a bookstore, joan didion, and me

turning toward the mystery and the do-it-yourself guide to fighting the big motherfuckin' sad

"All set?"

"Yep," I say, placing the two books whose titles somehow convinced me to buy them — Turning Toward the Mystery and the Do-It-Yourself Guide to Fighting The Big Motherfuckin' Sad -- on the counter.

"Actually I had a question," I say, looking up at the woman working the bookstore register, disheveled but in a way that looks cool with ill-fitting shorts that look even cooler and, to boot, an aura that I read as “you are scum.”

I’d spent the last thirty minutes sitting in one of the plushy black leather chairs of this bookstore in Asheville, Downtown Book & News, listening to her talk to everyone that came through. To the last guy she even brought up how many people had come in today to see her -- Jess, Todd, Ziggy, and a few others. Most, but not all, of her visitors were there on flyer-related business.

Ziggy had a flyer for a music show that he really wanted some guy, the bookstore lady’s partner or roommate, to attend. "You tell him to come," she said. "If you apply pressure and I apply pressure, he's more likely to get out of the house."

I picture some big dude in a dank basement listening to the pleas of the people of this new city all begging him to come out and listen to their tunes.

Another guy comes in - he's working the door at a bar at 5pm. Is he still doing the recycling thing, she asks.

He's not doing the recycling thing. Hasn't done that for a while. He's gonna look around and catch his breath before climbing the rest of the hill to his gig. He likes the job though - easy work, nice people. He's gonna just look around a little now.

The bookstore has a vintage grunge-chic vibe — chaotic but not overly so. Overflowing with books but with enough room between aisles for you to breathe. There is a sign explaining that they put the prices for each book on the first white page.

I check the Mystery book in my lap and yes, $8.95 right there.

There are books in cases - first editions written during the Civil War probably. And then there's a wall of zines and free magazines / leaflets to take. One is a lesbian monthly that says it's free for lesbians. I like it here. I long to belong.

I am new to Asheville, new to this store, this scene.

It took years for me to feel accepted by the last bookstore I loved, Stories in Echo Park Los Angeles. But maybe i’m cooler now. Maybe it can happen faster if I just ask the right question.

"Do you have any books by Joan Didion?" I ask. "I looked back there but couldn't find any."

She appears as if by magic on my side of the counter.

"Excuse me," she says and disappears into the stacks.

"Sorry" I say, thinking how I'm already fucking this up and how she must feel like I'm a typical man taking up too much space like I couldn't even provide her with a clear path to walk toward the books this is the sort of shit Joan Didion would notice and say, “ugh.”

"Someone just yesterday bought a lot of her titles," she says as we pull up on the Literary Memoirs section.

"Yep, there's a gap there,” she says, pointing to a three book size gap right next to some Annie Dillard stuff and I go "dang it someone beat me to it,” with just a skosh of attempted charm.

"Yep" she says, having not been won over in the least.

"Sort of crazy," I say, trying to remark on how two people within two days both came to this bookstore to buy Joan Didion books.

"Not really," she responds, "her stuff doesn't ever last too long here."

‘And neither will you, dipshit’ she does not say but nonetheless I feel. Jesus christ this is bad. I follow her back to the register, and for some reason decide to say, staring at my feet:

"Yeah...I revisit her stuff every few years and am just like wow, this is so fucking good."

I look up to see if she'll respond and she just...doesn't.

“So fucking good?”

What am I, a 15 year old suburban kid talking about the newsest MADDEN? Joan Didion is “sharp, incisive, unflinching,” she isn’t “fucking good.”

“We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” Didion once said.

If true, what sort of story is this? Yes, this, the one you’re reading right now.

‘The outsider who can’t imagine anyone would accept him when, in reality, he is a wee bit too narcissistic to see that he isn’t the center of the universe, but rather he is what he fears most — an average person the way every person is an average person, just as important as everyone else?’

Or maybe it’s the story of ‘The guy who had a faint belief that maybe he’d become a Big Deal Writer in Asheville, someone the city can call its own. “Alex Dobrenko? He’s from Asheville.”’

Or maybe it’s the meta story about the guy who tells those stories? Aware enough to realize that these stories, when unnoticed, that dictate the contours of our lives?

“$18.24,” the woman finally responds.

I pay with my phone and ready myself for a night of sobbing in the bathtub.

"Do you want a bag" she says twisting the knife.

"No I'm good." I say, lying. I am not good.

I grab the two books and head toward the door when I hear her say, "She'll be back soon" as she looks up at me. With a smile.

We write ourselves into the stories of our life. Details matter. Here’s an earlier draft of this paragraph with the stuff I cut in bold.

“$18.24,” the woman finally responds. The price for the two books which, I am now realizing, don’t at all signal that I am a serious writer in the least.

I pay with my phone and ready myself for a night of sobbing in the bathtub.

"Do you want a bag" she says twisting the knife.

"No I'm good." I say, lying. I am not good.

I grab the two books and head toward the door when I hear her say, "She'll be back soon" as she looks up at me with a smile that, sure, was likely out of pity for the sad sack of affairs I'd presented myself in, but still -- she didn't hate me, this woman whose approval I so desparately needed.

Joan Didion once wrote, “To free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves – there lies the great, singular power of self-respect.”

I’d add that we must also free ourselves from our own expectations, our own stories.

She also said, “You have to pick the places you don’t walk away from.”

I am not walking away from the stories I find myself in so often — confused doofus hoping for the best — no way. I am, though, perhaps learning to free myself from the expectation I have of that self — that it is broken, in need of fixing, bad, dumb, worthless.

Also, I’ve tried walking away from myself for a long time. It’s exhausting and futile - wherever you go, there you fucking are.

Say that again though with some love and it starts to sound alright.

Wherever you go, there you fucking are.

There you are with your self and your life and the stories you can’t help but telling in order to live.

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