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We talk much about libraries here, but are there other ways to find books? Of course, there is nothing wrong in visiting a bookstore. When I lived in a city affectionately known as HULLABALOO, on the Quebec side of the Ottawa River, my best local bookstore was Librairie Réflexion. Located in the Galeries de HULL (they haven’t met you and already they miss you in HULL). Réflexion bookstore was the cultural centre of this city which Bloc Québecois MP Suzanne Tremblay ironically called “the ugliest city in Canada”. In addition to magazines gifts and books, what made Réflexion so special were the many seated places on wood chairs with tables where one could read books or peruse magazines while sipping coffee from the nearby food court. An added convenience was the charging station for the local bus company. You could register for, purchase or recharge your pass on a monthly basis.
One day, I was in line at Réflexion bookstore waiting to recharge my bus pass. There were two French girls behind the counter; one seemed more proactive in serving customers while the other lurked behind her, looking people over and whispering in her colleague’s ear. Just as it became my turn, the lurker looked at me disdainfully, smirked and whispered some nasty thing in her girlfriend’s ear. They both laughed at me. I stepped up and challenged them to repeat it. Clearly, the lurker did not speak English but was eager to keep her friend laughing.
I took a step back and looked them over carefully. “Do I know these people?” I wondered. Not really. Have I seen them before? No. The lurker was the real troublemaker. Does she look even remotely familiar? No. So if I don’t know her from Eve and she doesn’t speak English, what can I know or say about her? The lurker likely doesn’t like my Jewish face. As the proactive girl and I dragged out the bus pass recharging procedure, I looked over the lurker very carefully and assessed her face. She seemed in her twenties, not yet thirty. What else can we say about her? She had bad skin with acne, grey almost mauve blotchy skin and doesn’t look healthy for her age. She likely is aware of this and it likely bothers her plenty. I recalled what my lawyer told me “Fred, women are very sensitive — especially to words.” I thought of some nasty thing to say in response to her whisperings that still continued in my direction. Then, I recalled a situation when Kirk and Spock were stuck on a planet full of Nazis and had to hide Spock’s ears and green complected face from the racial supremacists. When an SS Major challenges Spock with the observation “You don’t look well… your colour” I truly enjoyed the actor’s intonation and line delivery, which I remembered faithfully.
Back in Réflexion bookstore, the proactive countergirl handed back my bus pass and I leaned forward to her while motioning at her lurking girlfriend. Emulating my best amalgam of Klingon Commander Kor and the SS Major, I whispered to her “I’m concerned about this friend of yours… her colour, she doesn’t look well. I suspect a Vitamin D deficiency.”
The lurker couldn’t hear, felt left out and asked her friend for a translation. When her friend told her what I said about her, the lurker flew off into the most energetic and animated rage I have seen from a woman in a long time. She stormed around the bookstore, screaming at the top of her lungs in French, repeating what I had said. “VITAMIN D DEFICIENCY!” She howled and slammed books against the counters, she pushed book carts violently out of her way and marched back and forth energetically to every corner of the store. She picked up heavy objects for no reason other than to slam them down violently. She slammed things. She raged and howled! She was quite and entirely upset about having her ostensibly private insult turned back on her. “VITAMIN D DEFICIENCY!” she screamed again at the top of her lungs, as if she had rickets or lived with the shame of poverty in Canada’s ugliest city. It was wonderful.
In New York City, I had the same problem but opposite valence. There, I wanted to buy La Presse newspaper every week (they only carried the Saturday edition) as it was my favourite paper for keeping in touch with the French language while living three years in Brooklyn. I was told a good place to find foreign language materials was Borders bookstore in the World Trade Centre; they specialized in literature from other countries and in other languages, thus the name Borders. The entarted girl at the counter did not react well to my placing the La Presse Saturday edition before her on my Wednesday day off as she needlessly mangled the pronunciation then quizzed me about it.
“Press-Y” she asked and continued “From France?”
“La Press… from Canada.” I told her.
“HUH?!” and thereby followed from her a slew of racist remarks about Canada and the French language, just like at my workplace in Brooklyn.
Amazing all the disrespectful bile and venom aimed so casually at single men and literary types in society. But I’m not bitter about these encounters and reflect instead on the following question. Since Borders was after all in the World Trade Centre, what do you suppose became of it?
Réflexion bookstore eventually left the shopping centre and ceased operations entirely in another location after their owner died of illness. It seems there are fewer bookstores in the city and it is difficult as ever to find quality and respect in the same place. Not too difficult for me to wish you Happy Holiday book shopping (free of nasty clerks).
Frederick Klein