No Borders Here

This evening I walked through the chaos that was once a Borders Book Store. Garish yellow clearance signs, half empty shelves, and the cafe dark and stanchioned. This was not just any store, it was my Borders.

There are three things that have surprised me about the recent press articles on the demise of Borders Books. The last two are an important reminder to anyone who runs a service business.

The first, that it was founded in 1971 by brothers with the last name Borders (Tom and Louis). I always thought it was a good name for a book store. I took liberty that it was solely a play on the concept of what a border can be. Books challenge where we draw the line. What are the borders we establish to define our own limits?

When I moved to the US in 2000 I sought to compare Borders and Barnes and Noble with Chapters and Indigo in Canada. Each had its own personality (In Canada, I preferred Indigo, alas they eventually merged). It seemed at the time that Borders carried a more varied inventory and their staff more passionate about reading. I readily admit that my test sample was narrow and I shouldn’t judge any service organization on one or two employees.

My family settled in an area of North Phoenix that was unfortunately void of anything independent. Chain stores ruled in artificial mega malls. I wrote in earlier blogs about my search for a place to pursue my writing,  Where To Write

This is where my second point arises. In all the articles that discuss the management missteps at Borders and how E-publishing dealt the death blow, there has been no mention of customer service at the store level.

If I use myself as a sample demographic, I get a very clear picture on where else Borders went wrong. We are a family of four. My spouse is in a monthly book club and our teenage son is an avid reader. In addition to my own appetite for fiction, I also procure a steady stream of books and magazine on my interests in writing, computers, and photography. In a one year period we consolidated all of our purchases at Borders. I would estimate this to be about 40 titles. In addition, practically every Sunday for over a year I would spend two and half hours writing at the same table in one location in their SBC Café. In addition there was also evenings and sometimes two visits a weekend. At least once a month visited all three Borders in my general area. I doubt there is much argument that my family and I represented a valuable consumer group for both books and Café purchases.

In that year the staff in the café of my main location did an excellent job learning my name and my beverage preferences. I also reached out to interact with the booksellers. It wasn’t difficult to identify those who were in leadership roles. I often asked them questions, at times offered helpful suggestions and in general tried to develop a convivial relationship.

Shortly into my second year, I had an interaction with a female who I believed to be an Assistant Manager. I had spoken to her many times in the previous year. She had no idea who I was and treated me with a dismissive attitude that left me cold. I walked out of the store that day and never returned.

The third and the final wheel to the tricycle that Borders rode to their demise was what didn’t happen next.  For years, information has been the most valuable asset of any organization. The rise of Google illustrates what an expertise in this field can represent. For over a year, Borders captured detailed information about my family and our buying habits. When a steady stream of revenue stopped, I wondered if their systems were intuitive enough to reach out and ask me why. Nothing ever came.

I moved on and switched to Barnes and Noble where technology quickly had me moving again. Not an e-book as you might suspect but the lack of plugs in their café or near their work tables. As my computer has aged, so has the capacity of my battery. This would be a discussion for another day, the failure of store design to keep me as a customer.

If bookstores are to survive, they need to become meeting places and tied into the cultural mosaic of the community they serve. Author’s readings, classes, writing groups, must all be encouraged (even at a price to participate).  They need to connect with people and encourage repeat visits. The paper and ink versions of books will become more of a collectable that an immediate consumable.

Thankfully two independent coffee shops also opened within proximity to my home, and this is where I can happily be found on my writing mornings. And yes, I will be buying an e-reader in the next few months but I don’t think anyone is going to miss me in a book store.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Mandatory Valentine

What began as a howl towards being told when to celebrate love…quickly descended into something sentimental.  An absence from poetry (12 years!) leaves oneself vulnerable to these arisings.

 Mandatory Valentine

 It’s Legislated

               I have to do this Today?

No Stopping

               But what if I hadn’t slowed down to notice you?

Take a Number

               It felt like that some days.

No U-Turn

               What if you hadn’t come back?

No Re-Entry

               What if we hadn’t tried again? And again?

No Parking

               But what if I hadn’t stayed?

School Zone

               I’m always learning about you.

Stay Off The Grass

               That’s okay there’s always a secluded cove.

No Smoking

               But there is such heat between us.

Do Not Enter

               That was before…

No Firearms Allowed

               But I’m loaded.

No Children Allowed

               We ignored that one

February 14th, tell her you love her, buy her a gift

               The other 364 days don’t matter?

This Offer Has Expired.

               Every day matters.

Closed For The Season

               No.

This Poem was subsequently recognized, with a third place finish in a Poetry Contest hosted by the Quillians Writing Group from the virtual word of Second Life.

Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Casting for Characters

I’m looking for a new character for my novel. Before I cast my thoughts inwards, I look up and survey the room beyond this round bistro table and my Chai latte which is too hot to drink. This Starbucks is busy on a Saturday morning. A fertile space of characters and conversations.

An elderly man leans heavily on a tubular wood walking stick. The candy cane top is scratched, a patina of the clash between the soft wood and the thick silver ring that spins on his emaciated finger.

Each shuffled step is accompanied by a full stop.  The curve of his spine, almost doubled over is interrupted by the upward tilt of his head. Anxious for physical dignity, the man’s neck bends proudly to lift his chin. Each step an accomplishment. He smiles, unconcerned that he has no audience or does he sense I am watching? His too perfect white chiclet teeth push against thin lips.

A young woman in skin-tight black Lulu Lemon pants holds the door for him. She smiles kindly but his smile falters. A choice is required between making eye contact and concentrating on his feet crossing the threshold. Do his eyes linger on her shapely legs and the curve of her near perfect ass?

In his day this would have been a scandalous outfit. Not the kind of girl you would take home. He may not have been that kind of boy either. I reflect for a moment on the fashions that he must have seen in his ninety years.

He pauses on the concrete squares just beyond the arch of the door. If he were to look in the reflection of the window he might be disappointed to see that he is not standing erect. The cane sways from his wrist. His other hand slides into the slit pocket of his wool dress pants.  A flash of silver as his fingers wrap around an object.

I wistfully look for my camera to capture this anachronism playing out in front of me. A wizened old man in timeless clothing, anywhere else in the world he would have worn a felt hat. I watch as he flips a thin silver cell phone over in his hand – I imagine an even greater photo if he lifted it with his thumbs splayed in the universal mudra of a person texting. Even if he were to just make a cell phone call, the image would bridge eras and generations. Add the shapely young girl and the message became universal.

He doesn’t look down; the contours of the phone are familiar to his hand. Its flat profile suggests a newer model but not an iPhone. His hand tenses, the tendon between his thumb and forefinger rises as he engages a clasp and the silver case flips open. But it isn’t a phone. Instead of a screen and keyboard, pale white tissue paper cylinders are lined up in rows, a cigarette case. My anachronism is now just a man from another time.

The cigarette tips are crushed and angled slightly. At first I imagine they are hand rolled, the pride of a lifetime smoker but then I catch sight of tightly pressed filter tips. But why the crushed ends? As a non smoker I can only imagine that cigarettes are now longer, supersized. Unable to abandon the case, like the aged, they are pinched and forced to fit.

He places a cigarette against his lips, returns the cane to his left hand before reaching back into his pocket to produce a silver lighter. I can’t see it, but I know his thumb is calloused from pressing the coarse wheel that grinds against the flint.

With a deep inhale, his cheeks pull under the angular bones that cradle deep eye sockets.

Blue grey smoke rises slowly around him.  A few people look up, the smell catching their senses. The looks of reproach soften as they eye the old man. It is the ‘Grandfather Clause’ in its most personal form. No one would deny this man his right to inhabit this space. His pursed lips hold the cigarette; he wheezes slightly like an engine warming up and begins his slow shuffle down the sidewalk and out of the frame of my imaginary snap-shot but onto the page of my manuscript.

My Latte is now cool enough to sip.

Posted in Cafe Conversations | 1 Comment