The End of a Beautiful Friendship

I’ve always loved bookstores. Whether they’re small independents or corporate behemoths, I love them all. There’s something indescribably comforting about the rows of unread books ripe for browsing, the fact that Jane Austen and Michael Chabon can share a shelf, the soothing affirmation that we’re not quite living in a post-literate society.

So it’s with a heavy heart that I say good-bye to one of my favorite Los Angeles haunts. The one and only independent bookstore in Beverly Hills closed its doors at the end of December. For Matt and I, it was a favorite stop on our semi-regular expeditions into how the other half lives. Hang a left at Jimmy Choo, and there it was—a small inviting space tucked away on an unprepossessing street in Beverly Hills’ shopping district. Even though it was just a couple of blocks away, it felt far removed from the gawkers and self-conscious opulence of Rodeo Drive.

But this is L.A., people, and even a bookshop isn’t without a hint of glamour. It was the location of my infamous Ben Stein sighting. (He was spotted walking through the store saying “Phil?…Phil?…Phil?” I’ve often wondered if there actually was a Phil present, of if Mr. Stein does that in public just to mess with people.) We exited the store that same afternoon to see Djimon Hounsou engaged in conversation on the sidewalk.

Then there was the time we observed a guy introducing his blond, model-esque girlfriend to the wonder of reading. He kept stacking books higher and higher in her arms. When he shoved Love in the Time of Cholera at her, explaining how it had changed his life, I thought she was going to faint. It was like watching Henry Higgins instruct a large-breasted Eliza Doolittle.

Despite our frequent visits--and the patronage of sundry monotone celebrities--I realize that we are precisely the reason why the place couldn’t stay afloat. All of their best efforts to drive actual book purchasing were completely lost on us. There was the time we ambled inside to find we had missed Al Gore signing copies of An Inconvenient Truth by mere minutes. Our visits were always punctuated with sentences like, “why didn’t we know Amy Sedaris was going to be here last week?” We didn’t even know the place was closing until we walked past and found the doors locked. To be honest, I think the only thing I ever actually bought there was a birthday card.

Apparently that means that I am complicit in the spread of the evil corporate empire. I’m a mass-consuming drone lured by the promise of Internet purchasing ease and 30 percent off of all bestsellers. But the truth is that I like Barnes&Noble, just as I like Banana Republic and find Dunkin Donuts coffee to be superior to just about anything else in the universe. In the end, a bookstore is a bookstore. It’s not like B&N has stopped stocking Dostoevsky in order to free up shelf space for more copies of The Da Vinci Code.

I’m guessing that, much like myself, most people don’t go to places like Dutton’s to actually buy books. It’s a discovery. A haven in the midst of the retail jungle where you can linger peacefully for hours without having to actually purchase anything. That’s why we come to love such places. Why, when we find them, we plant our metaphorical flags there and declare them our own. It’s a shame they can’t survive on love alone.