The is one of my favorite stores in New York, I've found a nice antique tea tray there, paperback books are $1 and hardcover books are $2 or so, and the guy at the register said comic books are $1, or $15 for 25; that they get cheaper the more you buy. I have found some bibliographic curiosities, which I will briefly describe.
I found an original hardcover, German Nazi printing of Henry Ford's 'The International Jew', published in Leipzig, 1938. How did this book end up at this store? Brought by a polish immigrant? The existence of this book is something that the Ford Motor Company would like to deny, something that history would like to obscure, and despite my moral repugnance at owning such a book, I felt that it was unlikely that anybody else would recognize the historical significance of it, so I bought it for $2. It's printed in German, I have no use for it, it basically emanates evil.
The other book I found was a 1959 hardcover 'the Encyclopedia of Witchcraft and Demonology', complete with illustrations, cryptic notes in pencil, underlining, and the stamp of the 'Brooklyn Public Library, Coney Island Branch, 10 Mermaid Avenue.' Charming, albeit spooky. These finds are only slightly atypical of the weirdness possible at The Thing.
And now, to discuss the state of the store. I have entered the store on a number of occasions to find employees in a state of what could only be described as exasperated defeat, verging on panic, overwhelmed at the colossal edifice of merchandise in the store. Let's be clear. The store is a disaster area, and it gets a tiny bit worse every day. It's a bit like visiting a mentally disturbed hermit, a bit like an episode of COPS where they go to a lady's house who has 300 cats. Who knows how many books are in this store? I would estimate that a customer could only reach or even see about 5% of all the books, as many are stacked behind books stacked behind books, behind a pile of toppled books, in aisles filled waist high with garbage bags of clothes, books, comic books, old photos, and unidentifiable detritus. The state of the comic books is regrettably the same.
However, the store is know, amongst that shadowy band of people to whom it IS know, for the records. The labyrinthine, unknowable realm of records. To the more intrepid explorer, the records at The Thing might inspire, might challenge - but to me, they are a symbol of defeat. I suspect that the store owner suffers from a psychological condition which prevents him from refusing to acquire more records. A journey to the basement of The Thing, ahh, the basement, entails stepping over the heaps of books and clothes, trying not to fall over, seeing the back room and marveling at the records stacked from floor to ceiling, two shelves deep, and then realizing that the back room, already bursting, already exploding with records is but merely the antechamber, the doorstep to the real horror which awaits them below.
Many record shoppers loiter in the backroom, lacking the commitment to venture further. There is enough to keep them there for hours. Rounding either corner of the already all enveloping wall of records, one is presented with small stairs which lead down, which themselves have records stacked on them. And then, once one has reached the floor below, the true meaning and importance of the store becomes evident. Records are all there is, floor to ceiling, row after row, and the mind reels to realize that behind each tightly stacked row is ANOTHER row of records. Claustrophobic and airless, it must be like being locked in a DJs trunk. It would take an army to see if there was anything worth buying, a team to descent into the depths of The Thing.
The only other people I have seen down there brought their own bandannas to cover their mouths from the dust, their own flashlights to see record labels in poorly lit places. One guy said to me, unprovoked and in hushed tones "I think this is were DJ Shadow took that picture for the inside of his album". In one row, you can peer through the row of records and see an entire adjacent room, damp, small, unlit & unreachable, with 45s cruelly stacked on their face, filling the entire room to about 3 feet high, where they apparently are being crushed under their own weight.
And then the meaning of 'The Thing' begins to dawn upon your consciousness. 'The Thing' is either the burden of owning all this stuff, or the burden of having a personality which demands that one continue to amass records, books, comic books, old clothes and old photos of people you don't know far beyond the limits of order, management, saleability or perhaps even sanity. 'The Thing' cannot stop itself. The employees have a look of nervous desperation, knowing that they work in an ungovernable store. When they close up shop at night, do they worry that someone is down there, locked-in, continuing to search the records, perhaps trapped underneath a cave-in? Has anyone excavated a passage to the room of 45s? read more