I remember my last day at my vending table on the Cody’s Books corner. It was right before Thanksgiving, 2009. …
My friend Duncan had died 5 months earlier. And it just wasn’t the same without my old vending partner. Plus, the ruthless Telegraph mogul Ken Sarachan had recently bought the Cody’s building. So all the signs said that the party was over. And it was time to pack up my pop stand.
A big rainstorm was forecast to come in that afternoon. And you could feel it coming in the air. So I quickly packed up all my vending stuff before I got soaked. As I went to grab my cardboard “25 Cent Books” sign a huge gust of wind suddenly hit and sent the sign flying in the air down Haste Street. I considered running after it and trying to save it as a memento. But it seemed symbolic. Let it go. Cast your fate to the wind. One part of my life was ending. And a new part of my life would soon be beginning. Whatever that would be.
I managed to get all my vending stuff packed into my shopping cart just as the rains hit. This sudden outburst of pouring rain. I forget if there really were explosions of thunder and lightening. Probably not. But that’s how it seems in my memory. This sudden explosion of rain pounding down on the pavement.
I put a plastic tarp over my shopping cart, and stashed it in the corner under an awning, then ran to this doorway on Telegraph to get out of the rain. The doorway of the Kingpin Donuts shop, boarded up and vacant at the time. And I stood there by myself as the rain came crashing down. People were running up and down Telegraph frantically trying to get out of the rain.
And I suddenly started laughing. This loon laughter. Not quite hysterical, but almost. That kind of laughter where you’re so overwhelmed by emotion it just bursts out of you. And it’s not much different than crying. Laughing and crying are the same thing at that point.
And I thought back to all the memories of all the years at that vending table. 19 years ago when we had first started. With such great hopes. And now 19 years later it had come to an end. And I was overwhelmed by this flood of memories. It was like the tape of my life was on fast speed. And all the scenes rushed by me. One after another. All the dramas at that corner over all those years. The triumphs and the tragedies. The lives and the deaths. And it was almost too much for my brain to take it. Just overwhelmed by all the things I had experienced, it was mind-boggling.
And I stood there in that doorway. As the rain came crashing down. Laughing and crying and blubbering to myself.
And that’s how that ended.
This photo reminded me of when I used to run my 25 cent used book vending table on Telegraph Avenue. I had a donation cup on my table, to spare me the wear-and-tear of having to deal face-to-face with all my customers (I’m on the shy side). And the cup would constantly get filled up with coins.
I was usually busy working away at my work station about 10 yards away from the table, repairing the damaged books. But I always kept a sharp eye out for that donation cup (in case anybody got any bright ideas about walking off with it). And every 15 minutes or so I’d get up and take all the dough out of the cup. It was always filled with bills and lots of change. So that was fun. It was like magic. All this money, constantly materializing our of nowhere. I called it “selling books by the pound.”
Anyways, by the end up of the day I’d usually end up with about 100 dollars in change. So week after week, month after month, all that change would really start to pile up. I’d literally end up with garbage bags full of coins.
So once a month I’d have to separate all the quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies. And put them in money rolls so I could exchange them at the bank for bills.
I stopped doing my 25 cent used book vending table in 2009. But 8 years later I still have a big box full of quarters, 500 dollars worth of quarters, stashed in my storage locker. It’s like a load of bricks. I just never got around to rolling them up and taking them to the bank. But one thing that annoys me when I think about that. That 500 bucks is probably worth considerably less now, 8 years later, than what it was worth in 2009. Because of inflation. Which hardly seems fair. I worked hard for that money. So why should it be worth less now just because I’m thrifty and saved it?
Ha ha. I really am kind of nutty.
I’d wait until Half Price Books closed for the night at 11. Then I’d pull up with my huge Berkeley Bowl shopping cart and start loading up with books. The bins would be loaded to the brim with unbelievable treasures. Everything from last year’s best sellers to the classics of literature to $100 coffee table books. As well as plenty of drek, too. The trick was to sift through every book as quickly as possible, all the while making the lightning quick decision with each book: “Will this book sell for a quarter?”
I had a basic system: Paperbacks in one stack. Hardcovers in another. And coffee table books in another. I’d hit the bin with the least amount of book in it first. And then I’d precariously stack the crap books that I didn’t want alongside the bin. Once I had an empty bin, that simplified things. Because I could then take the reject books from the next bin and just toss them into the empty bin. And I’d methodically work my way down the line of bins like that.
Further complicating things: Half Price Books tore the covers off of all the books. The reason they did that was: If they DIDN’T, book hustlers would find the books and try to re-sell them at all the other used book stores. Which was a tremendous waste of time for the book stores. Having the same used books boomeranging back at them dozens of times. . . So, as I’m sorting through all the books I’m also doing a mix-and-match, trying to find the covers that go with the books (later I’d scotch-tape the covers back on the books).
I had it down to a science. Usually it would take me about 2 hours to go through all the bins. And by one in the morning the 6th bin would finally be empty. Then I’d dump all the reject books stacked alongside the first bin into the now-empty sixth bin. Having come full-circle. Quickly clean up any other messes I might have made, leave the corner spotless, and trudge off with my jam-packed shopping cart, bungee-corded with the over-flowing books, like a noble hunter returning from the forest with his hard-earned treasures.
But there could sometimes be complications. Worst of all was when passerbys happened to notice me: “HEY, LOOK AT ALL THEM GREAT FREE BOOKS!!” And they’d inject themselves like a monkey wrench right into the middle of my careful organized machine. And total chaos and confusion would ensue (so much for my “system”).
One guy I particularly dreaded was this extroverted street person with a guitar who, in his insatiable need for attention, would call out to every person who passed by and invite them to join in on the fun. Before you knew it, it’s this huge party with books getting tossed around everywhere and my nice, neat piles becoming strewn across the sidewalk. Plus, inevitably, a huge mess for me to clean up afterwards.
Adding insult to injury, it used to drive the manager at Half Price Books into a frenzy. Because people would get indignant at THEM when they realized all these books were being trashed. “That’s just, like, WAY uncool, Half Price Books, taking all of this great literature and dumping them into the garbage!! I, after all, am a book-lover!!” They just didn’t understand the reality of the book biz. It’s like the day-old produce at the grocery store. They have limited shelf space, and they have to make room for the endless waves of new books.
So the manager got pissed at ME for drawing all the attention to the operation. So she began dumping liquids of unknown origin on the bins of books in a futile attempt at discouraging me. But I was making a hundred bucks a day off those book. So nothing less than an armed guard or a court-ordered subpoena would have kept me from those bins.
Anyways, this morning I happened to pass by those recycling bins. And it all came back, like the memory of a half-forgotten pleasant dream. All those nights standing out there by myself on a lonely street corner . . . Well after midnight under the moon and the streetlights. The streets quiet and peaceful, for once. As I sifted through all the immortal words from all the great and non-great authors down through the ages of history.