Powell's Beaverton
I have to make a confession. I am boring. I mean, really, really boring. There could be a dozen essays written on this topic, about my socialization, money, working for yourself, and life as a married middle-aged white dude with no immediate peer group. Although that would all be true and fascinating, the truth is, I am a bore.
If three new friends showed up at my door tonight and asked me to go hang out with them, but I had to come up with the idea, they would spin 180 degrees and walk away. The only thing I know how to do is talk. However, I don’t drink. Turns out most people don't like to talk unless they have access to drinky-drinks. Oops.
So, today I decided to take a personal day. Working for yourself has its advantages, but one drawback is that you work nearly every day. I wanted a day away from my work responsibilities. I wanted time to do what I want. I wanted a Me day.
I am now discovering I don't know what the hell to do with a Me day.
I decided to swallow judgment and do what I normally do. I go to the local bookstore. Powell’s is a bookstore in Portland, but it has a satellite location in Beaverton, which is closer to me. Powell’s has a huge selection and it carries used books shelved next to the new copies. If you are in the mood for an old paperback, you might find one for under five bucks. I love the place. I went a little apeshit the first summer we moved here. I needed to fill my time for a few months while I was looking for a job. I sort of bought...a lot of books.
I hopped in my car and drove in the rainy March afternoon past Nike World Headquarters in Beaverton to the same parking spot behind the store. The stores in that mall range from near-dying to dead, except for a Starbucks and a Cold Stone Creamery. I pass all that and walk through the wide open entrance to Powell’s. There are always sales books on display, alongside the celebration of a special month, like Native American authors, Women in Science or Banned Books.
Did I mention I stopped for an Americano with cream? Okay. I did that, too.
In years past, I gravitated toward my favorite authors of the moment. It used to be Vonnegut, then I read all of that. I liked to see what Michael Chabon was up to, Christopher Moore, Chuck Palahniuk...maybe see if there were some Stephen King’s I skipped over. Lately, I’ve been meandering through aisles, particularly in the science fiction section. The books I am writing are in that genre, and I have really only sampled it here and there.
Now I have to share my secret fantasy. I want to be published. I want to be published and have books on these shelves, right here, at Powell’s. My Powell’s. Where no one knows me or notices me at all. Still, it would be a thrill. I take a picture of where they would be in the sci-fi section if they were published today. Somewhere due south of the George R.R. Martin section.
The book Good Omen by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett catches my eye. I have tried Gaiman before, and although he is 100% awesome, I have trouble finishing. Pratchett is a legend who died in 2015. He’s someone I should know something about. I’m iffy with Gaiman, but apparently, I give authors regarded as the best three strikes. I gave Hemingway three strikes, but he went down swinging. I decide that Good Omen will be my book today, but I want to browse a little more. My coffee is still drinkably hot after all.
There is a display for women authors toward the front of the store. I know I need to expand, but breaking into a new author is tough. It’s something I should ask about. Yes. That is it. A perfect question to ask a Powell’s employee. “I’m into sci-fi, oddball comedy, etc. Can you recommend a female author?”
About this time is when you may wonder why this isn’t happening at the library. One, I don't browse at the library. I only go when I have something in mind. Two, I grew up in a house where we had a total of five books on display. I have this need to live in a house full of books. Practicality be damned.
I see another David Sedaris book on sale. Meh. I see Joe Hill has something on sale. He’s Stephen King’s son, and I feel like that’s not branching out like I should be. There is a huge graphic novel and comic section against the wall, but I don’t have that kind of money.
People walk past and I say nothing. I set my coffee on a shelf to leaf through a copy of Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke. I’ve heard some things, but the book is an 800-page beast. Maybe another time.
At some point, I’m happy with just one and that’s really all I can spend that day. (So goes most of my days off.) I go back for the Gaiman/Pratchett book and take it up to the counter. I remember my question about women authors and approach. I slide the book over to the Powell’s employee, who greets me with a smile.
“That’ll be seven ninety-nine,” she says.
I hand her a ten-dollar bill.
The cash register opens. “That’s nine and ten,” she says. She hands me the change. “Need a bag?”
“No thanks,” I say.
Then I go home and write this friggin’ thing.
