Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/31

It was awful lonely at the floating bookshop for the first two hours today. No one stopped by. I saw none of my regulars. I thought it was going to be one of those days. Fortunately, a nice young couple happened to spot the children's books I had on display and bought four. I'd sold the man Louis Gelormino's autobiographical The Gent's Prayer a few weeks ago, which he is enjoying. I told him how disappointed I was that the email address and guest book at the accompanying website are not functioning. I wanted to congratulate Gelormino on a life well-lived. All my efforts to track him down on the web have failed. I hope he shows up one day so I can tell him in person. I haven't seen the gregarious Carmine in a while. My instincts tell me Carmine and Louis are friends. They are of a similar age.
A while later there occurred one of those inevitable amusing incidents that are bound to crop up while spending so much time on the street. I spotted a guy about to feed the meter and called out to him that it was Sunday. I love denying the city money it does not deserve. I wonder how much it accumulates this way. Anyway, the guy was so pleased he gave me a dollar. I would have been happier if he'd taken a book. I'm not looking for nor do I need charity, but I've learned that it is a mistake to argue about such things.
A middle aged couple capped the activities by buying thrillers by Dean Koontz and James Patterson. I didn't know if I should inform them that the Patterson book was co-written, which, I suspect, means Patterson did not write any of it. I've informed customers of that in the past. I guess I was a little too eager for the sale. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned....
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/30

Thanks to Jack, employee of the Chase Bank at Bay Parkway and 85th, who bought four thrillers to read on his long commute home to Queens. He goes through one every few days. I was relieved to see him, fearing he had lost his job. Just back from a two-week vacation, he had the readjustment blues, a feeling I knew all too well in my days working the trading floor, especially before the introduction of the hand held computers that made the job so much easier. Prior to that we had to clap to get the attention of the people at the podium, who relayed the trades we were reporting via telephone to others sitting at computers. It was frustrating and nerve-wracking when the market was busy. These days the market has evolved to where 80% of the trades occur on computers, leaving out slews of middle men. I would guess that 80% of the employees at One North End lost their jobs. Sometimes progress is painful. A lot of good people, especially those over 50, have had a tough time adjusting. Conservative pundits have dubbed this type of occurrence as the "creative destruction" of capitalism. One of the best and most easily understood examples of this is what has happened to the music industry. For years vinyl records ruled, then eight-tracks and cassettes improved the delivery, then CDs did it even better, and now the digital revolution has allowed consumers to pick and choose songs from an incredible catalog at a reasonable price. We can custom make CDs for our cars, or download thousands of songs into the marvel that is an IPOD. We can eliminate the filler that characterized so many albums, or even download an entire album - freedom of choice. And the sound is wonderful, at least to my ear. Those who complain it is too compressed must have supersonic hearing. Then again, they may be full of it. I once viewed a PBS program wherein experts were asked to pick between different delivery systems. They were as often wrong as right. As a society, we have to hope that this creative destruction will always yield good results. So far its track record is outstanding, despite the roadblocks the criminals in Washington put in the way. In my view, they are more dangerous to an economy than any other factor. A lot of record shops have closed. There is a sadness in that, but the alternative is infinitely better.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/29

Two years ago today on the Taconic State Parkway in Westchester County, New York, a woman under the influence of drugs and alcohol drove the wrong way and wiped out eight lives, including her own, when she collided head on with a car going the right way. Her husband has been in denial ever since, refusing to accept the toxicology reports. He is suing the owner of the car, a relative he deems responsible for allowing his wife to drive, and the family of the driver of the other vehicle, who he claims was driving recklessly. I don't like to make broad generalizations about our vast society, but sometimes it's hard not to. So many are infected with a sense of entitlement and a lack of responsibility that is downright scary. I think of it as the "culture of gimme." I don't understand how a suit was even allowed to begin against the other driver, who was killed along with his two passengers, even if he was speeding, which many of us do. He was guilty only of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. What a farce.
Switching gears completely, I had a nice surprise today. A gentleman who has passed the floating bookshop countless times stopped and asked: "Did you go to Lafayette?" I looked him in the eye and told him my name. "I knew you looked familiar," he said. When Frank told me his name I had to look deep past the glasses and receding hairline to find the handsome face I hadn't seen in more than 40 years. He used to hang out in the schoolyard of P.S. 97, in what we referred to as the West Streets. Many of his friends were classmates of mine at St. Mary's Elementary School. I rattled off names we had in common. Our groups had played softball against each other. Their leader, Ronnie, was killed in action in Vietnam. Frank spent 1969 there, and when he came home it seemed all his friends had moved away. We knew the whereabouts of only one. Frank is a retired postman and lives in the same complex I do, two buildings over. I was so happy he spoke up. I would never have recognized him.
Thanks to the kind folks who purchased books the past two days and to the folks at Ipsos surveys for the check, which will begin defraying the biggest expense of the year - the car insurance bill. Also thanks to our stellar porter, Frankie, who gave me a box of books a former tenant left behind. Gracias, amigo.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/27

Arlynn had news she didn't want to hear today. She had another scraping for a biopsy and was really pissed at the doctor, who she calls "cold." She suspects the guy is merely looking for another big pay day, since he suggests she have a mole removed that all women in her family have. And, of course, the two areas would have to be treated on separate visits, as Medicare wouldn't cover the common sense move of doing them at once. She also had to stop at her neurologist, who she has been seeing for 20 years. He assured her the spot in question is probably nothing. He gave her several prescriptions, which she brought to Monica's, which was raided yesterday by the Office of the Inspector General. Since the computers were confiscated, she will have to pick up the stuff tomorrow. In my view, government has created a climate of racketeering in the medical field. We went out for pizza after this latest debacle. This time it was my treat.
I've been worried about the health of my friend Morty, a 75-year-old retired salesman who stops by the floating bookshop every day. He's been losing weight and his voice seems a bit hoarse. He seems to be in good spirits, however, so I hope my fears are unfounded. He was all smiles today. He bought a lot of Ensure to counteract the weight loss. It was a $60 value. He paid $12. That's the type of thing he's always telling me about and lives for.
A couple of elderly women living in rent-controlled apartments in my building have died. They were tenants since the place open in 1960. Those flats will now be renovated and put on the open market by the co-op board, a bonanza, alas too late to head off the proposed rise in our maintenance fee, which hasn't moved for many, many years. Oh, well, all good things must end.
Thanks to the Russian woman who purchased five books for her granddaughter, and to the music fan/security guard who has been so kind to me, who purchased both the Ultimate Sinatra and Ultimate Jazz CDs. I finally learned his name - William. I'm running out of blank CDs - and that's a good thing.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/26

There was no action on book front today, but plenty otherwise. Monica's Pharmacy, Anteka to use the Russian term, just 100 feet from where I usually set up shop, was raided by agents of OIG, Office of Inspector General, which combats fraud. The shop was closed for a while as loads of paperwork were carried and carted to two vans. As soon as the authorities left, it was business as usual. Arlynn buys her meds there. Of course, if they're guilty, they should be shut down.
A bit later two of the local drinking crew took a seat on the ledge that guards the narrow garden that spans the apartment building directly in front of me. It rises only a foot and a half from the ground. I often sit on it myself to rest my legs. Anyway, the boys pulled a bottle of wine from a paper bag and were miffed that there was a cork in it. Expletives flew. One had a screwdriver in his bag of tricks. For the next 15 minutes they got nowhere, until one spotted half a cinder block in the small courtyard between the building and Monica's. They used it as a hammer, and it did the trick. They knocked the cork into the bottle and proceeded to chug away. Soon one of them noticed the authentic Coast Guard hat I was wearing, which Arlynn's son Jaime had given me as thanks for accompanying his mom to her radiation treatments. He identified himself as former 11 Bravo, an infantryman, and held out his hand for a fist bump. I obliged. I was relieved when the bottle was drained and they went on their way.
It looked like it was going to be a very disappointing day until Kofi showed up at about three. He purchased both the Ultimate Sinatra and Ultimate Jazz Cds I'd recently burned. Thanks, sir. I will burn replacements before I log off for the night.
Speaking of music, Waj pulled up to the gyro stand in his SUV, delivering supplies, which, since his promotion, is his new job. When he opened the hatch, Middle Eastern music blasted into the street. It sounded good and was certainly an improvement from the time he unleashed x-rated hip hop on the area.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/25

It was good to be back in my usual spot, even though I sold only a Mary Higgins Clark mystery today. Thanks, ma'am. And it was so great not having to deal with oppressive heat. The cloud cover and stiff wind negated the high humidity. What a relief. Thanks also to the gentleman who donated three paperbacks to the cause.
I had never heard of Jhumpa Lahiri until actor/singer Johnny Feets spotted Unaccustomed Earth (2008), a collection of long short stories (oxymoron) among the books I had on display. He said she wrote like an angel. That day I took it home. I've just finished it. The stories are about people of Bengali (India) origin living in the United States. She writes about real life, without any embellishment other than her beautiful prose. She shows the customs of the characters, which are different than that of most Americans. More importantly, she reveals their humanity, which is exactly like anyone else's. The parents hold onto ties from their old lives, just as mine did, while their American-born children become westernized. I characterize this type of work, as I would 90% of my own, as "explorations of the bittersweet mystery of life." While reading, I was reminded of a film I recently viewed on DVD, Tokyo Story (1953). In it, an elderly couple living in a remote village decide to visit their children, who, busy with their own lives, have little time for them. There is no action, but plenty of understated interaction - just like in real life. The characters, except a young widow at the end, rarely show any deep emotion. They are decent folk lost in the great mystery of life. Director Yasujiro Ozu ( yes, there were others besides the great Kurosawa making movies in Japan) allows viewers to form their own conclusions. It is rife with hard truths.
Lahiri's debut collection of stories, The Interpreter of Maladies (1999), was awarded a Pulitzer Prize. I was happy to learn she has chosen Brooklyn as her home, although the yuppie-hipster section of Park Slope seems so different from the rest of the borough. I wonder if she ever passed the floating bookshop when I used to set up shop there.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/21

It didn't feel like there was much relief  from the heat when I left the house, despite the cloud cover. The humidity was high. I decided to set up shop, anyway, even though I'd left a bottle of seltzer in the freezer. It seems I'm forgeting at least one thing every day. Scary.
I set up under the tree on Bay Parkway and 85th in case the sun eventually popped out, and I immediately sold Stephen King's Duma Key to a young man carrying a large pizza. There were sporadic sprinkles in the air, but not enough to have me pack up. Miguel showed, fresh from church, prayer book in hand. He posts a lot of Christian-oriented stuff on his Facebook page. A recent one concerned suicide. He got a message from a woman he did not remember befriending, who said the post saved her from doing something really stupid. He got all choked up telling me this. He truly believes God had had him intervene. I told him of the meeting I'd had with Louis Gelormino on that very spot two weeks ago. Crazy Louie, as he was known in his gang days, went on to become a successful lawyer and wrote a memoir, The Gent's Prayer. He also believes God, through certain people, has intervened on his behalf. It must be nice to have such faith. Thanks to Miguel for purchasing Alexander McCall Smith's Morality for Young Girls, a mystery set in Botswana.
The only disappointment of the day was Joann, who has donated so many books to me, not showing up. Lately, several people have asked if I had anything by Cynthia Freeman, who specialized in multi-generational stories about Jews, usually with a female character at the center. She died in 1988. Her books were translated into 33 languages and sold 20 million worldwide. I'd bet Joann has some.
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