Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Closing Up Shop

Episode Date: May 6, 2018

Our story tonight is called “Closing up shop” and it’s a story about a bookshop at the end of the day. Lev Grossman wrote in The Magician’s Land “It didn’t matter where you were, if you were in a room full of books you were at least halfway home.” If that feels true to you, then this story is for you. Beyond the friendliness of the company of books, this story is also about being in a safe place and looking out from it at one’s leisure, and about the lovely feeling of anticipating something nice. So get cozy and ready to sleep. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grownups, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. If you're looking for more cozy relaxation in your life, my book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available now wherever books are sold.

Let me say something about how to use this podcast. I'm about to tell you a bedtime story. It's a simple story without much action, but full of relaxing detail. The story is like a nest, and we're enticing your fluttering mind to settle down into it. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you find yourself still awake at the end of the first or second telling, don't worry, relax. Take your mind back to the beginning

of the story and walk yourself back through the details that you remember, especially any bit that felt particularly cozy. You're training your brain and body to wind down. And the more often you do it, the faster you will fall asleep. So have a bit of patience at the beginning. Now, it's time to turn off the light and put away anything you've been working on or looking at. Take some time to snuggle yourself down

into your preferred sleeping position. Make all the adjustments you need to to feel your body relaxing into your bed. We're creating a cue for your body and brain, and the signal is, it's time for sleep. Now, let's take a deep breath in through the nose, and then a soft sigh from the mouth. Do that one more time in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called Closing Up Shop.

And it's a story about a bookshop at the end of the day. Lev Grossman wrote in The Magician's Land, It didn't matter where you were. If you were in a room full of books, you were at least halfway home. If that feels true to you, then this story is for you. Beyond the friendliness of the company of books, this story is also about being in a safe place and looking out from it at one's leisure. A lovely feeling of anticipating something nice. Closing Up Shop

It was just a few minutes till six closing up shop. It was just a few minutes till six when the shop was empty. I was tidying up the shelves, pushing the books into their neat rows and switching round the ones that had gotten into the wrong spots. I cleared up the counter, setting a stack of bookmarks neatly by the register, and locked it.

Our little shop had been busy today, but now it was finally empty, and time to flip the open sign to closed. It was a small shop on a busy downtown street, in an old building with wide plank wood floors, tall coved ceilings, and old wrought iron chandeliers. We had a long counter along one wall that had been there since the place was a hardware store a few generations back, and a wall of windows looking out to the street. We had in our little place a few cozy reading nooks with stacks of pillows and illustrations pinned to the walls. You could even bring a cup of coffee in if you promised to be careful. And we had several customers

who spent their lunch hour quietly sipping and turning pages, and sometimes taking surreptitious bites out of sandwiches or apples from their pockets. We didn't mind. They loved books. That was good enough for us. One of the nooks was set into the front window of the shop, a sort of booth with a wood-paneled top so you could hide a bit but still look out and watch people on the street coming and going.

There were maps in there that could be pulled down from its ceiling and stared at. Some were of Africa and Europe and cities in Japan. But there was also a map of Middle Earth and the Hundred Acre Woods and one hand-drawn attempt at Fillory. You know you've picked up a good book if there is a map in the front of it. It was generally agreed upon by staff and clientele, but this was the best seat in the house.

And although it was rarely empty, folks respected its specialness and didn't hover, waiting to claim it. First, I locked the back door. An old, heavy, wooden door that was as old as the building, with panels and a few panes of wavy glass. I turned the lock and pulled the shade down. I turned off the lights through the back hall and restrooms, pulled the office door shut, and went to the front door. It was thick and heavy, too,

but it had a screen door that we used whenever it was warm enough, so that a bit of fresh air mixed with the scent of the books. As I closed them up and slid the bolt, I smiled up at the bell above. I loved to hear it ring in the morning as my first customers came in, but I liked closing up at night, knowing it wouldn't ring again for a bit. I stood, leaning against the door for a while.

This was a nice time of day for people watching, and the spring sunlight was making them blink and smile on their way home from work and school. The shop was quiet while I watched. We didn't play music, because we thought of ourselves as more of a library than a meeting place with books. So all I heard was the clock ticking

and the muffled sounds from the street. Admittedly, I was making this moment last a bit. I was making myself wait. I loved selling books, being surrounded with them and talking about them. But I also loved being alone and reading. And at the end of the day, that's what I did. So I was enjoying the anticipation as I walked back to the small cluttered office, which had an electric kettle and some mugs and a couple of cookies that a customer had

brought me that day after we had spent an hour picking out a cookbook together the week before. I flicked the switch on the kettle and pushed the boxes of tea around, finally choosing a box of cinnamon chai. The office had a tiny fridge in the corner, and I kept some almond milk in there, which everybody used liberally and nobody replaced, but I just bought more. I stirred some sugar into the milky tea and picked up my packet of cookies and my book and went to the window seat. I was about to begin the second book of a series. I'd loved

the first book and waited for over a book for the first time once. So I was leaning into the anticipation. I took my time settling in. I had to find the right spot for my tea and set the pillows up at my back. I pushed off my shoes and stretched my legs out long over the seat. I sipped my tea and looked out the window for a while longer. I set my cookies out beside me and drew a slow, deep and opened my book. Closing up shop. It was just a few minutes till six and the shop was empty.

I was tidying up the shelves pushing the books into their neat rows, and switching round the ones that had gotten into the wrong spots. I cleared up the counter, setting a stack of bookmarks neatly by the register, and locked it. Our little shop had been busy today, but now it was finally empty, and time to flip the open sign to closed. It was a small shop on a busy downtown street in an old building with wide plank wood floors, tall coved ceilings, and old wrought iron chandeliers. We had a long counter along one wall that had been there since the place was a hardware store a few

generations back and a wall of windows illustrations pinned to the walls. You could even bring a cup of coffee in if you promised to be careful. And we had several customers who spent their lunch hours quietly sipping and turning pages and sometimes taking surreptitious bites out of sandwiches or apples from their pockets. We didn't mind. They loved books.

That was good enough for us. One of the nooks was set into the front window of the shop, a sort of booth with a wood-paneled top, so that you could hide a bit, but still look out and watch people on the street coming and going. There were maps in there that could be pulled down from its ceiling and stared at. Some were of Africa and Europe and cities in Japan. But there was also a map of Middle Earth and the Hundred Acre Woods and one hand-drawn attempt at fillery. You know you've picked up a good book if there is a map in the front of it.

It was generally agreed upon by staff and clientele that this was the best seat in the house. And although it was rarely empty, folks respected its specialness and didn't hover waiting to claim it. First, I locked the back door, an old, heavy, wooden door that was as old as the building, with panels and a few panes of wavy glass. I turned the lock and pulled the shade down.

I turned off the lights through the back hall and restrooms, pulled the office door shut, and went to the front door. It was thick and heavy too, but it had a screen door that we used whenever it was warm enough so that a bit of fresh air mixed with the scent of the books. As I closed them up and slid the bolt, I smiled up at the bell above. I loved to hear it ring in the morning as my first customers came in, but I liked closing up at night, knowing it wouldn't ring again for a bit.

I stood, leaning against the door for a while. This was a nice time of day for people watching, and the spring sun was making them blink and smile on their way home from work and school. The shop was quiet while I watched. We didn't play music because we thought of ourselves as more of a library than a meeting place with books. So all I heard was the clock ticking and the muffled sounds from the street. Admittedly, I was making this moment last a bit. I was making myself wait. I loved selling books, being surrounded with them, and talking about them. But I also loved being alone and reading. And at the end of the day, that's what I did.

So I was enjoying the anticipation, and I walked back to the small, cluttered office, which had an electric kettle and some mugs and a couple of cookies that a customer had brought me after we had spent an hour picking out a cookbook together the week before. I flicked the switch on the kettle and pushed the boxes of tea around, finally choosing a box of cinnamon chai. The office had a tiny fridge in the corner, and I kept some almond milk in there, which everybody used liberally and nobody replaced, but I just bought more. I stirred some sugar into the milky tea and picked up my packet of cookies and my book and went

to the window seat. I was about to begin the second book of a series. I'd loved the first one and waited for over a year for the volume that was now in my hand. You can only read a great book for the first time once, so I was leaning into the anticipation. I took my time settling in. I had to find the right spot for my tea and set the pillows up at my back. I pushed off my shoes and stretched my legs out long over the seat.

I sipped my tea and looked out the window for a while longer. I set my cookies out and opened my book. Sweet dreams.