by SalliAnne Maliguine on Monday, 31 December 2012 at 12:57 ·
“Parts
of Fliegelman’s Desire take place in a bookstore, and this last year I
met a young woman working at a Tower Books in Sacramento. . . She had
read my novel, it seems, and was swayed enough by it to take a job in a
bookstore.”
~Lewis Buzbee, “Confessions of a First Novelist”
By the time I hit twenty I felt accomplished: I'd retired from dancing, enrolled in classes at Sierra College, and worked a series of temporary office jobs. With the dream of one day becoming a waitress, I interviewed for, and landed, a job as counter-girl at Sam’s Kosher Deli. On day three of the job, while slicing bagels, chatting with the boss about a movie that had just hit the theaters, my left middle finger went through the meat slicer. Seventeen stitches later, I let go of my food service fantasy.
At about that time, a friend invited me to join her for an afternoon at Sacramento Reads, a festival in a park. I said yes. I remember unhurried banter and browsing with my pal as we visited various booths, and the lure of soft, rich sounds of an author reading his work to a gathering of listeners. Hearing his voice, I noticed that rare feeling I'd get when things went so right, like leaping through the air in perfect time with music, the high point of a jump where, for a split-second, the music itself kept me mid-air, and then the final lift, a jump within the jump, at the top. What a voice that guy had. My friend and I sat down, we listened, and although short on cash, I bought the book: Fliegelman's Desire, by Lewis Buzbee.
It was quite good, too. One of the many things that struck me was Fliegelman’s perfect sense. Fliegelman’s Desire is a story about a guy in search of something, and from the cover of the book you might think it’s a pretty young girl in a library or bookstore, but inside the story you realize he’s in search of a way of life, or being. It was the right book for me, right then. I don’t have a copy anymore, it’s been decades since I read it, and the details have become sketchy. I remember corporate papers, spilling out the windows of the financial district high rises onto the streets of San Francisco. Whether it’s part of the story or not, I’ve since associated that scene with Fliegelman’s departure from corporate life in favor of the bookish one, a choice that made so much sense to me.
I happened to be between jobs, so as a natural next step I applied for a position at Tower Books, Sunrise. I wore hideous chartreuse green pants and a white t-shirt on the day I turned in my application. The manager took me into the back and interviewed me on the spot. I remember it was a standard deal with all the usual questions, and then, at last: “What books do you read?" I hemmed and hawed for a minute, strangely not prepared for the question. Then finally I answered: Tolstoy, Turgenev, Dickens, Austen, and Buzbee.
“Who?” The manager had been following along, but then his eyes widened at the mention of Buzbee.
“Buzbee. Lewis Buzbee. He wrote Fliegelman’s Desire?” I said this as if I thought the manager of a bookstore would know such a thing.
The manager and the assistant manager exchanged meaningful glances, their eyes sparkling. “Yeah, we know him, he’s one of our book reps!”
It was a good answer, I guess, because I started the next day. Everyone in the store had their own section to maintain, keep stocked, fuss over. Denise was in charge of music, psychology, and trade paper; Doña and Monique were mag hags. Several of the guys had fiction. Pam had history, Kathy had children’s, I had gardening, cookbooks, poetry. We spent half our shift at the register, and the other half was either across the street at Casa Maria for “Tower Hour” or puttering around in our sections, fretting over our titles and showing general disdain for our customers. We were assholes to people who didn’t read the right books. Non-register work was the best. No, register work was the best. I can’t decide, I loved that job so much.
One day, I was in the back, filling my stock-cart with books when a quasi-familiar face appeared. With a gasp, I blurted accusingly: “You’re Lewis Buzbee!” The poor stunned man looked at me, bewildered, jaw partially dropped. I can only imagine what thoughts swarmed his head during the uncomfortable silence that followed. I stood there, staring dumbly at him, while he, with brilliantly big, bulging eyes looked questioningly back at me.
Finally, I blurted “You wrote Fliegelman’s Desire!” Then I ran out of the back room into the store. My face was so red. If I could have run straight out of there I would have, but I was on the clock. I just wanted to hide. Having been there a few months, that detail from the interview had slipped into the backs of people’s minds, as details do. This scene called it all freshly forth and someone filled him in, right quick.
Next thing you know Lewis is running after me. “Wait!” He called. We were running through the bookstore. It was a scene, a scene, I tell you. Somehow we met up in the fiction section, next to Bukowski’s stuff, right there where his book was tucked among the others. I was astonished, floored, and totally bowled over when he pulled a copy of his book off the shelf, and signed it for me, right there on the spot.
I remember thinking, “You can’t just pull books off the shelf and write in them…that’s, like, stealing!”
But that was Lewis Buzbee standing there beside me, and the book he pulled off the shelf was his, so of course he could do that.
Note: Lewis Buzbee is a fourth generation California native who began writing at the age of 15. He and his wife, the poet Julie Bruck, live with their daughter Maddy in San Francisco. His books for adults include The Yellow Lighted Bookshop, Fliegelman’s Desire, After the Gold Rush, and First to Leave Before the Sun. For more information, go to www.lewisbuzbee.com.
~Lewis Buzbee, “Confessions of a First Novelist”
By the time I hit twenty I felt accomplished: I'd retired from dancing, enrolled in classes at Sierra College, and worked a series of temporary office jobs. With the dream of one day becoming a waitress, I interviewed for, and landed, a job as counter-girl at Sam’s Kosher Deli. On day three of the job, while slicing bagels, chatting with the boss about a movie that had just hit the theaters, my left middle finger went through the meat slicer. Seventeen stitches later, I let go of my food service fantasy.
At about that time, a friend invited me to join her for an afternoon at Sacramento Reads, a festival in a park. I said yes. I remember unhurried banter and browsing with my pal as we visited various booths, and the lure of soft, rich sounds of an author reading his work to a gathering of listeners. Hearing his voice, I noticed that rare feeling I'd get when things went so right, like leaping through the air in perfect time with music, the high point of a jump where, for a split-second, the music itself kept me mid-air, and then the final lift, a jump within the jump, at the top. What a voice that guy had. My friend and I sat down, we listened, and although short on cash, I bought the book: Fliegelman's Desire, by Lewis Buzbee.
It was quite good, too. One of the many things that struck me was Fliegelman’s perfect sense. Fliegelman’s Desire is a story about a guy in search of something, and from the cover of the book you might think it’s a pretty young girl in a library or bookstore, but inside the story you realize he’s in search of a way of life, or being. It was the right book for me, right then. I don’t have a copy anymore, it’s been decades since I read it, and the details have become sketchy. I remember corporate papers, spilling out the windows of the financial district high rises onto the streets of San Francisco. Whether it’s part of the story or not, I’ve since associated that scene with Fliegelman’s departure from corporate life in favor of the bookish one, a choice that made so much sense to me.
I happened to be between jobs, so as a natural next step I applied for a position at Tower Books, Sunrise. I wore hideous chartreuse green pants and a white t-shirt on the day I turned in my application. The manager took me into the back and interviewed me on the spot. I remember it was a standard deal with all the usual questions, and then, at last: “What books do you read?" I hemmed and hawed for a minute, strangely not prepared for the question. Then finally I answered: Tolstoy, Turgenev, Dickens, Austen, and Buzbee.
“Who?” The manager had been following along, but then his eyes widened at the mention of Buzbee.
“Buzbee. Lewis Buzbee. He wrote Fliegelman’s Desire?” I said this as if I thought the manager of a bookstore would know such a thing.
The manager and the assistant manager exchanged meaningful glances, their eyes sparkling. “Yeah, we know him, he’s one of our book reps!”
It was a good answer, I guess, because I started the next day. Everyone in the store had their own section to maintain, keep stocked, fuss over. Denise was in charge of music, psychology, and trade paper; Doña and Monique were mag hags. Several of the guys had fiction. Pam had history, Kathy had children’s, I had gardening, cookbooks, poetry. We spent half our shift at the register, and the other half was either across the street at Casa Maria for “Tower Hour” or puttering around in our sections, fretting over our titles and showing general disdain for our customers. We were assholes to people who didn’t read the right books. Non-register work was the best. No, register work was the best. I can’t decide, I loved that job so much.
One day, I was in the back, filling my stock-cart with books when a quasi-familiar face appeared. With a gasp, I blurted accusingly: “You’re Lewis Buzbee!” The poor stunned man looked at me, bewildered, jaw partially dropped. I can only imagine what thoughts swarmed his head during the uncomfortable silence that followed. I stood there, staring dumbly at him, while he, with brilliantly big, bulging eyes looked questioningly back at me.
Finally, I blurted “You wrote Fliegelman’s Desire!” Then I ran out of the back room into the store. My face was so red. If I could have run straight out of there I would have, but I was on the clock. I just wanted to hide. Having been there a few months, that detail from the interview had slipped into the backs of people’s minds, as details do. This scene called it all freshly forth and someone filled him in, right quick.
Next thing you know Lewis is running after me. “Wait!” He called. We were running through the bookstore. It was a scene, a scene, I tell you. Somehow we met up in the fiction section, next to Bukowski’s stuff, right there where his book was tucked among the others. I was astonished, floored, and totally bowled over when he pulled a copy of his book off the shelf, and signed it for me, right there on the spot.
I remember thinking, “You can’t just pull books off the shelf and write in them…that’s, like, stealing!”
But that was Lewis Buzbee standing there beside me, and the book he pulled off the shelf was his, so of course he could do that.
 |
| Pinkie, me, Lewis, 2010 |
Note: Lewis Buzbee is a fourth generation California native who began writing at the age of 15. He and his wife, the poet Julie Bruck, live with their daughter Maddy in San Francisco. His books for adults include The Yellow Lighted Bookshop, Fliegelman’s Desire, After the Gold Rush, and First to Leave Before the Sun. For more information, go to www.lewisbuzbee.com.
Just saw you in my minds eye running through a book store...
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