, not at all. You'd be surprised how many people don't find the stairs."

"I am."

"Every day."

She'd deliver this with a sincere smile but very dry beats. It should be noted that she was gorgeous with great hair. The only tell to her mockery were her eyebrows. They underscored the faint lilt of scorn in her voice. The dumbfucks would walk away puzzling over whether she was dicking them or not. Ultimately, they would decide "nay." She was too pretty. Dumbfucks.

Not that this has anything to do with Bette Midler. I think I had risen to the heady prominence of Senior Bookseller, and I was monitoring the first floor registers and the staff ringing on them. It was a busy afternoon, and I saw in my eye's corner that a petite blonde had strayed behind the register counter. She was fiddling around with one of our fancy displays. Immediately, I swung round and sternly scolded the blonde that she was in an area for staff only, and she needed to hustle it right out of there. She daintily apologized and vamoosed.

It happened so fast. My territorial instinct just lashed out. (The same instinct that starts bar fights, ruins Rottweiler puppies and shrinks men's balls.) I didn't recognize her before starting my verbal bitchslap. But, mid-slap it dawned on me that I was barking at the Divine Miss M. Lawdy, lawdy! I didn't give ground. Not that it mattered as she was definitely the more gracious of us two. Here's what I observed:

• She's tiny.
• She actually moves with that mermaid shuffle of hers.
• She has lovely manners.
• Did I mention how tiny she is? Teensy-weensy tiny.

I was left with a just-hit-in-the-face-with-pie look on my mug. I had to sidle over to a co-worker, and ask if I had just yelled at Bette Frickin' Midler. She did end up making a purchase while I was still on watch. She paid with a credit card. I watched those itsy-bitsy shoulders flutter out the door, and promptly snatched up her signature receipt from the drawer. I never wanted to forget the day I bitched out Bette Midler in the best Boston bookstore EVER!