Work in those days was my used bookstore. Not just your normal used bookstore, but one filled with first editions and other rarities. Even as a teenager I had a knack for spotting the rare edition in a pile of books, and developed the talent to sell in a way that made the buyer feel I was giving him a deal. My collection started in a basement until I found suitable warehouse space under the L tracks, where a computer screen and telephone allowed the world access to a guarded inventory, granting even a recluse such as myself a fair crack at capitalism. As a purveyor of old books and manuscripts, I had low volume and high margins, with handwriting- and document-authentication services supplementing my online sales. Wed to my work, I tended to dine at counters, never a table for two. It’s not as if I sprayed on human repellent; it’s just that if you knew of my cloistered beginnings and limited opportunities, you’d understand why I tended to view strangers as always gathered in ranks.
