I feel that the employees of the Borders in Uptown are pushy and strange, and I have three examples--which, as everyone knows, settles the matter once and for all.
1.
First, there is this British woman who works there. Every time I run into her, she begins by asking me what I'm looking for, then, no matter what I say, she recommends the same book. I've overheard her running the same lines with other patrons, too. There you'll be, minding your own business, and she'll saunter over with a solicitous, "Finding everything okay, love?" (I added the "love" to emphasize the Britishness.)
"Actually, I'm looking for a Scrabble dictionary."
"Well, here's a book you might enjoy. It's about this detective novelist whose stories begin coming true on the streets of Venice. It's cracking good, wot."
"I'm sure it is, but you see--"
"JUST BUY THE BLOODY NOVEL, YOU TOSSER! BLIMEY!"
2.
That's a paraphrase, of course, but here's a verbatim transcript of an exchange I had with another employee (who was rather cute in an artsy-twinkish way, I have to admit) as I was checking out at the register a couple of weeks ago.
ARTSY-TWINKISH: Do you have a Borders Rewards card?
Z: No.
A-T: Would you like to sign up for one?
Z: No.
A-T: Are you sure?
Z: Yes.
A-T: You can save 10% . . .
Z: No, thank-you.
A-T: Are you sure?
Z: Yes.
A-T: That's weird.
So now I must either submit to Rewards (read: e-mail spam) or face teenaged opprobrium? What kind of choice is that?
3.
And, finally, my third and creepiest example. It was Halloween, and I was entering an author's name into the computer at one of those find-your-own-damn-books stations. A fellow dressed as some sort of sad hobo clown (old suit, newsboy cap, white face makeup) came sidling up to me out of nowhere to ask if I needed any help. I knew he was an employee and not a random crazy person only by the Borders lanyard hanging around his neck.
"No, I've got it," I said, slightly terrified, and he sort of backed away.
A few moments later, when I was walking through the stacks in search of the drama section, his pale visage reappeared, glassy-eyed expression still firmly in place.
"I noticed you were looking for Beckett," he said. "May I ask which Beckett? I just finished Watt."
No, you may not ask which Beckett. I would, however, like to know why you were investigating my book searches and why, further, I can't seem to patronize this store without having some type of unsettling exchange. I mean, for heaven's sake, you are following me while dressed as a clown! Are you trying to give me nightmares?!