Classical Music Lover
I was sitting behind the cash register
In Eastside Bookstore
On a warm summer afternoon
In June, 1976.
The evening junkie group nod
Hadn’t started yet,
But they would eventually
Shuffle in, one after another,
And assume their usual positions
In front of the poetry section
Where they would lean slowly
Forwards and then backwards
So far, you’d think they’d fall
But they never did,
Defying gravity for hours
Until the end of the night.
When I had to close
I would gently tell them:
“You really do
Have to leave now,”
But I never touched them
Because I’d learned
From bitter experience
How badly it freaked them out—
They’d scream and wave their arms around
Knocking books off the shelves
And I’d have to beat a retreat
Back to the register.
Anyway, I was listening
To The Velvet Underground,
My favorite band at the time
Turned up real loud on the stereo
When a grizzled gentleman
Stepped into my field of vision
Glared at me, then snapped:
“Turn that shit off and play
Some decent classical music!”
I almost said “Fuck you!”
But I recognized him–
It was Charles Bukowski,
Probably in town for a reading.
“I like this music and I’m not
Taking it off,” I said,
Expecting an angry reply
But he surprised me
By apologizing instead.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”
He muttered, turning on his heels
And leaving the store.
To this day, I say everything
Three times, a la Bukowski
And I wish I’d told him
How much I liked
His novel, Post Office,
Which I’ve read
At least three times.
An excerpt from Ron Kolm’s new book, A Change in the Weather, published by Sensitive Skin Books, is available now at Amazon.
Poetry
Emily, I enjoy everything you write, but this is very touching and great basket random. Hugs from Mississippi to you and your lovely family.
This piece beautifully captures a slice of life with such vivid nostalgia. The way you describe the bookstore’s rhythm and those gravity-defying patrons is both poetic and oddly comforting. I’ve always found solace in the Velvet Underground too—their music has a way of threading through moments like these, making the mundane feel profound. Thanks for sharing this tender, unvarnished memory.
This article vividly captures a slice of 1970s bookstore life with striking authenticity. The juxtaposition of Lou Reed’s raw energy against the drowsy poetry section patrons is particularly evocative—it makes me wonder how often counterculture and quiet desperation shared the same space back then. Your recollections feel both deeply personal and universally resonant for anyone who’s witnessed these unscripted human moments. The restraint you showed with the “evening junkie group” speaks volumes about the unspoken rules governing such spaces.
Interesting glimpse into a gritty yet poetic moment in time. The way you describe the delicate dance with the junkie regulars feels both compassionate and darkly humorous. As a skeptic, I wonder—did playing The Velvet Underground at full volume intentionally provoke that grizzled patron, or was it just happy coincidence? Either way, your storytelling makes even the roughest edges of 1976 feel oddly nostalgic. Makes me wish I could’ve wandered into that bookstore just to witness the gravity-defying poetry section ballet. Though I’d probably have kept my distance when closing time came.
A vivid slice of 1976—captured beautifully. Your blending of music, routine, and human frailty resonates. The Velvet Underground backdrop adds such raw texture to this memory. Never touched them—wise restraint in chaotic moments.
What a vivid glimpse into a bygone era—your storytelling truly transports the reader. I love how you capture the quiet humanity in these small, surreal moments, especially the delicate dance with the evening regulars. The contrast between The Velvet Underground’s raw energy and that grizzled interruption feels like its own poetic collision. Makes me wonder about all the untold stories humming beneath the surface of those bookstore nights.
This piece beautifully captures a vivid slice of 1970s bookstore life, blending nostalgia with raw authenticity. Your recollection of the delicate balance between the evening regulars and the shop’s rhythm is both poignant and insightful. As a fellow music enthusiast, I especially appreciated the contrast between the Velvet Underground’s energy and the quiet tension of those interactions. It’s a reminder of how spaces like these become unintended stages for human connection—or sometimes, its absence. Thank you for sharing such a rich, unvarnished moment.
This piece beautifully captures a slice of life with such vivid nostalgia. The way you describe the bookstore’s rhythm and the delicate dance with the nightly visitors feels both poetic and deeply human. I especially connect with the tension between music and stillness—Lou Reed’s raw energy contrasting with the quiet defiance of gravity. It’s a reminder how spaces like these become living stories. Thanks for sharing this memory!
“Really enjoyed this vivid slice of life—your writing transports me straight to that bookstore in ’76. Your quiet observation of the junkie group’s gravity-defying ritual says so much without judgment. I can almost hear The Velvet Underground playing in the background! Makes me wonder if music was their unspoken refuge too, just like yours. Thanks for sharing such a human moment.”