So, I was pulled over for speeding a while back. My son, then 6, was in the backseat. I was tired, and anxious to get home, and got a little heavy with the gas pedal. So naturally when I saw flashing lights in my rear view mirror, I knew exactly why I was being pulled over.
"Well, shit," says me.
"What's he doing, Mom?"
"Well, I broke the law, so the cop has to pull me over. He'll also run my driver's license through his computer to make sure I'm not an escaped drooling psychopath."
"Then what?" my son asked, sounding distinctly nervous.
"Then I'll get a ticket. See, when you speed and get caught, you have to give some of your money to the state. It's your punishment, and in my case it's richly deserved. So he'll give me a ticket, I'll pay the ticket, case closed."
"So he's not taking me to jail?"
(Not today.) "Nope."
"Oh, okay."
So the Statie marches up to my car. I obligingly roll down my window.
"Good afternoon, ma'am. Do you know why I pulled you over?"
"Sure. I was speeding. I was in a hurry to get home and got careless. There's no excuse. Consider me busted. I throw myself on the mercy of your police scanner."
He squints at me, at my son, then asks for my license and registration. "You bet," I say. "D'you mind if I reach into my purse and grab it?" (I make it a habit never to startle anyone wearing a sidearm. Also, my purse is big enough to hold a sub-machine gun.)
So he takes them and off he goes. I explain to my son that he's running my license and writing up a ticket. In fact, he took such a long time I was *sure* he was writing a ticket.
He comes back, hands back my I.D., then says, "I'm going to let you off with a verbal warning this time."
I couldn't hide my amazement. Let's face it: I was nailed. Red-handed. Fingers in the cookie jar. Whatever. "Really? Jeez, thanks."
"Do you know why I'm not giving you a ticket?"
"Um...no." (Perhaps you are suffering from a high fever, Officer?) "I have absolutely no idea."
"It's because you told the truth. You admitted you were speeding. I've been on this job four years, and this is the first time a speeder *hasn't* said 'gee, I had no idea I was going that fast', or suggested my scanner was wrong, or pretended their speedometer was broken."
I appreciated that, but got a little hot under the collar anyway and couldn't resist adding, "My son is in the back seat. Why would I ever, ever show him that's it's all right to lie to the police? I mean, who does that?"
"You'd be surprised," he said, then nodded courteously and walked back to his car.
Jeez. Four years of pulling over speeders, and no one ever owned up to it? Not one driver? Pardon my French, but that's fucked up right there.
Anyway. I pay strict attention to the speed limit on the highways now. I doubt I'd get off with a warning twice. Besides, ever since then my son occasionally glances at the speedometer to see if I'm speeding again. It's like having a backseat driver. Oh. Wait. He *is* in the backseat.
He's still on the highway now and again.
So am I.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Borders Coughs Up An Amazing Apology
If you've been following this blog, you should know that I sulked for a day or two, but by the time I got back to MN from my CT T'giving trip, the following e-mail was waiting for me.
* * * * *
Dear Ms. Davidson,
I am the General Manager of Borders in Fairfield and I am writing to you to apologize about the experience you had at Borders in Fairfield, CT this week. I am so very, very sorry about the way you were treated. We have always been a store that has strived to be author friendly. The managers in this store have worked very hard to create an environment that supports both experienced and new writers. We have a monthly 'New Author Roundtable' that is a venue for authors to come and discuss their books and the writing process. It has been very successful and we've always received great feedback from the authors who attend - specifically saying that they received such welcoming treatment from us where they were treated poorly in other stores. And am mortified that any author, but especially an author of your caliber, was treated badly in this store.
The employee who you dealt with was my Cafe Supervisor. He was hired because he had experience running a food establishment and unfortunately he doesn't have much experience with books. I had hoped at this point that he would have had a better handle on the book store. There was no reason that he shouldn't have interrupted our manager's meeting if he wasn't certain what to do - it was just a routine meeting. I can't apologize enough.
Please know that we always work to support all writers, but we've always had great success supporting Romance writers in particular. One of my employees, Dianne DeFonce, was named last year's Bookseller of the Year by the Romance Writers of America. It is an award that she is so proud of, and we in the store are all so proud of her for being chosen for this honor.
I hope you will accept my sincere apologies and if you are ever in Fairfield again, that you'll give us another chance. We would love to have you visit the store - we have a number of fans on staff who would be so excited to meet you.
And if you'd like to discuss this matter or anything else, please feel free to call me any time.
All my best,
Eileen Leheny
General Manager
Borders - Fairfield, CT
(203) 256-1619
* * * * *
Well. I dunno about you guys, but I'm pretty satisfied. That was one whale of an apology. Also, I derived immense pleasure from what she must have said to Food Court Manager Guy. Hee!
Yup, I just might go back. If, you know, I ever wake up in Connecticut again.
* * * * *
Dear Ms. Davidson,
I am the General Manager of Borders in Fairfield and I am writing to you to apologize about the experience you had at Borders in Fairfield, CT this week. I am so very, very sorry about the way you were treated. We have always been a store that has strived to be author friendly. The managers in this store have worked very hard to create an environment that supports both experienced and new writers. We have a monthly 'New Author Roundtable' that is a venue for authors to come and discuss their books and the writing process. It has been very successful and we've always received great feedback from the authors who attend - specifically saying that they received such welcoming treatment from us where they were treated poorly in other stores. And am mortified that any author, but especially an author of your caliber, was treated badly in this store.
The employee who you dealt with was my Cafe Supervisor. He was hired because he had experience running a food establishment and unfortunately he doesn't have much experience with books. I had hoped at this point that he would have had a better handle on the book store. There was no reason that he shouldn't have interrupted our manager's meeting if he wasn't certain what to do - it was just a routine meeting. I can't apologize enough.
Please know that we always work to support all writers, but we've always had great success supporting Romance writers in particular. One of my employees, Dianne DeFonce, was named last year's Bookseller of the Year by the Romance Writers of America. It is an award that she is so proud of, and we in the store are all so proud of her for being chosen for this honor.
I hope you will accept my sincere apologies and if you are ever in Fairfield again, that you'll give us another chance. We would love to have you visit the store - we have a number of fans on staff who would be so excited to meet you.
And if you'd like to discuss this matter or anything else, please feel free to call me any time.
All my best,
Eileen Leheny
General Manager
Borders - Fairfield, CT
(203) 256-1619
* * * * *
Well. I dunno about you guys, but I'm pretty satisfied. That was one whale of an apology. Also, I derived immense pleasure from what she must have said to Food Court Manager Guy. Hee!
Yup, I just might go back. If, you know, I ever wake up in Connecticut again.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
My Husband Goes Medieval On White Collar Employees
Several of you have asked for my husband's part of the story, so here it is! Behold and tremble at part two of MJ's Retail Humiliation (usually that would refer to one of my fake credit cards getting declined, but that's a story for another time).
Rather than paraphrase my husband Tony's experience (So then, my husband goes, "quit it!" and the other guy goes, "not gonna", and Tony's all "shut your pie hole!" and he was all, etc., etc.), I asked him to write the whole thing down so I could paste his words verbatim. With his usual craven desire to slavishly obey my every whim, he did.
* * *
My wife told me to milk this one a bit, so enjoy. :)
So for most of the action (see the blog entry from last week re: Borders), as my wife has related, I am quite a distance away. This is for two reasons. First, I'm not expecting anything strange to happen, so I've settled upon a delightful piece of non-fiction to buy, thus rewarding this fine book shoppe for its support of said wife.
Second, even as I begin to hear discord, I'm not the breed to assume my woman can't handle things without me. Frankly, any insensitive idiot is worse off facing down MaryJanice Davidson than Anthony Alongi.
I don't really pay too much attention until I hear some familiar bureaucratic phrases - working in a large organization as I do, I have an ear for them. "In a meeting right now" and "we'll get back to you" are dead giveaways. The guy's riffing off a scripted card, which someone has thoughtfully stuffed into the empty space at the front of his skull for easy reading. I edge closer.
"Is it possible to ask someone else?" my wife is asking. Her voice is not loud, but wavering.
Schmuck in Black (this is what I have decided to call him, for he was indeed wearing black, and a schmuck for the duration of my dealings with him) shrugs. "Like I said, all the managers are in a meeting. It'll be at least an hour."
"Okay." She steps back from the two stacks of books she has thoughtfully pre-sorted and turns to me. "They don't want me to sign stock." She's trying to smile sarcastically, but I can tell she's unravelling.
I turn to our daughter. "Put those books down please, sweetheart."
Bless the teenager, she hasn't been paying attention (my wife's recollection in the last entry is not quite correct) and gives me a look. "Why?"
"Put them down NOW." I toss my own prospective purchase on a table, to show her what I mean. To her credit, that did the trick. "Mary, we're leaving." The three of us walk out of the store.
Trying to gauge her mood, I scan my wife's face carefully. "Do you want to go to Ann Taylor Loft?" (It's right next door, and she had noticed it coming in.) "Or just back to my sister's?"
"I don't care, as long as we don't go back in there." She's already walking toward the dresses in the display window.
We enter the clothing store, and I'm furiously flipping through my mental copy of What To Do For Your Wife. (Every husband does get this manual - and yes, yours did too; but give us guys a break - the print is really small and it takes a long time to find the right chapter for the right situation.) Stay at her side and talk her through this? Pretend nothing happened? Rent a nuke?
I dismiss the last option - I'm a son of Connecticut, and I'm saving that nuke for Rhode Island, which sorely needs it - but I decide I do have to go back and talk to someone. Not Schmuck in Black, necessarily, but someone who needs to understand that this was Decidedly Not Cool. ("DNC", as I like to say. If it catches fire, please credit me. I've always wanted an acronym.)
My wife and daughter are already checking out dresses. "I'll be right back," I tell them. I don't bother explaining where I'm going - I should think it's obvious, at least to MaryJanice.
It is. "Okay." Her eyes never leave the dress on the rack. Yes! Right chapter, right page. I stow the manual for the next emergency (likely to be self-inflicted) and walk out of the store. Don't get me wrong - Ann Taylor Loft is good stuff, but they can coordinate accessories without me.
Back in Borders, it is pretty quiet. Most of the customers are at tables in the cafe, the far bank of cash registers is closed, and only three staff are in evidence on the first floor - the coffee barrister, a cashier up front, and Schmuck in Black at the "service" counter. I choose the cashier, which takes a few minutes since another customer is in front of me.
I smile at her when it's my turn. "Hi. Are you the manager?"
She smiles back. "No."
"I wonder if you could get one for me."
"Of course." She flips a switch on her headset. "Manager to the front for customer service, please."
Ha! That wasn't so hard, I think. I look back at the service counter triumphantly, but Schmuck in Black is staring at a computer screen. If I squint and use a little imagination, I can easily recall the apes at the onset of 2001: A Space Odyssey, as they get excited about their first primitive tools.
A couple of minutes pass. I've stepped aside to let the cashier serve other customers; after two have come and gone, I catch her eye. I don't need to say anything - she nods and hits the switch again. "Manager to the front, please." She thinks for a moment and turns off the switch. "If they call up here, what shall I say this is regarding?"
"A dissatisfied customer," I tell her, and hastily add upon seeing her grimace, "but don't worry. You're terrific. Thanks for getting him or her up here."
"Her," she verifies. "They may be in a meeting. But they always come when we call."
"Of course they do," I say darkly as I turn back to the service desk. He finally sees me, from halfway across the store, and he cannot hide the recognition.
Please understand that I don't normally go into retail outlets searching for ways to make staff miserable. You can talk with any of the staff at any of the Borders, Barnes & Nobles, Books & Co., or independents where MaryJanice and I have swapped tour-war stories, shared laughs, and otherwise had a blast with the amazing, smart, and dedicated people who work in bookstores. They are, the vast majority of them, awesome awesome people. But when you find the prick in the haystack, there is nothing more satisfying than watching the crush of inevitability dawn on his face. This guy was screwed, and he knew it.
Meanwhile, another three customers have come up to the cashier line, and a fourth has slid politely past me and asked for assistance in finding a book. It's getting a little crowded up there, and the cashier has begun to panic. "Manager to the front! Cashier to the front! Manager to the front! Cashier to the front!"
A new cashier appears and helps the woman with a question first - it's an easy one - and then helps with the line. By the time Schmuck in Black has come to the front, there is no one else he can assist. To his credit, he straightens up and faces me head on. "How can I help you, sir?"
"I'm waiting for a manager."
Now, completely cashing in (and burning the cash earned from) whatever credit I was prepared to give him, he assumes I am stupid. "Yes. How can I help you?" That's right - he figured if he stood tall enough, I'd mistake him for a manager!
(Update to this entry: okay, since then we've found out that technically he WAS a manager...for the cafe. As in, his expertise lay in frothing milk for lattes, not books. Sort of like if I decided to manage Apple's iPod sales division, instead of what I do...which, hint hint, is NOT SELLING IPODS.
So anyway, he's not the manager I want, and he knows it.)
Fortunately, I am immune to amateurish Jedi mind tricks. Forgoing the chance to laugh like Jabba the Hut (hoah, hoah, hoah!), I straighten up a bit myself and keep my teeth clenched. "You can't. But a manager can. Find one."
"They're in a meeting. What can I - "
My mother always told me not to play with my food. "Go into that meeting. Look around the room. Find a person with managerial authority. Tell them a customer wants to talk to them. Now."
Finally, he scurries. Finally! I've been dying to see some good scurrying, and at long last it's here. I watch him leave. Sexy.
A minute later, a woman arrives. "You're looking for a manager?"
"Yes. You're a manager?"
"Yes."
I can't tell if she's really a manager or some smart-lookin' customer that Schmuck in Black paid off to imitate one; but she's pulling off a really good aura and deserves the benefit of the doubt. "Let's talk over here."
In a quiet corner, I explain to her that my wife, an author, has left this store almost in tears; that she was only trying to help this store sell more books; that she's humiliated and doesn't want to come back ever again; that our abrupt departure cost the store a few book sales from our own family; and that Schmuck in Black (though I didn't use his real name, as I have here with you), while not flat-out rude, doesn't seem to understand when it's okay to go get a manager to help an author...or a customer, for that matter.
She listens and nods. Very managerial-like. Okay, she's probably real. "I'm sorry that happened," she says.
"Thank you. I'm not sure where to go from here."
"Is she still interested in signing?"
"I don't know. She's upset. NOT," I add, "because she's a prima donna. She's not like that. She's from the midwest, where people are friendly and let her sign stock without filling out an application." This was an unfair shot in the wake of an unqualified apology; but I was getting pissed all over again, thinking of how she looked as she left the store. "I was born down the road..." I gesture vaguely; she doesn't know I mean Interstate 95 - "and I'm used to East Coast. But she may have had enough for the day."
The manager's expression has hardened a bit, which I don't entirely blame her for. "Well, I hope she'll decide to come back. We'll certainly pull any stock she has. Who is she?"
"Her name is MaryJanice Davidson. She writes the Undead and Unwed series."
"I see." I can't tell if the name is really familiar to her; in any case, it's obvious she's really hoping I'll go away.
"I appreciate your apology," I say, not yet knowing the grisly irony of any of this. "Please make sure your staff know what to do when an author comes to sign stock. We really should act like partners."
"You're absolutely right." The skillful, concerned manager is back. "I'll talk to him. It was the guy you sent to get me, right?"
"Yes. Thanks. I'll ask MaryJanice if she wants to come back. If you don't see us in about fifteen minutes, you'll know she didn't."
"Sure." She holds her hand out. "Thanks for letting me know about this, Mr. Davidson."
"Mr. Alongi, actually."
"Thanks, Mr. Alonzo." She smiles and walks away.
I sigh. "You're welcome."
Back at Ann Taylor Loft, the most happening loft in the world, my daughter is trying on a terrific (and inexpensive!) dress. It looks great on her, she's accessorized wonderfully with a scarf, and I tell her so. Then I turn to MaryJanice. "They've invited you to come back. They'll have stock..."
"I'm not going."
"Okay."
And that was the end of it. We bought the dress (and a few items for MaryJanice, of course) and spent the rest of the day, as we will the rest of our lives, shopping somewhere else. Other stores in Fairfield - yes! Other Borders outlets - absolutely! We know this was an anomaly. And we also know that what Schmuck in Black did, he did more out of incompetence than ill will. But there's a very clear principle here - beyond making my wife cry - which has to do with the partnership between the person who writes a book and the people who put it in the reader's hands.
My mother used to volunteer at the library of my elementary school. Her pride and joy was the organization of the annual Barlow Mountain Elementary School Book Fair, where authors like Maurice Sendack and other notables would come, meet the kids, and sign their books for them. She was so good at her job, one or two local authors invited her (and her son) to their house for coffee and chats. They'd talk to me about my favorite books, and whether or not I might become an author someday. These are among my earliest memories. The author wanted to connect with the reader. An autograph was among the best ways to do so. My mother understood that - and no one paid her to do so. Ninety-nine out of every hundred bookstore employees would also understand that - and they'd understand it, I'll bet, even if you didn't pay them. You don't mess with the autograph. You don't mess with the author. Whether they sell one book or one million, when one wanders into your store with a smile and a pen, you welcome them with open arms, find every book you have in stock, get the autograph stickers out, and get to work. And next time, Schmuck in Black (if you're reading this), leave the managers in the meeting - you shouldn't need them to know how to respect an author.
Best holiday wishes to MaryJanice's wonderful readers, and to all of the outstanding bookstores - including Borders! - who work so very hard to do right by her, and every other author.
Take care,
Anthony
P.S. Love you, sweeetie!
* * *
MJ here. Next blog: I get the most amazing apology from the manager of the Fairfield, CT Borders!
Rather than paraphrase my husband Tony's experience (So then, my husband goes, "quit it!" and the other guy goes, "not gonna", and Tony's all "shut your pie hole!" and he was all, etc., etc.), I asked him to write the whole thing down so I could paste his words verbatim. With his usual craven desire to slavishly obey my every whim, he did.
* * *
My wife told me to milk this one a bit, so enjoy. :)
So for most of the action (see the blog entry from last week re: Borders), as my wife has related, I am quite a distance away. This is for two reasons. First, I'm not expecting anything strange to happen, so I've settled upon a delightful piece of non-fiction to buy, thus rewarding this fine book shoppe for its support of said wife.
Second, even as I begin to hear discord, I'm not the breed to assume my woman can't handle things without me. Frankly, any insensitive idiot is worse off facing down MaryJanice Davidson than Anthony Alongi.
I don't really pay too much attention until I hear some familiar bureaucratic phrases - working in a large organization as I do, I have an ear for them. "In a meeting right now" and "we'll get back to you" are dead giveaways. The guy's riffing off a scripted card, which someone has thoughtfully stuffed into the empty space at the front of his skull for easy reading. I edge closer.
"Is it possible to ask someone else?" my wife is asking. Her voice is not loud, but wavering.
Schmuck in Black (this is what I have decided to call him, for he was indeed wearing black, and a schmuck for the duration of my dealings with him) shrugs. "Like I said, all the managers are in a meeting. It'll be at least an hour."
"Okay." She steps back from the two stacks of books she has thoughtfully pre-sorted and turns to me. "They don't want me to sign stock." She's trying to smile sarcastically, but I can tell she's unravelling.
I turn to our daughter. "Put those books down please, sweetheart."
Bless the teenager, she hasn't been paying attention (my wife's recollection in the last entry is not quite correct) and gives me a look. "Why?"
"Put them down NOW." I toss my own prospective purchase on a table, to show her what I mean. To her credit, that did the trick. "Mary, we're leaving." The three of us walk out of the store.
Trying to gauge her mood, I scan my wife's face carefully. "Do you want to go to Ann Taylor Loft?" (It's right next door, and she had noticed it coming in.) "Or just back to my sister's?"
"I don't care, as long as we don't go back in there." She's already walking toward the dresses in the display window.
We enter the clothing store, and I'm furiously flipping through my mental copy of What To Do For Your Wife. (Every husband does get this manual - and yes, yours did too; but give us guys a break - the print is really small and it takes a long time to find the right chapter for the right situation.) Stay at her side and talk her through this? Pretend nothing happened? Rent a nuke?
I dismiss the last option - I'm a son of Connecticut, and I'm saving that nuke for Rhode Island, which sorely needs it - but I decide I do have to go back and talk to someone. Not Schmuck in Black, necessarily, but someone who needs to understand that this was Decidedly Not Cool. ("DNC", as I like to say. If it catches fire, please credit me. I've always wanted an acronym.)
My wife and daughter are already checking out dresses. "I'll be right back," I tell them. I don't bother explaining where I'm going - I should think it's obvious, at least to MaryJanice.
It is. "Okay." Her eyes never leave the dress on the rack. Yes! Right chapter, right page. I stow the manual for the next emergency (likely to be self-inflicted) and walk out of the store. Don't get me wrong - Ann Taylor Loft is good stuff, but they can coordinate accessories without me.
Back in Borders, it is pretty quiet. Most of the customers are at tables in the cafe, the far bank of cash registers is closed, and only three staff are in evidence on the first floor - the coffee barrister, a cashier up front, and Schmuck in Black at the "service" counter. I choose the cashier, which takes a few minutes since another customer is in front of me.
I smile at her when it's my turn. "Hi. Are you the manager?"
She smiles back. "No."
"I wonder if you could get one for me."
"Of course." She flips a switch on her headset. "Manager to the front for customer service, please."
Ha! That wasn't so hard, I think. I look back at the service counter triumphantly, but Schmuck in Black is staring at a computer screen. If I squint and use a little imagination, I can easily recall the apes at the onset of 2001: A Space Odyssey, as they get excited about their first primitive tools.
A couple of minutes pass. I've stepped aside to let the cashier serve other customers; after two have come and gone, I catch her eye. I don't need to say anything - she nods and hits the switch again. "Manager to the front, please." She thinks for a moment and turns off the switch. "If they call up here, what shall I say this is regarding?"
"A dissatisfied customer," I tell her, and hastily add upon seeing her grimace, "but don't worry. You're terrific. Thanks for getting him or her up here."
"Her," she verifies. "They may be in a meeting. But they always come when we call."
"Of course they do," I say darkly as I turn back to the service desk. He finally sees me, from halfway across the store, and he cannot hide the recognition.
Please understand that I don't normally go into retail outlets searching for ways to make staff miserable. You can talk with any of the staff at any of the Borders, Barnes & Nobles, Books & Co., or independents where MaryJanice and I have swapped tour-war stories, shared laughs, and otherwise had a blast with the amazing, smart, and dedicated people who work in bookstores. They are, the vast majority of them, awesome awesome people. But when you find the prick in the haystack, there is nothing more satisfying than watching the crush of inevitability dawn on his face. This guy was screwed, and he knew it.
Meanwhile, another three customers have come up to the cashier line, and a fourth has slid politely past me and asked for assistance in finding a book. It's getting a little crowded up there, and the cashier has begun to panic. "Manager to the front! Cashier to the front! Manager to the front! Cashier to the front!"
A new cashier appears and helps the woman with a question first - it's an easy one - and then helps with the line. By the time Schmuck in Black has come to the front, there is no one else he can assist. To his credit, he straightens up and faces me head on. "How can I help you, sir?"
"I'm waiting for a manager."
Now, completely cashing in (and burning the cash earned from) whatever credit I was prepared to give him, he assumes I am stupid. "Yes. How can I help you?" That's right - he figured if he stood tall enough, I'd mistake him for a manager!
(Update to this entry: okay, since then we've found out that technically he WAS a manager...for the cafe. As in, his expertise lay in frothing milk for lattes, not books. Sort of like if I decided to manage Apple's iPod sales division, instead of what I do...which, hint hint, is NOT SELLING IPODS.
So anyway, he's not the manager I want, and he knows it.)
Fortunately, I am immune to amateurish Jedi mind tricks. Forgoing the chance to laugh like Jabba the Hut (hoah, hoah, hoah!), I straighten up a bit myself and keep my teeth clenched. "You can't. But a manager can. Find one."
"They're in a meeting. What can I - "
My mother always told me not to play with my food. "Go into that meeting. Look around the room. Find a person with managerial authority. Tell them a customer wants to talk to them. Now."
Finally, he scurries. Finally! I've been dying to see some good scurrying, and at long last it's here. I watch him leave. Sexy.
A minute later, a woman arrives. "You're looking for a manager?"
"Yes. You're a manager?"
"Yes."
I can't tell if she's really a manager or some smart-lookin' customer that Schmuck in Black paid off to imitate one; but she's pulling off a really good aura and deserves the benefit of the doubt. "Let's talk over here."
In a quiet corner, I explain to her that my wife, an author, has left this store almost in tears; that she was only trying to help this store sell more books; that she's humiliated and doesn't want to come back ever again; that our abrupt departure cost the store a few book sales from our own family; and that Schmuck in Black (though I didn't use his real name, as I have here with you), while not flat-out rude, doesn't seem to understand when it's okay to go get a manager to help an author...or a customer, for that matter.
She listens and nods. Very managerial-like. Okay, she's probably real. "I'm sorry that happened," she says.
"Thank you. I'm not sure where to go from here."
"Is she still interested in signing?"
"I don't know. She's upset. NOT," I add, "because she's a prima donna. She's not like that. She's from the midwest, where people are friendly and let her sign stock without filling out an application." This was an unfair shot in the wake of an unqualified apology; but I was getting pissed all over again, thinking of how she looked as she left the store. "I was born down the road..." I gesture vaguely; she doesn't know I mean Interstate 95 - "and I'm used to East Coast. But she may have had enough for the day."
The manager's expression has hardened a bit, which I don't entirely blame her for. "Well, I hope she'll decide to come back. We'll certainly pull any stock she has. Who is she?"
"Her name is MaryJanice Davidson. She writes the Undead and Unwed series."
"I see." I can't tell if the name is really familiar to her; in any case, it's obvious she's really hoping I'll go away.
"I appreciate your apology," I say, not yet knowing the grisly irony of any of this. "Please make sure your staff know what to do when an author comes to sign stock. We really should act like partners."
"You're absolutely right." The skillful, concerned manager is back. "I'll talk to him. It was the guy you sent to get me, right?"
"Yes. Thanks. I'll ask MaryJanice if she wants to come back. If you don't see us in about fifteen minutes, you'll know she didn't."
"Sure." She holds her hand out. "Thanks for letting me know about this, Mr. Davidson."
"Mr. Alongi, actually."
"Thanks, Mr. Alonzo." She smiles and walks away.
I sigh. "You're welcome."
Back at Ann Taylor Loft, the most happening loft in the world, my daughter is trying on a terrific (and inexpensive!) dress. It looks great on her, she's accessorized wonderfully with a scarf, and I tell her so. Then I turn to MaryJanice. "They've invited you to come back. They'll have stock..."
"I'm not going."
"Okay."
And that was the end of it. We bought the dress (and a few items for MaryJanice, of course) and spent the rest of the day, as we will the rest of our lives, shopping somewhere else. Other stores in Fairfield - yes! Other Borders outlets - absolutely! We know this was an anomaly. And we also know that what Schmuck in Black did, he did more out of incompetence than ill will. But there's a very clear principle here - beyond making my wife cry - which has to do with the partnership between the person who writes a book and the people who put it in the reader's hands.
My mother used to volunteer at the library of my elementary school. Her pride and joy was the organization of the annual Barlow Mountain Elementary School Book Fair, where authors like Maurice Sendack and other notables would come, meet the kids, and sign their books for them. She was so good at her job, one or two local authors invited her (and her son) to their house for coffee and chats. They'd talk to me about my favorite books, and whether or not I might become an author someday. These are among my earliest memories. The author wanted to connect with the reader. An autograph was among the best ways to do so. My mother understood that - and no one paid her to do so. Ninety-nine out of every hundred bookstore employees would also understand that - and they'd understand it, I'll bet, even if you didn't pay them. You don't mess with the autograph. You don't mess with the author. Whether they sell one book or one million, when one wanders into your store with a smile and a pen, you welcome them with open arms, find every book you have in stock, get the autograph stickers out, and get to work. And next time, Schmuck in Black (if you're reading this), leave the managers in the meeting - you shouldn't need them to know how to respect an author.
Best holiday wishes to MaryJanice's wonderful readers, and to all of the outstanding bookstores - including Borders! - who work so very hard to do right by her, and every other author.
Take care,
Anthony
P.S. Love you, sweeetie!
* * *
MJ here. Next blog: I get the most amazing apology from the manager of the Fairfield, CT Borders!
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