One late afternoon it happened. One of the beautiful people I had dreamed about came in.
She stood on the threshold, apparently debating whether it was safe to venture further. “Is this a bookstore?” she said.
“Please come in,” I said. “It’s a bookshop.”
She was solidly built and had a round face above a heavy neck with the fat comfortably overlapping the collar of her white dress. Her legs were sturdy, her feet were spread in a firm stance, she was fat and strong and daring.
“Do you have a copy of Peace of Mind?” said my daring first customer.
Everyone was reading the rabbi’s book that summer—except me. It was a bestseller; naturally I wouldn’t touch it. But here was a customer!
“Lady,” I said, opening my business career on a note of total capitulation, “if you’ll wait here a moment, I’ll get the book for you.” She nodded.
“Please,” I added, running out the door.
I sprinted four blocks to A. C. McClurg’s, the wholesaler from whom I bought my original three hundred dollars’ worth of books, and bought a single copy of Peace of Mind for $1.62. Then I ran back to complete my first sale for $2.50.
The realization overwhelmed me that I was totally unprepared to sell a book. I had no bags or wrapping paper. I had no cash register or even a cigar box. It seemed highly improper to accept money and then reach into my pocket for change. It was a long time, in fact, before I could get over the embarrassment of taking anyone’s money at all. I found it very upsetting.