Just a Simple Shopgirl

When I go to work, I am At Work: completely absorbed in the art/science of selling books. On my feet for hours on end, learninglearninglearning. Customers come to the counter, hold up books and ask, "Have you read this? Is it good?" If it was published in the last 10 (or 50?) years, I pretty much have to say, "Nope, haven't read it, but it's flying off the shelves, I hear it's great!" I feel like I haven't read anything, don't know diddly, am starting from scratch. My favorite sensation.

(And then tonight, just as I'm leaving for home--the desert--Gloriana, my benefactress who has taken me into her home in order to "launch" me in Malibu, tells me she wants to read Ulysses because she can't leave this earth (she's 75) without knowing what's in that book, and my heart sings. At Berkeley, I did an entire semester graduate seminar just in Ulysses. "OK, Gloriana," I tell her, "here's what we're going to do: first, you're going to review The Odyssey--just a quick gallop through the new Fagles translation, you'll love it, and we'll discuss--and then I'm going to give you The Bloomsday Book, which will explain to you what the hell is going on in Ulysses. Here, for instance, " I open the book to page 1, to "Stately, plump Buck Mulligan," "you have to ask yourself--there's no getting around it--WHAT is Joyce DOING with the big letter S? The Bloomsday Book will explain." She's nodding her head off, can't wait to get started. This is what I've been waiting for, hoping for--an intelligent, sophisticated reader who wants to push her limits, go nuts, work without a net. We are off to the races!) (What'll I do if she wants Finnegan's Wake next? I've never been able to read it!)

So this simple shopgirl/university professor is entirely immersed in her new trade, to the point where she ignores her throbbing feet, her whirling head, her aching arms and shoulders from hefting cartons of books around, because she is so fascinated by what she's doing and by what's happening to her.

Every once in a while, I go outside, out of the store--for a break, for a meal, to take out the trash. And every time I step out the door--literally, EVERY time--I see something that takes my breath away--in a good way--a dog, a person, a car, a geographical feature--I never know what it will be, but it makes me gasp with awe/delight/whatever. Examples:

--Taking out the trash Friday night at 10, it's really stinky out there, a whole bank of festering dumpsters used by a pet store, two restaurants, a pharmacy, and us; the seagulls are going nuts, squawking and foraging, the nasty things; but something makes me look across the dumpsters to a pair of palm trees across the wash that runs under PCH to the beach, and framed between the two trees is the full moon and its reflection on the ocean. I emote for a while, then go back in and send my coworkers out to see it.

--Yesterday, I look up from the cash register into the parking lot, and I see a brand-new, black-on-black Aston-Martin just sitting there, staring at me. This James Bond car (but where's Pierce? ain't seen him today!) wants me BAD, I can tell. So I go out and commune with it. I don't touch it, of course, but I peer into it, examine it closely. The leather is Leather; the speedometer goes up to 210; every line of this machine is poetry. I go weak in the knees.

--Two parking spaces away is a 1965 VW Bug, baby blue, upholstered in white-on-blue floral vinyl, two surfboards strapped to its roof. It has a palm tree on its gearshift. I ask myself, "Self, did you have the choice, which one would you choose?" No contest. The Bug.

--Again yesterday, I'm standing at the register, this time with one of the store's owners, who says casually, over her shoulder, "If you want to see Shirley MacLaine, she just walked past, toward the pet store." I'm out of the store like a shot; no Shirley in sight in the breezeway; she must be in the pet store. And sure enough, there she is, looking happy, twinkling at the overpriced puppies in their sad little cages, maybe shopping for her next extra-terrestrial pet--who knows? Her hair is short, sort of pink, sticking out in all directions; her sunglasses are huge, 80s, Jackie O; I wish I could see her legs--the legs of one of the greatest dancers of all time--a true artist, this woman--but she's wearing long, floppy pants. She looks in good shape, but she also looks her age (whatever it is). She's a little stooped; she looks Old. She doesn't seem to have had anything Done; her wrinkles are her own, and she wears them with pride. I am proud for her. I say nothing, of course. Am merely inspired.

Such is the life of a simple shopgirl doing shift work. In Malibu.

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Comments

[Pica]

No, dear doc, so much MORE than just a simple shopgirl. Great to see you having so much fun.

(I for one will guess G will pass on Finnegans Wake...)

[Jokes]

The CIA had an opening for an assassin. After all of the background checks, interviews, and testing were done there were three finalists - two men and one woman. For the final test, the CIA agents took one of the men to a large metal door and handed him a gun.

"We must know that you will follow your instructions, no matter what the circumstances. Inside this room you will find your wife sitting in a chair. You have to kill her." The first man said. "You cant be serious. I could never shoot my wife!"The agent replies, "Then you?re not the right man for this job."

The second man was given the same instructions. He took the gun and went into the room. All was quiet for about five minutes. Then the agent came out with tears in his eyes. "I tried, but I cant kill my wife." The agent replies, "You dont have what it takes. Take your wife and go home."

Finally, it was the womans turn. Only she was told to kill her husband. She took the gun and went into the room. Shots were heard, one shot after another. They heard screaming, crashing, banging on the walls. After a few minutes, all was quiet. The door opened slowly and there stood the woman. She wiped the sweat from her brow and said, "You guys didnt tell me the gun was loaded with blanks. So I had to beat him to death with the chair."