When I got to work today (well, okay, first I set up the food apparently completely wrong, which earned me a harsh warning from my contemporary whom I was trying not to bodily harm, but after that), I was immediately handed a sheaf of papers and sent to the biography bay.
The biography bay is my baby. It’s kind of the shittiest job, because it’s huge and we never have any of the titles, so you have to roam the store looking for anything that looks remotely non-fiction and has a main character ‘cuz hey! It could be a biography!!! So when I started working in books about a year ago, Pam took advantage of my naivete and now the biography bay? Is mine. Every time I work, I fix it up.
Today it got overhauled. Which I guess was good, because some of the books had been there since last summer. But it was a major pain-in-the-ass, because we had NONE of the books. And as Borders Corp. is probably a little bit sick of my fascination with 16th-century British monarchs, the pickings were a little bit slim.
So my biography bay? Is now a homage to Eric Clapton.
I guess his autobiography didn’t sell that well, because there were a billion copies in the backroom, at least until I dragged them out and artfully arranged them. That’s actually kind of weird, because I’ve heard how amazing it was from two separate people in my real-not-work life within the last two weeks. But I digress.
It’s almost as thought I’ve heard more than one of his songs.