Borders in the Community - New Story from Shaun Manning

"Borders is not only a part of Ann Arbor's history, it's part of its culture. For Ann Arbor 200, I wanted not just to recount the rise and fall of a bookstore, but capture the experience of shopping at—or working for—a local institution. This story is based on research and interviews with former Borders employees, as well as my own experiences with the flagship store and other locations. The unnamed characters move through the years and Borders' evolutions, but they age at whatever speed you like, or not at all. This is a story of Borders, for you. I hope you see yourself somewhere within, I hope it brings up good memories." - Author Shaun Manning

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Origins

Late 1974

She says, "Wow, this is a lot bigger than the old one.”

He says, "Nicer, too. What was it you were looking for?"

They browse at a casual pace, perusing the shelves marked Art, History, Literature—with subsections devoted to Latin American literature, Russian literature, and more. It is a wonder to see. 

They find stairs to the second floor, and he smiles back at her as he begins the ascent. She heard there would be a third floor within the year. Just remarkable what this bookstore has become in such a short time. Already an Ann Arbor gem.

Borders Book Shop opened less than four years ago in 1971, just 800 square feet on the second floor of 211 South State Street. Brothers Tom and Louis Borders focused on used books at the time, and—unlike well-established bookshops such as Slater's, Wahr's, or the newer University Cellar—the brothers decided not to compete forUniversity of Michigan's textbook sales. After only five months, Borders moved to 518 East William Street for the span of a year, and then the brothers bought out Wahr's and moved into their 2000 square-foot space at 316 South State Street. The new location at 303 South State is triple that again and will encompass more than 10,000 square feet once all three floors are open.

Louis Borders, who worked briefly at a bookstore in college, dreamed of Ann Arbor becoming a book-town destination on the level of Chicago, New York, and Boston, drawing in readers from Detroit, Lansing, Toledo, and further afield. So far, things were looking good.

"Found it," she says, holding a copy of Watership Down.

"Is this for kids?" he says, a book tucked under his arm.

"It's supposed to be really good. What are you getting?"

He holds up Gore Vidal's latest, Burr.

"How fascinating," she says, not fascinated.

"It's supposed to be really good!"

They pay for their books, the cashier removing a small punch card from each, and together they walk up State to the old Borders at 316, still open during the relocation. They consider going in, having one last walk through the stacks. But no, that Borders is already part of the past.

 

Local Bookstore

Holiday Season 1989

He has some gifts to buy and had watched nervously from their table near the window at Dooley's as nearby shops turned down their lights and locked up for the evening.

"Wow, I'm surprised they're still open."

She checks her watch. "Yeah, Borders is open ‘til nine p.m. now. We've still got a couple hours yet."

He wishes he hadn't rushed through dinner. 

She has already picked up two hardcovers—The Joy Luck Club and The Remains of the Day—and is discussing them with a handsome, though somewhat balding, bookseller. Meanwhile, he is still pensively focused on his too-full belly. 

Leisurely, almost absently, he picks up a copy of Stephen King's latest, The Dark Half, and flips open the cover to read the jacket copy. Like other bestsellers, it's 30% off the cover price. Still, he's not sure this one's for him. But maybe a Christmas gift for his brother?

"We're trying to set a precedent for downtown businesses to be open later," he overhears the bookseller telling her. He's seen this Borders employee before; in fact, it seems he's been here almost every time they've come into the store. Maybe he is the manager. Or one of the Borders Brothers? The bookseller or manager or Borders founder speaks with passion and authority. "The mall stays open until nine, why shouldn't we?"

In addition to the two volumes she's already selected, she now holds a third book—one the bookseller recommended during their conversation. Together, she and the bookseller retrieved it from the History section (or rather, one of the several sections of history)—with text against an all-green cover, it’s an obscure title called The Empire Writes Back. 

She has taken a seat on a cushioned chair to flip through her selections, and he sits beside her, mimicking the kkk-fsssh noise of Darth Vader's mechanical breathing as he reads the title.

"It's not about Star Wars," she says, rolling her eyes.

They sit for a while, he with his Stephen King, she with her book on something called post-colonialism, and the two others in a stack. This is nice, he thinks, and also, I'm going to get two copies of Stephen King, one for me and one for my brother.

What if they do this more often? Could bookstores be a place to relax, a place to meet friends and socialize? It's quieter than the bar, he thinks. They have been to the other Borders—one of them, the one in Novi—it had a similarly cozy environment, though it didn't hold that special at-home feeling of the Ann Arbor store. 

He's heard about Borders expanding outside of its three Michigan shops, into Atlanta, Indianapolis, and near Chicago. It seems like the folks who run this place have big ideas about what a bookstore is and can be. And it all started here, in Ann Arbor. Could this local business change the entire culture of reading?

Almost at the same time, they turn the page.

 

National, Then Global (but Still Ann Arbor's Own)

Summer 1993

It's her second day on the job, and she's setting up the "Ban It" window display featuring books that have been banned, or which groups have attempted to ban, throughout the years. She wants to do things right; she wonders whether to group the books by age range or theme or perhaps cascade them all together. Should Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn stand side by side or be set further apart to create a more dynamic variety?

"Charlotte's Web?" a middle-aged woman nearby says incredulously. "Where is this banned?" She hadn't noticed the woman's approach, but it's a conversation she's prepared for. She tells this customer about the organized efforts by national groups to pressure local PTAs into removing certain books from schools and stopping libraries from making these books available to their communities.

"I don't believe it," the woman says dismissively, tossing Charlotte's Web back on the cart. The woman also makes a comment about going over to check out the "Blue Light Specials," a reference to Kmart’s recent acquisition of Borders, which the newly minted bookseller already finds crusty and stale.

Charlotte's Web gets central placement in the window display.

Despite the occasional snarky comment—this is, after all, retail—she loves her new job. She sees why so many Borders employers are "lifers." There's a high bar to entry, with a challenging interview quiz—only the most famous component. And once you're in, what's not to love about working with books? Chatting with readers every day, finding common interests, making recommendations, and learning about the books that excite other people?

And so what if Borders is no longer, properly speaking, a "local bookstore"? It still feels like an independent bookstore; really nothing seems to have changed since Kmart came in. And it's still inherently a part of the community—the previously closed State Theater down the street is clear evidence of that since bookstore founder Tom Borders bought and reopened the iconic venue last year. 

Besides, even before the acquisition by America's second largest retail chain, the company grew beyond its Ann Arbor roots—beyond even its roots in the Midwest—becoming a national chain. Borders grew while retaining what made it special. Other chains focused on bestsellers and magazines, while Borders gave readers the opportunity to browse a more eclectic selection, the ability to special order any of more than one million titles. Its staff are "book people"—working full time, many of them leaving professional careers to do what they love. Herself included. She's finished her master's degree in comparative literature, and there's nowhere she'd rather be.

Borders' addition of music and movies also predated its integration into Kmart and Waldenbooks. But why not? At the end of her first shift, she picked up Liz Phair's Exile in Guyville alongside the latest Octavia Butler; why wouldn't customers enjoy the same convenience?

A familiar face approaches, interrupting her reverie.

"Do you have any—"

"Don't say it—"

"Blue Light Specials?" he says.

Despite their joking, she knows what he's here for. And knows he won't know where to find it. Ever since the expansion last year into Crown House of Gifts' second-floor space, he's been hopeless. Most customers adjust, but her friend still goes up the escalator for books on music, which are now on the first floor, only to find shelves of Borders' more literary titles, which are now housed upstairs. 

She walks him over to find a copy of Miles: The Autobiography and tells him for at least the fifth time since she's landed the job that she can't give him her employee discount.

 

December 1996

He's supposed to pick her up after her shift, but he's running late. Good. She'll have a bit of time to herself. To think.

This job has meant so much to her. Has provided so many wonderful experiences, so many great opportunities.

She's witnessed, and been a part of, the secret inner workings that make a bookstore happen. She's stacked boxes of books as they’ve come off the delivery truck, down a chute into the basement offices, and she’s taken her place in the human chain that’s sent cartons of publisher returns back up the same way. She's filled special orders by flipping through materials from Ingram, and Baker & Taylor. 

She was there for the move into the Jacobson's building on Liberty—it was a huge and brilliant endeavor culminating in a new yet familiar flagship Borders.

She's seen, and had the chance to meet, so many of her favorite authors. Many of her bookselling colleagues are authors themselves! 

She met First Lady Hillary Rodham Clinton in the most absolutely chaotic day she's ever experienced, handing out signed books to some 2000 readers. 

She's chatted with radicals and dreamers, and a standoffish sportswriter with an inflated sense of self-importance.

She's experienced the addition of new product lines like CD-ROMs and the espresso bar, and weird new innovations like Borders' "browse by phone" automated service. 

She's set up expert panel discussions on the virtues and dangers of the Internet, though she suspects the whole enterprise is overblown.

She hasn't been privy to all the shifting corporate stratagems of the Borders-Walden Group, but she did see her employer and favorite local institution work its way out of the Kmart Corporation and stand once again on its own. 

She has observed as local competitors have tried to carve out their niche or keep up: Little Professor insisting they are Ann Arbor's "neighborhood bookstore," while drastically increasing its magazine selection; music shops fighting for survival as Borders dominates.

But now?

The focus has turned to Borders staff. To her, and her colleagues. To labor. To unionizing.

And what does she think of it all?

There's been so much back and forth. So many hearings with the National Labor Relations Board, planned and then cancelled. So much controversy surrounding Borders locations in other states, involving staff and managers she's never met.

She loves her job. It pays okay, relatively speaking, and even provides benefits. She wants to trust her employer and the familial atmosphere Borders has fostered. Her boss insists he's not anti-union but says unions and Borders culture "would not be a good fit." She certainly respects him more than the media personality who's been banging the drum for unionization, leading protests in Ann Arbor and other big-city locations—during the holiday season, no less!.

And yet.

"Borders culture" has professionalized bookselling and created new expectations for what a bookstore can and should be. If Borders staff are paid better than other stores in town, isn't that just reflective of the specialized knowledge they bring to the table? Could collective bargaining make a dream job a sustainable one for its well-screened, rigorously trained, highly educated staff?

His car pulls up to the curb on the other side of Liberty, so she starts crossing the street.

"You're late," she says.

"You hungry?" He hands her a Blimpy's bag.

"I have something for you, too." She hands him The Regulators by Richard Bachman.

"Wow, I thought he was dead?"

"I guess Stephen King brought him back for one last scare."

 

Decline and Fall

Spring 2002

"Do you miss it?"

"You ask that every time."

Yes, of course she misses it. She misses going into Borders every day, spending eight hours handling books, talking about books, making recommendations, and learning about authors she hadn't previously read. It was easily the most fun job she’s ever had. Her career has taken her in another direction, but Borders Books & Music is still one of her favorite places. She still recognizes so many of the faces.

"I don't miss cleaning the toilets," she says.

"You say that every time."

She did need a change. Everything changes. Everything has changed since the Twin Towers fell; she expects they're only seeing the start of it.

Borders has been a driver of change but has not always adapted well to change imposed from the outside. They were well behind the curve when they set up their first website in 1998, ceding the advantage to Barnes & Noble, and Amazon.com, a new company gaining steam. 

Last year, Borders and Amazon teamed up for book sales over the internet, which might help them both shore up their weaknesses. She’s heard from friends who worked with her on the floor, before they moved over to Corporate, that Borders.com has been losing money. Meanwhile, Amazon still doesn't have any stores at all that you can actually visit. Though some tech writer was quoted in the Ann Arbor News as saying that Borders was "turning over the keys to what may be its biggest competitor over time." 

At any rate, she still buys all her books in person.

He finds what he came for right away—The Salmon of Doubt by the late Douglas Adams—but of course they both know they'll be looking around for a while. They drift apart, away through the aisles, joining up in their perambulations—both carrying a few extra books on their stacks—before breaking off again. 

She's already picked up Atonement by Ian McEwan, a debut called Everything is Illuminated, and a memoir called Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight, which she heard about on NPR—she couldn't remember the name, but she found it prominently displayed and added it to her pile.

"Did we pick up the same book?" he says, startling her at his approach. She sees the book he's holding up.

"No, that's Everything's Eventual," she says. "You're the Stephen King guy. This author is new, but it looks good." He is also carrying two books by Oliver Sacks, an author who does, in fact, bridge their interests.

They get in line to check out, a queue that snakes back on itself. But there are a few registers open, so they expect things should go quickly. 

She always donates to the local causes Borders promotes at the register, this time the Ann Arbor District Libraries' "Open Books for Children" project; he will sometimes drop his change in, sometimes not.

He turns over his stack of books in both hands, as if shuffling them from one to the other but without actually releasing the tomes into the air. "I've been wanting to read this book called The Commitments, Roddy Doyle, but I didn't see it." They both set their books on the counter to pay.

"Should we go check the other store?"

Ann Arbor's other Borders, in the Arborland Center, will have them fighting traffic. They could call. They could probably look it up online at one of the kiosks placed throughout the store or simply ask an old friend on staff. 

She grabs their bags. "Yeah, let's go."

Because why not spend a bit more time in a bookstore?

 

Fall 2008

It's a quiet Saturday, and they've spent most of it on Borders' comfy seating. She's read three entire volumes of Fruits Basket, but the fourth book is not on the shelf, so she's shifting gears entirely and starting in on Stephen Hall's The Raw Shark Texts. It's strange and brilliant and just the sort of thing she likes. On the side table, along with the completed manga and her Starbucks venti latte from the cafe, there is also a copy of On Chesil Beach, which maybe she'll get to today.

Looking up from her book, gazing across the store at other customers, it strikes her how young so many of them are. When she worked here (When was that? It can't have been so long . . .), she didn’t remember seeing quite so many teens and young adults; it was mostly younger kids coming with their families, or the literati that one expects to congregate in a university town.

Harry Potter has done wonders.

It's not just Harry Potter, of course; the final volume in that series came out last year. And the flood of incoming manga filling the shelves have drawn teens into rich, colorful worlds of never-ending stories. Together, they have created a new industry, a new culture. They have helped transform reading from a primarily solitary activity to a social one; more and more kids have come to associate reading not with schoolwork but with magic.

Good for them. She wasn't going to attend a midnight release party or anything, but good for them.

"Find anything good?" she says. He's been alternating between thin volumes of playscripts and a giant edition of The Canterbury Tales, which he now sets on his lap.

"But wel I woot, expres, withoute lye . . . I'm really struggling with this."

"Your accent isn't bad," she jokes. "But it's not good, either." She took a course on Chaucer at U-M; she loved it, though she suspected she was the only one in class who did.

"Feeling dramatic today?" she adds.

"Oh, you know. Just sometimes I miss acting." From time to time, he’s toyed around with the idea of auditioning at the Purple Rose over in Chelsea, but whether because of a lack of time, as he’s told himself, or because he couldn't work up the nerve, he hasn’t been on stage since finishing his B.A. in history.

They both go back to reading. His mouth moves silently over the archaic English. He could spend all day here. You can't get this from Amazon, he thinks. Of course, there are some things he gets from Amazon—it's so convenient, how could you not? He feels bad, on some level, that since the digital split he hasn't much used Borders.com, it's just . . . there's no reason to. If he wants to go to Borders, he'll go to Borders—he even signed up for the Borders Rewards program. But if he wants to save a few dollars, he'll click through Amazon.

He hears a book snap closed, and she stands up.

"I'm going over to the Paperchase section, I need some cards," she says. "Are you getting anything?"

Chaucer is still open on his lap. He thinks for a moment.

"I don't think so," he says. "Not today."

He hasn't followed the news closely, but apparently, Borders is for sale. Again. Isn't it always for sale? Isn't it always in some sort of financial trouble? But there are Borders Books & Music stores everywhere—across the United States. Across the world! They'll be fine.

 

The End

September 2011

How long have they been going to Borders? How many years? As long as they can remember.

And now, it's the last time.

The shelves are nearly bare; the bookcases themselves are for sale. They don't really expect to find anything. That's okay; they each pick up a haul of books they're unlikely to finish in a lifetime through the gradually escalating sales leading up to this date.

They just want to be here. One last time.

"This was a mistake," he says. Now that he's here, he wishes he wasn't. He wishes he hadn't seen the stripped skeleton of a space that had meant so much to them. The last few times were hard as well, with books, CDs, and everything else that once made Borders feel so alive having dwindled away at 20%, 30%, 40% off.

"Maybe," she says. But she's still glad she's here. She has friends, both at the store and on the corporate side, who have lost their jobs in the last few months, or who are about to finally lose their jobs after winding down the last operations for Ann Arbor's former gem. She's heard the stories and speculation about what brought them to this moment.

Amazon.

Ebooks.

Overexpansion.

The recession.

All of the above.

From friends and family outside the book world, she frequently hears "people don't read anymore." But this never seemed right. Because Amazon. Ebooks. And the like. If anything, people might be reading more than ever.

They're just not buying books. Or not buying books from Borders. Or.

Mistakes were made. The multiple website relaunches. The push into toys and games.

Betting on the wrong horse in the ebook race. Bold initiatives that failed to pay off. Who knows. All she knows is that this place that meant so much to her will soon be gone. Is already gone.

There's no more Music section to speak of, but she finds a Jonas Brothers tour book cast haphazardly on a low shelf. Maybe her niece will like it. For two dollars, why not?

They take their finds to the checkout. He's got a badly shelf-worn copy of a Charlie Chan biography. There are stanchions laid out in a snaking pattern and arrows taped on the tile floor directing customers through a line that has failed to materialize. They follow the maze in a death row silence. 

He pays for his purchase, in cash, and then she does the same. He has already started walking away when he hears her slide something off the counter. He turns, and she holds it up to him.

"Don't forget your bookmark!"