The Greek Statue at Post

Today was my first opportunity to start working in Anagram Bookshop. It was more of a 4 hour training exercise, but then again, there is only so much you can train for in a bookstore. What it came down to was really quite simple. I was shown all of the sections of books (not many, considering this is an independent enterprise), the filing system (the same program I used at Jigsaw Editorial), and the cash register. That was about it. And, since no one was coming in for the first two hours, I was literally left with browsing the books, getting to familiarize myself with all of them. I have a reading list now. Its long. And those books are expensive! Even with my 20% discount.

Something I found odd in the first minute of starting out, was the closet. This was no ordinary closet. And no, it wasn't like a magical doorway leading into a land of talking animals and parallels with Christianity. No, this closet had a toilet inside it. Now, when I say a closet, I mean that the area of the closet would probably never be able to house a human being, and especially hard with a toilet inside. I'm not sure why anyone would want to be so claustrophobic when using the bathroom. Doesnt make much sense to me at all. But there it was. Of course, this "bathroom" was a bathroom no more. It had been transformed into the coat rack, and small storage area. But still. Weird.

My manager, Paval, is this funny Czech guy that I am still trying to figure out. When I first met him he didn't seem like much of a reader to me. He has this pessimistic attitude, but it can change off and on. And he's pretty funny, but I dont think he is trying to be. It just sort of happens, and it surprises himself when it does. But maybe he is trying to make it seem that way. I'm still not sure. After the grueling four hour shift I had today we were having a smoke and he says, "You know, you are too serious. You are like one of those Greek statues." And proceeded to laugh at his own joke. But then, I want to be serious on my first day of work right? Business is business. I told him he had not seen me with a couple drinks in me, to which he got serious again. "Never at work, Hunter." Jeez, I was just kidding. Of course not at work.

I think its funny when people walk in and start talking in Czech to me in an English language bookstore. And then when they figure out I don't speak their magnificent tongue, they can't believe it. And then they don't know English. What the hell are you doing in an English language bookshop then?!?! Thankfully Paval is always there to save me, but he won't always be there. Which always gives me the warm and fuzzy feeling that soon I will be left to fend for myself in the confines of an alien language. At least I will have my books to save me.

new contest

Today was pretty normal for what has become my 'days.' Really, what I do is watch Jamie leave in the morning for her language school, wander around the flat looking for things to do, read, watch tv, email. But it only lasts for so long. This is one thing that I can't stand, the point when you have nothing to do, therefore, completely pointless. Really though, I'm waiting. Yes, I could be out there looking for work at English pubs, but I'm waiting on what happens tomorrow. My contact from Stillking Films finally comes back into the country tomorrow, so I will see what comes of that. But for now, something else has caught my attention.

Jamie came home talking about something she saw on the Prague Post today, the local newspaper for us English speakers. It's got news around the country, and job postings. But it is mostly for TOEFL certified individuals, which is Jamie soon enough. That English teaching thing just is not for me, but I'm sure it pays more than the Anagram bookshop. Oh, right, what she came home to tell me. She came home to tell me that The Prague Post is hosting a screenwriting contest. Anyone can join, as long as you are a Prague resident. I was about to contact my buddy Nick, long time roommate from long ago, but then, he's not here next to me in Praha. Next time good buddy. Regardless, I definitely want to enter, and since I have until the end of November, and nothing to do the next couple days (I probably start work at Anagram on Tuesday, unless something else comes along), I should definitely get my butt into high gear and start writing. I already have the plot, but I wont spoil it here. I'll wait until later to publish it.

But again, this is another example of Jamie and I vying for the top spot in the writing category. She's been renovating her play she wrote while in Lit class in Budapest. She and I were the only two people in a class of 12 that wrote a play, while the others wrote a short story, poems, or self-proclamation on the anti-Jewish properties of the Magyar people (you would have to be there to understand, trust me). So, while I write now, I remember those times, and I smile because our little writing conflict never seems to end, and we always end up in some competition, vis a vis writing, anyway.

The play. Stay tuned.

Anagram Bookshop

This afternoon was the start of something good. Maybe great. Depends on the way you look at it. I went to one of only three english language bookstores here in Praha, and was wandering around not really looking for anything in particular. I am always looking for the next book to read, much like some men look for the next woman to marry or women with their next shoes to buy. But that is generalizing, and I hate doing that. So disregard that last statement. I was looking around, and Jamie was there across the aisle, and she looked up at me with a sly little smile and said, "Why don't you get a job here?" Which at that very moment I had just started thinking about that myself. Which is also strange in itself, because sometimes I swear she can read my mind, and vice versa, but then often times, it is the complete opposite. Such is a relationship.

I asked the guy working, an American, and he told me the manager was gone traveling and that he wouldn't be back until the end of the week, but that I might try the owner at his other bookshop, called Big Ben. I was standing in Anagram Bookshop. The guy liked to own English language bookshops it seemed. So I shrugged and wandered away with Jamie into the hoards of tourists passing by.

The next day (I know I started this post as if I was writing about today, but...I guess not). I found Big Ben, asked the man up front, and he directed me to the owner, sitting outside smoking a cigarette and sucking down a beer. What could be better? We got to talking, and he told me he was hiring for Anagram (I was glad, Big Ben was way too small anyway) and that I should come in tomorrow to the bookshop to have a meeting. He later called it a 'chat' which was funny, because I see 'chats' as more of a serious problems in a relationship sort of thing, but not so with this man. But he was cool. I came in the next day (today--when this post originally started) and we talked about my CV and work there and the general sort of interview/chat sorts that you talk about. It went really well. He seemed to like me, and offered me a job, which would be official once the manager of Anagram got off his holiday from hiking all over Spain (Christ, Spain!) on Monday. But he said it seemed like a sure thing.

Now here's where it all seems to go downhill. I've always wanted to work in a little independent bookshop, working, reading, doing whatever. And getting a job in such a short time is pretty impressive, especially in a foreign country. But it pays 75 CZK/hr. Which, for all you math wizzes out there, is 3.50 USD. Pretty impressive. I'm not sure if they have a minimum wage here in the country, but lemme tell you, this place wouldnt make the bar. Or at least, I would hope it wouldnt.

So I'm sort of interested to see what happens. I know that I could find a job at an English pub in the nights, to make sure my income was able to take care of all of my expenses. And then, there is the contact at Stillking Films that still has yet to show itself. So we shall see what becomes of all this. At least I have some time before I am officially a part of the bookshop.

the Written word

Jamie and I have this thing, that sooner or later one of is going to get published. I just started mulling the idea, seriously that is. I've thought about writing much more than I've written, and then I get sidetracked and never do what I really want to do. That is, write what I want to write when it pops into my head. She, on the other hand, has always believed, and rightly so, that she will publish a book one day. I think some days she wavers on what she really wants to do with that, but I feel that a casual 'race' of a publishing nature might push her into high gear.

We sit right now at different desks. Mine, a cheap plastic imitation of a desk that never ceases to stop its incessant squeaks as I type. And hers, a less than modern solid desk of Czech (maybe) origin, with no inclination to squeak whatsoever. To put it lightly, I hate my fucking desk. But I suppose that it is not the desk that makes the writer. It is the wit, and the ability, that makes the writer do what he (or she) must do. And as I sit here, listening to my desk sway and quake with every little tap of the keyboard, I wonder what exactly makes me write this post, or rather, what makes me write in general.

Whatever the reason (I do not feel like having a written argument with myself), I love the written word. Plus, I want to beat Jamie. And now I have to help her put up a hook for our scarves. Oh, the life in Praha.

Muffled, but it came through

There are two types of people in this world. The first, a most tiresome bunch, can be easily agitated, and thus, easily manipulated. The second, understanding and open to the challenges of life, are out there, somewhere. As I sat in the most uncomfortable chair in an airport ever, a mother and her child came into my field of vision, as I tried desperately to stay awake during my thousand hour layover. The girl, no more than 5 years old, was obviously bored out of her mind and wanted to be noticed. She stood in the middle of the terminal and started to scream. Not the scream that has become synonymous with horror films, or being thrown off of a 10 story building. It was youthful, fun. She was trying to be noticed, was all. She was, after all, only five.

Two reactions came from the crowd of people standing and sitting (some groggy in their half asleep layover sadness) around her. The first, and that of the most tiresome bunch, looked at her in absolute disdain, and, realizing she would never get the hint, then looked to her mother to quiet the little bitch down. What the hell was she thinking, letting her scream like that?! The men and women who had once been that same age, an age of youthful innocence and wonder at all around them, had forgotten. They had forgotten what it felt to stand in the center of people, not caring what it meant to yell, scream, shout. They had forgotten what it meant to be young. And then, on the other side of the spectrum, were those who understood. I saw some, not many, who smiled. No looks to the girl. No looks to her mother. Just a simple smile, one gesture that can mean so little, and yet so much. An understanding, a rememberance, of what it meant to be young. And that she would grow up, and probably forget what it meant to stand in the center of society and scream just for the hell of it.

Her mother, taking a cue from the first group, slapped her hand down on her daughter's mouth, and made a hushed remark. More likely, a demand. But it did not seem to sway the girl, who kept wailing for all she was worth. The scream was muffled, but it was there. She was not finished yet. She took off down a length of chairs, her mother puffing along behind her, desperately trying to cover her outrageous daughter's cries of pleasure before anyone else gave her the look of death. From where I was sitting, it was the funniest thing I had seen in a long time, especially watching the first group of irksome travelers who had no patience for the audio-oriented pleasures of a little girl gone crazed. Her mother finally caught up with her at the giant plate-glass window, covering her little girl the best she could, but she just kept wooping and screaming. Muffled, maybe, but it was heard.

What does it mean to stand in a crowd and scream, or better yet, to speak your mind? Will the first group, the easily manipulated, make the rules? Will those who understand be forgotten by the wayside, or worse, pushed to the side while others look on in silence? I hope the little girl, the little girl who could scream in a Dublin layover terminal and never be silenced, even with the hand of authority muffling her cries, will never forget what it felt like to do what she did that day. She might, and then she will inevitably make her way into one of the two groups. Or, maybe, she can make her own. Before doing that, she must remember what it felt like to be the five year old, bored and eager to do whatever it took to gain the attention she deserved.