This is farewell for a little while. I’m going to dive below the surface now, and if I come up again on the other side of this Book Fair, I’ll let you know how it all came out. But just a few last minute notes.
We had a big donation of 3-D puzzles at the last minute, which you ought to be able to find in our Games section.
Also at the last minute, we turned up first editions of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged (in a delicately repaired dust jacket), Fredric Brown’s Space On My Hands, and Thomas Harris’s Silence of the Lambs, all of which will sit in the Collectibles section until the right person shows up.
Um, I don’t want you to donate anything for a little while (mentioned that before, didn’t I?) but I might forget to mention it if I don’t bring it up now. If you come to drop off books at the back of the building and you ring a bell to get my attention, you are at THE WRONG DOOR. I do not, despite what you may have heard, have a doorbell. There is a telephone box. If you are ringing a bell, you are at the door colloquially known as the President’s Door. Only a couple of people in the building are authorized and able to open that door, and your chances of getting one of them are remote.
Historically, the Book Fair has been incredibly lucky with rain. Right now the forecast looks good. But just in case, there are lockers off the lobby where you can leave a drippy umbrella, and please wring out your hair before you lean over any of my books. (Once they’re YOUR books, I don’t care what you drip on them.)
The hours are 12 to 8 on Thursday and Friday, and 10 to 6 on Saturday and Sunday. We have not changed this for eons, so please don’t be one of those people who drops by early on Friday and cries, “But you ALWAYS open at ten!”
Please be nice to your fellow customers, the volunteers, and the staff. This is Chicago, a major center of culture and learning, and if that thought alone doesn’t impress you, remember that the person you shove could well be your favorite violin player, the traffic reporter you listen to religiously, a Nobel Prize winner, or even the author of the book you just snatched out of her hand. You might wind up being blogged about, and not everyone is as understanding and forgiving as your Uncle Blogsy.
Speaking of Uncle Blogsy, if you spot him at the Book Fair (the crazed-looking gentleman with the anomalous apron), don’t expect any particular wit or wisdom. Ten-to-one when you see him, he has just pinched his fingers in a bookcase, been bawled out by a customer for expecting a whole dollar for The DaVinci Code, AND been told lunch is going to be an hour late. A glare and a grunt may be the best you’ll get.
Have fun, be nice, buy books, and check this space in early August to find out what came of it all.