A Bit Of A Beginning, I Suppose

The little bell above the door ding-a-linged, happily announcing that a customer had perhaps not entered the store, but had at least come to the milestone of opening the door. The bell made no distinction. The clerk finished scratching a letter into his crossword puzzle (the "R" in "Forestry") and looked up, his smooth face automatically stretching into the welcoming smile the store manual had instructed him to practice, ad nauseum, until any customer could be welcomed warmly like an old friend, the very second he or she set foot in the store. The manual compared this to heroes in old Westerns, who could shoot dead any outlaw faster than he could blink. The clerk, having no reason to not trust the manual, did his time in front the mirror in his bathroom until he, he felt, could make someone feel at home at a concentration camp. He expected the customer to return his end of the bargain, return his smile and be served without complication.

The customer hadn't noticed at all, and was instead nervously scanning left and right, pale eyes lingering on each carefully placed table and each precisely positioned tome upon them. If a book was on a table, said the store manual, and if it was a hard cover, it or its stack must be precisely three and a half inches on any side from any other book or stack of books. This gave a sense of neatness and order, and allowed the customer an uncluttered view. Paperbacks, however, could be stacked right next to each other. The manual offered no explanation for the difference, which put it out of the clerks mind. There were many more things to learn about, like what to do with books on shelves (there were two sections devoted to this), and what to do with customers who did this and that or had such and such demeanor. He examined his new arrival carefully, racking the remembered pages and piecing together a plan of action.

The examine was a shortish man, not a regular, mid-forties perhaps (could steer him to the WWII or True Crime sections?) and appeared well-to-do (Hobby and Lifestyle?). He scratched idly at his armpit, looked for somewhere to place his hands and settled on his pockets, where they lay uncomfortably. The look of worried searching that furrowed his high brow was, of course, familiar to the clerk. It meant one of two things; it could mean "I am looking for a birthday present and would like you to lead me to something expensive and bland", or it could be the dreaded "I have no idea why I came in here and will spend a half hour wandering around, messing things up, and leave without buying anything or saying a word."

Given the customer's silence, the clerk figured, with annoyance, that it was the latter. He decided to scuttle this chain of events (that would eventually have him out with a ruler, re-adjusting the books on the tables) before it could progress.

"Can I help you?" The words were like the ringing of the small bell above the door, charming, calming. The customer turned towards him, wiggled his nose slightly. His pale eyes searched the clerk's.

"I hope so." He said. "I'm looking for a book."