Bookshop Confessions: “What do you believe in, then?”

I own a bookshop (and small press) in San Antonio called Ghoulish Books. We specialize in horror. We’re located downtown in a multi-purpose building sandwiched between a barber on one side and a tattoo parlor on the other. I think that’s all you really need to know.

I’m going to start using a portion of this new blog to document my experiences with certain clientele who enter my shop—particularly, the nutjobs and assholes of the city. Or, I guess in today’s installment, someone who’s just really, really high.

Also, a plea: if you’ve recently visited the shop and you are reading this blog and suddenly realize, “Wait a second, they’re writing about me,” please do not confront me about it. Just move on and avoid any further awkward interactions.

Anyway here we go.

This happened maybe a half hour ago.

I’m in the process of checking out a customer when a man walks in, kinda stumbling, glancing around the place. I briefly greet him as I finish ringing the woman up at our register. She and her companion leave, and immediately it becomes an awkward moment requiring this new arrival to lean against the bookshelves. As they’re scooting between him and the tables, he makes claws with his hands and goes, “Raaahhh,” then giggles. When the other two customers do not join him in laughter, he turns bright red and pretends to browse the shelves for several minutes. I should also mention that he has a half-smoked joint in his ear that keeps falling, which he’s constantly readjusting throughout the rest of this interaction.

“I’m just browsing,” he blurts out. “I just got a haircut next door and thought I’d come in here and see what everything’s all about.”

I nod and say, “Okay.”

Then, once the shop is empty, he turns to me and asks, “So…what…is this…?” Meaning the building he currently finds himself standing in.

“It’s a bookshop,” I tell him. Weirdly this is not the first time I’ve had to answer this question. Sometimes the follow-up question is, “Like…a library?” But that’s not what he asks.

“Yeah,” he says, like I’m the dumbass, “but based on what, though…?”

“Spooky stuff,” I tell him. “The horror genre.”

And he starts nodding enthusiastically and goes, “Yeah, I gotta admit, I’m pretty scared looking at all this right now.”

“Okay,” I say, “that’s good to hear.”

Around this moment he spots a Simpsons Treehouse of Horror painting we have hanging on the wall and proceeds to giggle about it for way too long.

Then he asks if we sell lighters.

“We do not.”

“Oh,” he says. “Well do you have a lighter?”

“Sorry, I don’t smoke.”

“You the only one here?”

I personally hate this question, since it sounds like what someone would ask before attacking and/or robbing me. I ignore it and suggest maybe trying the tattoo parlor next door. I vaguely recall them having a lighter display, but I’m not positive.

He seems real impressed with this response. “Shit,” he says. “You guys have everything here. A barbershop, a bookshop, a tattoo shop.”

“What else could anybody need?”

He starts heading toward the door, then stops and turns back toward me. “I just gotta ask,” he says, returning to the checkout counter.

“What?”

“Do you believe in god?”

I burst out laughing and go, “What? No.”

“You don’t?” He frowns, genuinely surprised. “What do you believe in, then?”

I shrug and tell him nothing.

Then he asks, “Why are we here, then?”

“I don’t have time for this conversation, man,” I tell him.

And he glances around the bookshop, which is currently empty except for the two of us. “Are you busy?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re busy?”

“I’m busy.”

He holds his hands out like he surrenders, very amused by my response, singsonging, “Okay…okay…you’re b u s y…” as he stumbles out of the shop, and out of my life.

Until next time he needs a haircut, I guess.