Bookshop

I stepped into the bookshop that I had been to many times before, in a trendy part of town. Although it wasn’t the cheapest second-hand bookshop around, it was the only with an entire shelf of African literature (with ‘African’ loosely defined as anyone who was born in, ever spent time in or ever wrote about Africa). 

An elderly lady with white hair greeted me, asked me if I required assistance. ‘No, I’m fine, thanks!” I said as I made a beeline to the back of the shop, and started scanning my favourite shelf for any names that sounded even vaguely African among the supposed African literature.

“You didn’t cash up properly yesterday,” I hear her elderly raised voice, with a hint of tension.

“No, I did. I just subtracted the amount from the total for a book I bought before I cashed up.” It was a man this time, also white, by the sound of his voice.

Intrigued, I popped my head around the corner of the Travel shelf. A young-ish, tall and mildly unkept white guy was standing in the doorway, a woman of similar age and personal hygiene habits beside him.

“No, you read the p-code incorrectly. It should be 399,” says white hair.

“Actually, I rounded it up to 400. There’s no mistake.”

The conversation went on like this, with cash-up jargon that must have come out of the 70’s along with the ancient till, making the meaning of the conversation incomprehensible to me. What I did understand was the rising tone of the conflict, hidden behind a thin veneer of civility, and the stubborn refusal to back down by both parties. Old lady saw no problem in interrupting unkept guy, even just to say that he wasn’t understanding her.

“Cashing up can be such a mission,” says the young unkept woman during a moment of awkward silence. “I remember when I worked at [name any retail store here] I used to make cash up mistakes all the time!” I feel almost embarrassed at her desperate attempt to bring levity into the conversation. She seems desperate to leave, her spirit tugging at the arm of her partner, if not her body.

“I’ll bring the slip tomorrow. I think it’s still in the pocket of my other jeans,” says unkept man, finally relenting.

“I’m glad you didn’t throw it in the bin,” giggled white hair. “It’s so full and I didn’t feel like rifling through the rubbish!” Old lady got jokes.

The couple hasten out the door. Their retreat sounds some kind of horn of personal horror and sheepish surrender, as two other patrons of the store leave without buying a single book. But I’m made of firmer stuff. I stick around, unsatisfied with my empty hands that should have been filled with books.

Deep into scanning titles and authors for anything vaguely interesting on the Business shelf (yes, I was that desperate), I half-hear a young man ask for a book he had reserved. Casually glancing in the direction of the till, I’m surprised that he’s black, and immediately check my prejudice. Of course a young black man can be looking for a book, especially when he is the kind of nerdy, lanky guy I like with impressive dreadlocks.

“Aren’t you lucky! It’s right on top of the pile!” Old lady seems to think she’s being funny or something when she’s really not. Either that or she’s really bad at small-talk. “Ummm…hehe…could you pronounce your name for me? It’s very unusual.”

“It’s Tlo-tlo,” says dreadlocks, with a smile that doesn’t seem to quite reach his eyes. He’s been through this before, it seems.

“It looks almost Chinese! Hehe! Say it again?”

“Tlo-tlo. You can also pronounce it as if the T’s are C’s.” He’s definitely been through this before.

“Cloe-cloe,” she says, trying it out. “Funny spelling.”

“Actually, it’s a device I came up with.”

“What, you mean it’s made up?”

“Err…no. I mean the hyphens.” Presumably he had one in his surname too.

“Oh.”

Queue awkward silence.

Old lady rallies. “Just this book then? Do you have a loyalty card?”

“No.”

“Oh, well. It wouldn’t matter anyway. You have to spend more than R50 to get a stamp.”

“Oh.”

Throughout this exchange, both parties have a plastered smile that does nothing to convince anyone that everything’s ok right now.

I am trying not to cringe by the time I hand her the two books I found among all the J.M. Coetzee’s.

“Just these two?”

“Yes please.”

“That’ll be R103.”

I give her the exact amount of money, and she rings it up. “I have a loyalty card somewhere!” I say, as I spill several near-identical cards out of my wallet in search of the One True Card.

“Ok,” she says with a total and obvious lack of enthusiasm. Her face seems to drop when she sees I’m four stamps shy of my R100’s worth of free books. She stamps it and hands it back to me, with an almost hesitantly outstretched arm.

“Have a good day!” she says with that same plastic smile that seems to stretch from ear to ear and yet holds no warmth. Her smile seems to warn people, like a subliminal message that says ‘Please don’t impose. Please don’t ask for any kindness that you do not deserve. Please only respect what is fair, correct and just and don’t ask for overdue consideration. I am tolerant, of course, but empathy is too much to ask of me. I belong to a different time.’

Indeed.