Bye-Bye, Barnes and Noble

At the end of the month, my local Barnes & Noble is shutting down. Blame the exorbitant main-street rents in this town. Blame the economy. Blame the iPad. Blame it on the rain and the bossa nova. Use any tired descriptive phrases you like: “closing the book,” “the final chapter,” (Chapter 11?). It doesn’t change the outcome. The store will soon be no more.

It’s hard to get too worked up about a chain store’s demise, but—you know—we go way back. I arrived in Hoboken in 1994, and Barnes & Noble opened at the tail end of Washington Street in 1995. So it’s difficult for me to remember the town without her. Of course, I do recall at least two mom-and-pop bookstores that went under as a result of B&N’s appearance. At the late, lamented Blackwater Books, I saw an acoustic performance by local band-made-good, the Cucumbers. It’s always a real drag when the small independent store is forced out by the Massive Conglomerate SuperChain. But Barnes & Noble was big, and had a lot of books, and magazines, and a café, and was open late. Like many relationships, you’re aware of the flaws, but you just get accustomed to having them around. And it’s a shock when it ends.

Mind you, it was never monogamous. I routinely drive half an hour to my favorite bookstore. Near work there’s another really good one. And for used books in Manhattan, you can’t beat the Strand. Before I travel, I often Google “coolest bookstore” and it has led me to some of the nation’s best, in Portland, San Francisco, Denver , etc. etc. And also to so many smaller, quirky shops, from St. Louis to Indianapolis to Boston to Houston and on and on. (I’ll be in San Diego next month, and was devastated to learn that Wahrenbrock’s shut down last year. Though I’ve still got a used book bought there on my to-read pile.) A bookmark tucked inside often provides a warm memory of those mellow moments, poring through the stacks in some faraway town.

Big stupid megastore or not, the Hoboken Barnes & Noble has provided several special memories for me as well over these past 15 years.

• It’s where I first met musician George Usher. This would’ve been circa 1996. I’d heard a song of his, “Not the Tremblin’ Kind,” on WFMU, and he was playing an in-store. He was nice to me ever since, recognizing me at gigs and always taking time to chat. Girls I’ve introduced to his music have come and gone, but George remains. I’m lucky to count him as a friend.

• It was always a convenient public restroom. Sure, I now favor the men’s room in the Hoboken train terminal when returning from Manhattan (especially after a few beverages). But on my regular excursions along Washington Street, usually to Tunes record store and CVS, it was comforting to know there was a clean public facility nearby if needed.

• Like any relationship, we had our rough patches. In 1999, the book The Fuck-Up was prominently on display in the store. On two occasions I complained to staffers about its placement, cover facing out, on a low shelf where children could see it. Didn’t seem appropriate. But the book was never moved. I remember thinking, this lack of care wouldn’t happen in an independent store.

• My friend Jimmy used to design many books for Barnes & Noble’s own imprint, which they usually stocked in front with their bargain books. I loved scanning those shelves, trying to guess which ones Jimmy designed. And then it was always cool to flip one open and see his name.

• Those same racks in the front were the site of a favorite annual tradition. Each year, between Christmas and New Year’s, I’d go to Barnes & Noble to pick up a 50%-off calendar. I could always find something ironic or odd, and would hang it up at work. I’m still not much of an “electronic calendar” sort, so this is where, in smudged blue lefty ink, I plan my life: the concerts, Yankees and Nets games, dates, dinners with friends, birthdays (before Facebook basically rendered that moot), and all the rest. And above each month is a big photo of a chicken, or tractor, or scene from Fawlty Towers, or sexy fireman (was very confident in my masculinity that year). This year: old-timey trains.

• For a few years there, the store was also the location of another treasured holiday tradition. In 1998 I published, through Golden Books, The Christmas Aliens. I brought it to the attention of the Hoboken Barnes & Noble. They not only agreed to stock it, but also invited me to give a reading. It really made me feel like a “local celebrity,” and they’ll always have my appreciation for that. One year, only one kid showed up—my friend Chuck witnessed this and was extremely amused—but I think that “personalized” reading was my favorite.

By the time the book was reissued as Santa in Space in 2001, the store no longer had its own events coordinator. There were no more readings, lectures, or musical performances. Its golden era had quietly come to an end.

• For years, I had an unrequited crush on one of the staffers there. Long, dark red hair, floral-print dresses, ID tag hanging from her neck. I’d see her around town, and would beg myself, “Say something to her. Anything.” During the Christmas Aliens heyday, I’d linger in the children’s section, hoping she’d finally notice me, say “hey, aren’t you…,” and we’d be off to the races. But I never said a word, it never happened, and eventually there was an engagement ring on her finger. She may actually still work there. If so I hope she’s lined up another job, and most importantly I hope she’s happy.

• My favorite reading at the Barnes & Noble wasn’t by me, but by the great Pete Hamill. Not six months after the passing of our ultimate hometown hero, Frank Sinatra, Hamill read to us from his lovely tribute, Why Sinatra Matters. Inside my copy, it’s signed:

To Jack,
Thanks for hanging in there!
Pete Hamill
10/15/98

I guess there was a long line to get an autograph? Or a delayed start? If so, I’ve long forgotten. For me, it’s just a wonderful Hoboken memory, from a place that won’t be creating any new ones.