Exploring the Amazon

How Jeff Bezos and I became besties over the years

So many of us are troubled these days. Covid; divisive politics; racial inequality, and the floundering economy have all roiled the fabric of the American tapestry. Nine months (depending on who’s counting) into this Corona Catastrophe, we stay at home. Some of us (me) haven’t seen loved ones (Ella Numera Dos) since the start of this thing. We all carry a heavy burden.

All of us, I suppose, except Jeff Bezos.

Bezos, as you know, is the richest man in the United States. I didn’t look it up, but it seems like he might be the richest man in the universe. Bezos owns Amazon. And Amazon owns me.

It started years ago, when all Amazon was interested in doing was putting my local booksellers out of business. Moker and I lived in a house possessed of a rather large basement. In fact, when we finally downsized before our move Down South, the chore we hated to tackle — but which was holding us back — was sorting through our substantial collection of authors and deciding who had to go.

Moker owns most of Ian Fleming’s pantheon of 007 novels. And Dan Jenkins’s hysterical sports musings. I love Barbara Kingsolver; Amy Tan; Julia Alvarez, but also Truman Capote and Larry McMurtry. When I first started combing the shelves for books to give away I did notice an easy call — I owned two copies of Gone with the Wind. No, I don’t know why, but I threw the paperback on the “give away” pile.

When we partnered up in 1979, Moker and I both had a nasty habit. Instead of going to the library, we two voracious readers preferred purchasing books. Some folks have a giant TV dominating their living space. Our tiny garden apartment in Fort Worth was graced with more 4- and 5-tier bookshelves than any other kind of furniture. It looked like some kind of faux-intellectual jungle, a shrine to the written word. In fact, when faced with the choice of buying a dining room table early in our relationship or buying a place to store our books, we picked the shelving. And this was before IKEA, so you know we were investing more in our personal library than in anything else.

When Bezos brought his bookselling online he sucked me, at least, into his scheme right away. I bought books from Amazon and sold other books on their site as well. You’d be surprised how many people on the Interwebs are interested in Robert Caro’s multi-volume LBJ biography. Or a signed copy of Dream City, the definitive story of D.C.’s self-proclaimed “Mayor for Life,” Marion Barry. And who woulda thunk that all of Moker’s substantial collection of novels from his B.A. in English Degree from the University of Wisconsin would sell for far more than a pretty penny?

I’d list them on Amazon; Moker would mail them on his lunch hour (I taught eight hours a day, so there was no running errands for moi), and Amazon would plunk a dollar — or two, or twelve, and in one case, close to $200 — I don’t recall the book, but it must’ve been a rare enough find — in my bank account. Moker used to joke that he was getting the raw end of this deal — after all, while I bought the mailing envelopes, he paid for the postage. There was some truth to that, although we share funds in this marriage, so I never really figured out what he was complaining about.

Of course, all good things must end, and my two years as a bookseller did just that. I got tired of “buyer’s remorse”. Someone in Snohomish, Washington, say, would purchase a 1969 edition of A Tale of Two Cities, which I had advertised as “slightly worn, barely read; some wear from sitting on a shelf for decades.” The buyer would click on the button to acquire the book. His payment would be transferred to my account, with my buddy Bezos, of course, taking his cut first. I would package the book for shipment, and Moker would take it down to the post office on his lunch break. But sometimes things didn’t go so smoothly. After sending Charles Dickens off to his new home on the other side of the country, I’d get an angry message on my Amazon account. “I’m so desapointed! Books’ in trribl cnditon!! I want my mony beckk!!!” Being the decent egg that I am, I would digitally reimburse the dissatisfied customer. And he wouldn’t send my book back. Ever.

This happened a least two dozen times during my financial partnership with Amazon. I got tired of the complaints; I got tired of those who were either too lazy or too dishonest to send me back my property; and I got even more exhausted by those self-same jerks who didn’t know how to spell to save their lives.

So I quit the book biz — the selling part, at least — and my basement bookshelves began to expand yet again. Then Bezos branched out. I was beyond hooked.

In 1998, Amazon expanded into music and DVD sales; in ’99, Bezos added home improvement and other gift items to the mix; in 2000, third-party sellers — like my basement book biz — went online with Amazon; and from 2001 to today, this consumer behemoth kept expanding into the Amazon we now know, sometimes love, and love to hate. I’m even considering ordering the groceries for Christmas dinner online — from Jeff, of course, because he now owns Whole Foods, too.

With the advent of Prime, streaming and original content, Jeff had us right where he wanted us. And, for the most part, I was there for almost every single innovation he sent down the pike. Because he’s in the food biz now, I ordered two three-pound bags of Hershey’s Kisses a few weeks ago. I’ll be streaming the latest episode of Borat sometime soon. That’s how whacked-out my relationship with Jeff Bezos has become.

I guess I should explain — I’m really not a shopaholic. Even though I lived within three miles of one of the largest malls on the East Coast for more than 20 years, I hardly ever went, except to drop off and pick up kids. Getting me to a mall — or even into a discount apparel emporium like T.J. Maxx — is like pulling the proverbial teeth. I don’t like to look. Even in my slender days, I hated the concept of trying something on that could have been showcased on more than one stranger’s body. I sure as shootin’ can’t stand the thought of Black Friday, even though I have been spotted at the mall at midnight on Thanksgiving night, but only because someone else (I have two kids) was spending my money. And because malls these days have “living room areas,” with comfy chairs and couches tied together with tasteful coffee and end tables, and nice rugs. A place to take a load off. For folks just like me.

I guess on a couple of occasions I decided that it wasn’t worth it to fight the holiday crowds. If I was going to drop kids off at the mall after eating too much turkey and trimmings, I was going to stay and walk off all that excess weight. And then sit down, put my feet up and read the book I’d just acquired at Barnes & Noble. So, yes — you’ve heard of those moms who give their credit card to the child and say, “Get the hell outta here”? Guilty as charged.

But my main man Jeff took all the anxiety, the wear, the tear out of shopping. I sometimes order clothing (beyond sweatpants) online. If the item doesn’t fit, I send it back. But you’d be surprised how many nice tops, and even an occasional swimsuit, fits just fine. And I didn’t have to leave my living room to pick any of it up. Well, except when I go out to the mailbox, or scoop up my packages from the front stoop.

Over the years, I’ve ordered a cacophony of creature comforts. And during the pandemic, I’ve upped my online Amazon game. Recently, I noticed the phone charger cord in my car was frayed. I was waiting while Ella Numera Una dashed into a home improvement store, so I ordered a new cord. That same day, I craved the aforementioned Hershey’s treat. A couple of clicks, and I received Kisses upon Kisses a couple of days later. But I’ve also ordered necessary and utilitarian items from Amazon: a newfangled thermometer and a pack of AAA batteries to run it; a shower caddy to replace the one in the master bath that had seen better days; a book for a friend’s birthday; king-sized sheets; home decor for my kitchen, and kitty litter for my, well, cat.

Some of you will probably say that if I got out more, I could acquire these items in the brick-and-mortar marketplace. Indeed I could. But didn’t you hear? There’s a virus out there. I’d rather curl up with the kitty and let my fingers do the walking, as the old Yellow Pages ads used to say.

I do sometimes miss the “good old days,” when the kids were younger, and they wanted to shop. Years ago, Moker bought a red convertible, which I drove on occasion. And occasionally, I’d take the kids to the mall, or pick them up on a Saturday afternoon. Top down, tunes up. I was returning from a pick-up run one spring day, with three middle-schoolers in the car. I’ll never forget the convo as we cruised down the hill into our suburban burg.

Lisa: “Guess what, Mrs. N. Guess what?!?”

Ella Numera Una (riding shotgun, turning around to shush her friend): “Shut up, Lisa!”

Lisa: “Guess whaaaaaaaattttt!?!?!?!?!”

Me: “What?”

Lisa: “Guess who bought a thong?!? And it wasn’t me — it was…” Una threw her a look that — well, for a 13-year-old, probably could kill.

I didn’t have to guess. I knew. And I’m glad that was just a phase. But I know if she wanted to, Ella Numera Una could buy her underwear from Jeff Bezos. Because I do. Jeff Bezos and I are that close.