Concierge


Strange. When I last answered a call on the switchboard it sounded like a hang-up, but whoever it was didn’t really hang up on me because the line wasn’t dead. I waited. It started to ring. A man answered, and not knowing what else to say, I told him it was the bookstore. He hung up.

Also: Helmet Comb-over has returned. I still can’t get over his disastrous attempt to cover his bald spot.

“There are too many books!” yelled an old man wielding a hearing aid and a cane. He shook his head. “There are too many books. I wish I had time and legs to explore all of these books.”

Then he hobbled over to me. “Concierge.” He pronounced it CON-sir-gay. “Does that mean information?” I told him yes, it does.

“Thank you for being so helpful, young one,” he said to me.

I wasn’t sure if he was being sincere or condescending.

“Concierge — that’s a lovely title to give you,” she said.

Yes, I agree. French is a beautiful language.

I’m not even a half an hour in to my shift and already I’ve had about a dozen calls asking “Are you open today?” This is going to be a long day. Thankfully, I get holiday pay.

“You’re looking wonderful, my dear,” he said. Why, thank you.

A man shopping at the bookstore today was wearing all orange. He had on a bright orange hat, bright orange corduroy jacket and pants, orange sock and orange shoes. It doesn’t stop there: His hair and beard were dyed neon green, yellow, pink and orange in a way that was reminiscent of a tub of sherbet ice cream.

I wonder.

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