Amusing Idiots You Have in This Village


I was seventeen, and working at my first full-time job after dropping out of grade 12; a cashier in what-was-then the top academic bookstore in Toronto, the SCM Bookroom, on the ground floor of what-was-then the infamous Rochdale College (now the Senator David Kroll Apartments.)

We had all types of people walk through the door. Hippies and musicians and artists from the Rochdale communes, U of T profs and students, OISE scholars, Conservatory and Teacher's College folks. It was a great place to work, with strong positive ties to the Canadian print community; my boss used to joke with the UTS kids then turn around and abuse poor Jack McLelland, or lecture the Coach House Press or Penguin sales reps. (He later opened his own store, the Bob Miller Bookroom on Bloor Street, which is much like SCM was then.)

The winter I was there, Anansi Press had a fire at their warehouse, and we held a fire sale to save their struggling small press; could have picked up slightly-singed signed first editions of Margaret Atwood's and Michael Ondaatje's early works, b.p. nichol and Denis Lee stuff, but I was virulently anti-Canuck lit in those days... digressing pretty widely here...

Anyhow, one gray afternoon I looked up as a very tall and well dressed man strode through the door. He was instantly recognizable as a professor, but the cut and quality of his suit and topcoat discreetly murmured wealth, and profs back then didn't have the salaries of today. But it wasn't his clothes that stood out. He had presence, the unforgettable quality of owning and widening a room when you walk in; more, he had the most immense human dignity I've ever seen.

I looked away, but kept an eye on him as he strolled around the store. I'd been working a few months, made a pastime of guessing the various customers, but this guy was different and I just couldn't figure him. He browsed the Aesthetics area, went to the History section and spent a fair amount of time; went upstairs to Philosophy for at least twenty minutes, then worked his way through every shelf of the Literature and Criticism sections. After that I saw him go downstairs to Religion in the basement (we were the top religious bookstore in Canada in those days; that section was large) and he didn't return for nearly half an hour.

By this time I was almost beside myself with curiosity, and when he went through every shelf in Psychology, and then Sociology, I was truly nonplussed. It's hard to explain this, but back then, no self-respecting literary, historical, or philosophical academic would do anything more than snort at Sociology. We usually called it the Joke Department, and I really didn't like having it located right beside the cash register; seemed to lower the tone of the place, like the cheap bottles of wine right beside some LCBO cash counters.

Finally I couldn't stand it any more. When there was a break in the traffic at the desk, I summoned my nerve and hesitantly asked:

"...excuse me sir, but... are you a... sociologist?"

He chuckled, a very amused deep chuckle, and without turning around, shook his head and said "no." A few minutes later he walked out the door after buying a few books, without saying another word.

Bob walked up as I was staring at the door, and I guess he'd noticed me keeping an eye on this mysterious stranger, and could read the bewilderment on my face. He asked "do you know who that was?" and when I said "no," gave me a peculiar long look, which seemed a mixture equal parts satisfaction, real amusement, and very serious respect -- then replied: "Professor McLuhan."

I'd owned several of his books for years; bought the Gutenburg Galaxy in New York on my first trip there at 16. He'd edited the poetry text I'd studied in grade ten, and his ideas were not as widely accepted then as they are now -- but I can date my sincere and deep personal respect for Marshall McLuhan from that day. Any man who can walk the way he walked, knows he has talked the talk.


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