Even at 10 pm on a Saturday night, Bluestockings Bookstore is bustling with life. Hipster college students, snug in their colorful Carhartt beanies and fraying thrift store coats, weave in and out of aisles lined with books. Patrons race to snatch an open seat so they can lose themselves in their selections.
I often go to the bookstore on weekends to find solace, to escape my anxiety, to be among friends I have yet to meet.
On this Saturday night, warm light bathes the wet sidewalk outside the store’s windows in a soft glow. People walking by stop for a moment to peer in through rain before coming in to escape the downpour.
The drumming of the rain outside fades as the door closes and the barista welcomes the newcomers with a warm smile. They shake out their umbrellas and place them in the worn wooden cubbies at the front, and begin to explore the rows of books. A student casts a glance in their direction before returning to her studying, alternating between typing out notes on her laptop and highlighting passages in her book.
Shelves around the store are lined with the glossy covers of celebrated feminist works; metal tables at the center of the store display a selection of queer fiction. Customers stare down at the Young Adult novels and dozens of wide eyes belonging to heroines and scrappy underdogs stare back. A wire rack by the register holds local zines, their Xeroxed pages stapled together with handmade covers.
Indie music plays softly over the shop’s speakers, moody guitar riffs drowned out by the conversations in the aisles. The earthy smell of freshly ground coffee wafts through the air as the barista brews the last pot of the night. I look over and the barista takes one of the few remaining vegan muffins from the glass case, losing some of its chocolate sprinkles in the process, and places it on a blue plate next to a mismatched mug of tea.
A young man in a black hoodie balances a cup filled to the brim with coffee as he returns to where he and his friends had begun a heated discussion about Dante’s Inferno. One table over, a man in his 70s flips through a newspaper, the pages crinkling as he folds it up and places it on his table before joining their conversation. As he relays his own college experience as an undergraduate at Columbia in the 1960s, I too become engrossed in his stories. At Bluestockings, it can be hard not to eavesdrop. And even harder not to make new friends. Soon, I am part of their conversation.
It’s 11 o’clock now, closing time. One by one, the staff begins to turn off the lights and put the chairs up on the tables. The barista sweeps the floors and announces the last call for coffee as the patrons gather their things and return their mugs to the counter. We bundle up and walk outside. The old man hops on his bike and pedals down the now empty sidewalk. I offer a goodbye to my new friends as they hop in their Uber.
Alone in the rain, I wait in front of the now shuttered store, looking for the telltale glow of the M15. Through my fogged glasses, I see them wave goodbye. Tonight I will sleep well, already anticipating my next visit.
