He shook his head and, with a sidewise glance, asked, “What did you say your name was?” Then, still apparently somewhat shattered, he directed me to a salesman.
I launched into my buying terribly, terribly happy, yet filled with all sorts of misgivings. Was I selecting the right books? And who would I sell them to? But I had only to touch their brand new shiny jackets to restore my confidence. I remember buying Jules Romain’s Men of Good Will. In fifteen years, I never sold a copy. I’m still trying. I bought Knut Hamson, Thomas Mann, Sigrid Undset, Joseph Hergesheimer, Willa Cather, Henry James—as much good reading as I could obtain for $298.49. I was promised delivery as soon as the check cleared.
When the books arrived on a Saturday morning, it was like a first love affair. I waited breathlessly as the truck drew up, full of books for my shop. It wasn’t full at all, of course—not for me, anyway. My books were contained in a few modest boxes. And I had built shelves all the way up to the ceiling!
Again, a moment of panic. Enough, my heart said. Stay in the dream! What’s next?
The next step was to get recordings. In this field, at least, I found that all the major companies had branch offices in Chicago. I called Columbia records and was told they’d send me a salesman.
He arrived a few days later, blue eyed and blond haired, an interesting man with a sad message. “No, we can’t open you up,” he said. “It’s out of the question. Your store is in direct conflict with Lyon and Healy on the Avenue. So there’s no question about it, we can’t give you a franchise. We won’t. Decca won’t. And I’m sure RCA won’t.”
I was overcome with rage. Didn’t he know I had fought to keep this country free? Wasn’t there such a thing as free enterprise? Didn’t I have a right to compete in a decent and honorable manner? If I couldn’t get records one way, I’d get them another, I assured him. Strangely enough, he seemed to like my reaction. Later he was able to help me.
But for the present, I was reduced to borrowing more money from my brother-in-law with which to buy off-beat recordings from an independent distributor. I brought my own phonograph from home and my typewriter and settled down to the long wait for the first customer.
How do you get going in a business of which you have no practical knowledge and which inherently is a doomed undertaking to begin with? The only answer is that you must be favored with guardian angels.
The first one to bring a flutter of hope into my life came into it on a September afternoon at a luncheon affair, under I do not know what auspices, for Chicago authors. There I encountered a distinguished looking white-haired gentleman, tall but with the sloping back of a literary man, standing mildly in a corner. I introduced myself to Vincent Starrett, bibliophile and Sherlock Holmes scholar. He listened attentively to my account of myself and took my phone number. A few days later he called to ask for more information about my idea of combining the sale of books and records.