Mr. Penumbra’s Twenty-Four-Hour Book Store

[Chris]

Mr. Penumbra’s Twenty-Four-Hour Book Store

There is, I have learned, a community of very strange men clustered in this part of San Francisco. They visit the store late at night. They come wide awake, and completely sober. And they are always nearly vibrating with need.

For example:

The bell on the door will tinkle and before it’s done, Mr. Tyndall will be shouting, breathless, “Kingslake’s! I need Kingslake’s!” He’ll take his hands off his head (has he really been running down the street with his hands on his head?) and clamp them down on the front desk.

“Kingslake’s! Quickly!”

Mr. Penumbra has a database, believe it or not. The books aren’t shelved according to title or subject (do they even have subjects?) so the database is crucial. It runs on an old Mac Plus, but I copied it onto my laptop and, over the course of a few customer-free nights, mapped it onto a 3D model of the store. (If this sounds impressive to you, you’re over 30.)

So now I will just type in K-I-N-G-S-L-A-K-E and the model will rotate and zoom in on aisle 3, shelf 13, which is only about thirty feet up.

“You have it? Oh thank goodness, thank you, yes, thank goodness,” Tyndall will say, almost whimpering. “How much?”

And this is the crazy part. I haven’t sold a book in this store for less than two hundred dollars. Many are much more expensive than that. Penumbra’s database will tell me that “Investigations” by Reynold Kingslake is $1,800.

Not a blink.

After I do my monkey business on the ladder, Tyndall will write a prim check and slide it across the desk. “Thank you,” he will breathe, and then the bell will tinkle again as he hurries back out onto the street. It will be three in the morning.

* * *

THEY ALWAYS PAY. Not one has ever balked. Where do these weird old men get all this money?

This is one of the things I ask myself when I sit here alone, after Mr. Tyndall or Mr. Raleigh or Mr. Fedorov has left. I think I know them all at this point. I think of them as a strange fellowship, but I have no evidence that they know each other. Each comes in alone, and never says a word about anything other than the object of his current, frantic fascination.

I have no idea what’s in those books they pay all that money for. In fact, it’s part of my job not to know.

“You must keep precise records of all purchases. Time. Amount. The customer’s appearance. His state of mind. How he asks for the book. How he receives it. Does he appear to be injured. Is he wearing a sprig of rosemary on his hat. And so on.”

I guess under general circumstances, this would feel like a creepy job requirement. Under the actual circumstances—selling rare books to mad scholars in the middle of the night—it feels perfectly appropriate. So, rather than spend my time staring at the forbidden shelves, I spend it writing about the customers.


Read the rest...
http://robinsloan.com

[Flame]

Interesting!

[vesta111]

Mr. Penumbra’s Twenty-Four-Hour Book Store

There is, I have learned, a community of very strange men clustered in this part of San Francisco. They visit the store late at night. They come wide awake, and completely sober. And they are always nearly vibrating with need.

For example:

The bell on the door will tinkle and before it’s done, Mr. Tyndall will be shouting, breathless, “Kingslake’s! I need Kingslake’s!” He’ll take his hands off his head (has he really been running down the street with his hands on his head?) and clamp them down on the front desk.

“Kingslake’s! Quickly!”

Mr. Penumbra has a database, believe it or not. The books aren’t shelved according to title or subject (do they even have subjects?) so the database is crucial. It runs on an old Mac Plus, but I copied it onto my laptop and, over the course of a few customer-free nights, mapped it onto a 3D model of the store. (If this sounds impressive to you, you’re over 30.)

So now I will just type in K-I-N-G-S-L-A-K-E and the model will rotate and zoom in on aisle 3, shelf 13, which is only about thirty feet up.

“You have it? Oh thank goodness, thank you, yes, thank goodness,” Tyndall will say, almost whimpering. “How much?”

And this is the crazy part. I haven’t sold a book in this store for less than two hundred dollars. Many are much more expensive than that. Penumbra’s database will tell me that “Investigations” by Reynold Kingslake is $1,800.

Not a blink.

After I do my monkey business on the ladder, Tyndall will write a prim check and slide it across the desk. “Thank you,” he will breathe, and then the bell will tinkle again as he hurries back out onto the street. It will be three in the morning.

* * *

THEY ALWAYS PAY. Not one has ever balked. Where do these weird old men get all this money?

This is one of the things I ask myself when I sit here alone, after Mr. Tyndall or Mr. Raleigh or Mr. Fedorov has left. I think I know them all at this point. I think of them as a strange fellowship, but I have no evidence that they know each other. Each comes in alone, and never says a word about anything other than the object of his current, frantic fascination.

I have no idea what’s in those books they pay all that money for. In fact, it’s part of my job not to know.

“You must keep precise records of all purchases. Time. Amount. The customer’s appearance. His state of mind. How he asks for the book. How he receives it. Does he appear to be injured. Is he wearing a sprig of rosemary on his hat. And so on.”

I guess under general circumstances, this would feel like a creepy job requirement. Under the actual circumstances—selling rare books to mad scholars in the middle of the night—it feels perfectly appropriate. So, rather than spend my time staring at the forbidden shelves, I spend it writing about the customers.


Read the rest...
http://robinsloan.com

Chris the story held my attention and perhaps the attention of a few of us who are reminded of our very own Strange Book Shop in this area.

Such an odd place, run by a man with the IQ if 130+ or so it is told. .

The owner is a remarkable man that has been arrested for attacking people in his store that refused to leave, or who he believed was going to rob him

He has owned a small building for years that sits alone back from the road. Seldom are there customers cars in his lot and one must pay him $5.00 just to enter the store.

Naturally for years now we who reside here think of his store as the Green Door of song as we " Wonder just whats going on in there."

The owner reminds me of the charactor Nero Wolfe as I get the idea that he mistrusts woman of all ages, although he did me a small favor for what I am grateful.

People that run old book stores can be strange, they never seem to act interested in selling their wares.  Never had anyone even in a  store where I was the only customer ever ask me more then off "Can I help You"   If I say I am just looking the help just fades away like I am not there.

No Chit chat, never anything like one gets while looking at cars at an auto dealership, no suggestions or reconditions, just a who cares if you buy attitude.

Come fall I will be out looking into the area old book stores for fireside reading, I believe I may find the workers there more interesting then the books now that I read that short story.

[Chris_]

I half expected the book store to turn out to be like Lewis Vendredi's antiques shop: Curious Goods.

An excellent read, Chris.  I give it at least 2 snaps up in a circle.

[ColonialMarine0431]

Mr. Gaunt's Needful Things ? 

[mamacags]

I loved it!  I could just picture the store with hundreds of thousands of books.  All cramped and dusty.