I forgot my earphones at home, and so I was unable to ignore the wet, shambling masses packed into my SkyTrain home.

I had hoped to lose myself in some writing, attacking some notes for this pilot I’m trying to break, but the drunk in front of me kepts grabbing for my pen, mumbling “lemme write, man. Lemme WRITE.” I swatted his hand away and he puffed out his Tapout-emblazoned chest and leaned into my face (“Oh, what? You don’t feel me?”) before his neck lost all muscle mass and his head flopped neatly onto the breasts of the horrified woman sitting beside him.

Meanwhile, this kid behind me tried his best to get whoever was on the other end of his cellphone to commit suicide by going on, at length, about his ex-girlfriend, using every relationship cliche you could think of, from “you know, for a few weeks there, I… I was happy, you know? Just really, really happy…” to “yeah, she tried to make love to me then, but I… I just couldn’t do it, you know? It didn’t feel right…but now I’m so alone… I just miss her so bad…”

There is a school of thought that writers should go out into the world and observe, so that your stories can come from real life and you can gain insight and authenticity. Twenty minutes spent on a SkyTrain in the company of future Darwin Award winners and I’m reminded why people would rather page-fuck sparkly Mormon vampires.

This, coupled with Balloon Boy, made today a real milestone for human intelligence.

Two nights ago, this thin, soft-spoken little man was in the store, sneaking around with his Mr. Spock-like bowl cut. At the “ten-minutes before we close” warning, he was sniffing my classic pocket books. He took one book after another, opened it up, and gently sniffed it. Which, to be honest, I could understand. Old books get pretty rank sometimes. But closing time is not Leisurely Smell Time, it’s Huff It Like It’s Glue So I Can Go Home Time.

Mr. Sniff brought a stack of books up to the counter. These were the books that had survived the olfactory gauntlet. He held up a Trollope.

MR. SNIFF: I want to buy this book, because it’s in much nicer condition than the one I have at home. Can I bring you the one I have at home?

JNADIGER: I don’t really want something that’s in worse shape than the one I’ve already got, thanks.

MR. SNIFF: How much would you give me for this book if I brought it in?

JNADIGER: The trashed version of that book? Nothing.

MR. SNIFF: No, this exact book.

JNADIGER: I don’t know, I’d have to see it first, before I can give you any rates.

MR. SNIFF: But, it’s THIS EXACT BOOK.

JNADIGER: I don’t know. Like I said, I’d have to see it. A few bucks in credit. MAYBE. Maybe nothing.

MR. SNIFF: Well, I’ll buy these books.

JNADIGER: Okay, thanks. You get 20% off for buying a big stack of them, so it’s $XX.YY please.

MR. SNIFF: Can I pay with pennies?

JNADIGER: I’d rather not have $XX.YY in pennies.

MR. SNIFF: Well, why not?

JNADIGER: They’re hard to get rid off, and I just don’t want them.

MR. SNIFF: Here’s $XX. Can I pay$0.YY in pennies?

JNADIGER: No.

MR. SNIFF: How about $0.0Y in pennies.

JNADIGER: Fine.

MR. SNIFF: Do all bookstore people have the same attitude as you?

(Which, you know, is such a difficult question to answer. Probably not, really.)

JNADIGER: I’m sorry, what’s your question?

MR. SNIFF: Does everything have to be an argument? About bringing books in? And payment?

JNADIGER: With respect, there’s no argument. The rules of the store are the rules of the store. I’m happy to take a look at anything you bring through that door, but until you do, there’s no books, no rates, no discussion.

MR. SNIFF: In Paris, I find the book stores there have unpleasant sellers, like you. But in New York, they are happy just to get anything. Any kind of money.

JNADIGER: Well, book store in Vancouver is closed. Thanks for dropping by.

And then, mercifully, I went to the bar. I figured that would be the end of it, and that I’d have one more Story of Human Failure to add to my already impressive repertoire, and that would be that. It’s not even that great of a story, really.

Except he just walked through the door.

And I don’t close for another three hours.

“Where are your non-fiction Sherlock Holmes books?”

A young black lady carrying two heavy backpacks came up to the front desk and tried running some weak game. Weak game almost always opens with the following line:

WEAK GAME: Where’s the boss? I am his friend.

JNADIGER: Boss isn’t here.

WEAK GAME: What is your favourite book?

JNADIGER: If I had to pick just one, at this very moment, I guess I’d say 1984 by George Orwell.

WEAK GAME: Can you lend me a copy of this book?

JNADIGER: No.

WEAK GAME: You can lend it to me. I am a friend of the boss. The old man and I, we are friends.

JNADIGER: He’s not that old, and I don’t have a copy of 1984 anyways.

WEAK GAME: But if you did, would you lend it to me?

JNADIGER: No. I’d happily sell you one.

WEAK GAME: Sell me one? I love books. I am from South Africa. If I had a copy of my favourite book, The Moor’s Last Sigh by Salman Rushdie, I would give it to you. Not sell it to you. And if you think this way, then you do not love books.

JNADIGER: I might not love books, but I love my job, so…

WEAK GAME: I forgive you for thinking in this manner.

JNADIGER: That’s a relief. Have a nice day.

***

While we’re talking about books, if I don’t want your books because they’re too common and too beat up, unclench, okay? I’m not talking about you. I’m not saying YOU’RE too common and beat up. Stop identifying so hard with your trashed copies of Danielle Steele, okay? Empathy is the enemy.

***

This heat, man, it does things to people. It makes the stupid and it makes us cruel. Witness:

Earlier today, we had another Average Frustrated Chump (AFC) try to buy a used copy of The Game: A Guide to Douchebaggery and Daterape. He picked it up off the shelf, cut in front of three cute girls in line at the register and thrust it in my manager’s face.

AFC: How much?

MANAGER: Should say on the inside.

AFC: There’s no price. That means it’s free right?

MANAGER: Hey James! There’s no price in this book! That means it’s free right?

JNADIGER: I’ve never heard that one before! That’s the most hilarious thing ever!

AFC got sad face after that. He bought another book, though, to show us that he was a man, and immune to our mockery. Is there a lesson here? I don’t know. I only know that if I can make fun of someone buying NLP date books, I will. Even if they really need the help.

There isn’t going to be much going on here for the next few weeks, as I’m struggling to get a draft of something written.

However, I’m happily Tumblr’ing away, so if you can’t live without my online presence, feel free to click through to my Tumblr page and watch me be vapid and childish in near-real time. I’m using Tumblr as a bit of an online notepad, catching things that tickle my interest.

You’ll see me here again the next time I have a spare minute to compose a coherent thought or when a customer is an asshole to me. One will probably happen sooner than the other.

4: The Lady Who Shook, Slammed, and Yelled at the Door I Had Locked So I Could Pee

She didn’t see the sign that I had posted at her eye level that said “back in a flash!” and when I asked why she felt compelled to abuse the door, she replied with:

“FINE! DON’T BOTHER!” and stalked off.

My customer service error, you see, was assuming I had the same human urinary rights as everyone else.

I cannot handle people today.

1: The Lady Who Cut in Line at the Bank.

There are two lines. One for respectable fucking business people like me, and one for everyone else, like you. When my teller becomes available, it’s not an open invitation for you to jump to the other line, in front of me and the five people behind me, so don’t put on your Shocked Face when I say:

“HEY! WAIT YOUR DAMN TURN.”

2: The Lady Whose Books Were Shit

She brought in two boxes and a bag full of old pocket books. Decent titles, popular authors, but TRASHED TO SHIT. Broken spines, water damaged, white pages gone sour, pus-coloured yellow.

So I said thanks, but no thanks, and she got huffy:

1st Lady: I didn’t realize that once books had been ever-so-slightly read that they were no good.

JNADIGER: With all due respect, this book (holds up a book damn near turned inside-out) is a few steps past “ever-so-slightly read”.

1st Lady: Well, that’s just the way books are once you’ve read them.

3: The Lady Who Can’t Understand a Favour

She came in with four boxes of really great stuff. A box of classic kids books, for example. I looked through it and realized that 1) I couldn’t spend the necessary amount of time researching the value of these books while alone in a busy store, and 2) that I wouldn’t have the money to pay for them once I did, so I suggested she take them down to the other location, where there are two people working (both with more experience than I have) and deeper pockets.

Helpful fucking advice, I thought, but then she got huffy:

2nd Lady: Well, that would have been helpful to know BEFORE you MADE ME bring the boxes in from the car.

JNADIGER: How was I supposed to know what was in the boxes until you brought them in?

I’m so very fucking sorry my telepathy was not up to fucking snuff today.

And it’s totally a choice to behave this way, okay?

The nicest person I dealt with all day had the most reason to complain:

NICE LADY: Do you have a washroom I can use?

JNADIGER: Sure, it’s that door over the with the picture of the skull over it. It’s not the nicest bathroom, so that skull is foreshadowing. (That’s a little joke we like to tell women who use our toilet, because it is kind of gross.)

NICE LADY: I’ll be okay, thanks.

(flush)

JNADIGER: So you survived the experience?

NICE LADY: Yes, but that skull was accurate. There’s a dead mouse in there.

I apologized like crazy because I was in there earlier and didn’t see it. But she was TOTALLY COOL WITH IT. Peeing next to a dead mouse, I think, would be cause for a minor freak out, but she laughed it off.

So, yeah. Now I’m grouchy.  And I had to dispose of a dead mouse. I should have saved it and snuck it into the next box of reject books.

(via)

Lots of people in and out of the bookstore, on an otherwise sunny and pleasant Friday afternoon.

A local cartoonist nods a greeting, and  makes his usual stop to check out some graphic novels. Behind him, an older lady with braided grey hair, a tourist from the Drive (haven for New Age zombies), sashays in, hemp skirts-a-twirlin’.

New Age Lady floats over to the till, where I am ringing a debit sale through for someone else, and attempts to work her magick:

NEW AGE LADY: May I have a penny?

JNADIGER: No.

NEW AGE LADY: When you open the till may I have a penny?

JNADIGER: No.

NEW AGE LADY: The penny is for God.

JNADIGER: In that case? No.

NEW AGE LADY (to customer): Can you ask him for a penny?

CUSTOMER: No.

JNADIGER: Thanks.

(Customer leaves)

NEW AGE LADY: She said I could have a penny.

JNADIGER: No she didn’t.

NEW AGE LADY: Good luck.

JNADIGER: Time to go!

NEW AGE LADY: God be with you.

CARTOONIST: She was scary.

JNADIGER: Did you give her a penny?

CARTOONIST: For God? Hell, no.

Now, if she had asked for a penny for Michael Jackson…

Bon apetit!

Today’s lunch break reading is White Trash Cooking by Ernest Matthew Mickler.

A sampling of wisdom:

BROILED SQUIRREL

Squirrel is one of the finest and tenderest of all wild meats. Its flavor is mild, rarely gamey. There is no need for soaking, and seldom any need for parboiling. They should be cleaned as soon as possible after shooting, but skinning may wait until they’re ready to be cooked.

Clean squirrels and rub with salt and pepper. Brush with fat and place on hot broiling rack. Broil 40 minutes, turning frequently and basting with drippins every 10 minutes. Serve with gravy from drippins and season with 1 to 2 tablespoons of lemon juice.

FRIED SQUIRREL

Make sure all the hair is cleaned off the squirrel. Cut it up. If it’s old and tough, put it in the pressure cooker for about 15 to 20 minutes.

Salt and pepper it. Cover with flour and fry in a cast iron skillet on a medium fire until brown and tender.

You can smother a squirrel just like a chicken.

(Photo is actually of a guinea pig that I ate while in Peru. It was not the finest of all wild meats.)