Every day I come in around 10 a.m., slide the metal gate open, sweep the sidewalk walk and unlock the door to 600 square feet of stories. It’s not all that fun and delightful. Half the time, the heater is groaning and other half the WiFi dies. But it’s my shop, a small, slightly crooked bookstore tucked between a laundromat and a dog grooming salon.
People always assume that bookstore owners spend their day reading. I wish, so wish. Most days are spent rearranging shelves, restocking books, answering the phone, cleaning coffee spills, updating the window displays and kindly explaining to someone why we can’t order a book in Lithuanian by next Tuesday.
And then, there are the moments that make it worth it. Like when an older man finds the exact edition of Dubliners his wife used to read. Or when two teenagers meet over a shared love of Octavia Butler and exchange Instagram handles under the warm flicker of our terrible overhead lighting.
I’ve watched first dates unfold awkwardly in the fiction aisle. I’ve seen parents buy their kids the same books they were raised on. One time, a woman came in during a rainstorm, soaking wet and crying. She wandered around for half an hour, bought a copy of The Bell Jar, and whispered, “Thanks for being open.” I didn’t ask questions.
We have our loyal misfits here, the retired philosophy professor who corrects our Nietzsche quotes on the chalkboard. The barista next door, who pays for his used books with coffee. The art student who draws on our paper bags. They are all part of a family, which makes it more than just a bookstore; it’s a pulse living, breathing, existing.
Financially, it’s a tightrope. I’ve flirted with closing more times than I’d like to admit. But then a kid walks in and asks, “Do you have anything like Harry Potter, but maybe less wizards and more dogs?” And I’m pulled back in.
Some people find meaning in spreadsheets, or startups, or trading crypto. I find it in shelf-talkers, dog-eared pages, and the sound of someone discovering their new favorite book.
We’re not Barnes & Noble. We’re not trying to be. We’re just a little Brooklyn bookstore, fighting gently, every day, for the quiet magic of paper and ink.
