Like any aspiring writer in San Francisco, I used to limit my pilgrimages to Green Apple Books on Clement Street.
It wasn’t just that, like many aspiring writers, I was often totally broke, living on top ramen and peanut butter and the occasional slice of pizza, and any time I let myself walk the aisles at Green Apple Books, I couldn’t help blowing food money on, say, a lesser William Burroughs title that had previously escaped me, or maybe a novel by Didion or Vonnegut.
Even if I didn’t buy a book at Green Apple Books, a visit still had a way of both inspiring and exhausting me — the seriousness and book love emanating from the place, embodied in everyone who worked there, gave a kind of high seriousness to my daily journeys through the horror of confronting the white space of unwritten pages. It felt like I needed to have a book authored by me on the shelves at Green Apple Books if I was ever going to feel like anything short of a failure.
At the end of the 1980s, I even lived for a while in Cole Valley with two roommates, one of them a book clerk at Green Apple Books with a stern, almost surly demeanor and a passion for V.S. Naipaul. I peppered her with endless questions about what it was like to be among the chosen: an actual Green Apple Books employee.
She stared back at me, telling me to go write some more and leave her alone. She advised me against applying to Green Apple for a job, despite my English degree from Berkeley; you have to be a “serious” reader she explained to me with a curl of the lip.
I thought of that former roommate for the first time years in 2004 when I published my first book, One Day at Fenway, and did an event at Green Apple Books; she was not among those who showed up, alas. I returned occasionally in the week afterward just to enjoy the sight of my book on the great store’s shelves.
I’ve followed the ongoing story of Green Apple Books with fascination over the years, its expansion and continuing excellence, and was not surprised when the beloved book haunt snagged “Best Bookstore in San Francisco” honors in TBI’s 2020 honors — or when, just last week, the San Francisco Board of Supervisors approved a new Green Apple Books location in the Harvey Milk Terminal at SFO, slated to open in 2024.
Earlier this month, I got my first look at the Green Apple Books at the 9th Avenue location, less than half a block from Golden Gate Park. The occasion was an in-store event for a book I’d published and edited, Remember Who You Are: What Pedro Gomez Showed Us About Baseball and Life, featuring three of the 62 contributors to the book of essays: the iconic photographers Michael Zagaris and Brad Mangin and former San Francisco Giants Director of Media Relations Robin Carr, daughter of Sporting Green sportswriter Howard Carr.
I’d been in touch in the days leading up to the event with Events Coordinator Kar Johnson about the possibility of canceling the in-store portion of the event, with covid fears (and cases) again on the rise. We decided we’d stick with both a Zoom event and a live option, for people who wanted to attend in person.
Every author will tell you about bookstore events they’ve done with sparce turnout, it goes with the territory, but in this case, it was simply a question of the strangeness of covid time — and Kar could not have handled the situation better.
First of all, Kar was very easygoing and low-key about nudging us to start, to give one or two more people a chance to arrive — and then, and this is the part that stays with me, Kar listened to me read from my Introduction to the book with the emotionally attuned attention of a musician listening to a fellow artist.
“It’s odd to lose a very close friend, to see his death ripple out to millions, and to come to understand that for many of them, this was a deeply painful loss as well,” I read, and Kar nodded along. “Pedro brought people in baseball together in death as in life. When word spread on Super Bowl Sunday that Pedro had died, a thunderclap of shock and grief shook nearly everyone in the game, sooner or later. Barry Bonds was among many who sent flowers.”
Kar was visibly moved when they came back to the mic to introduce the next participant, and took that opportunity to make an added point of what an honor it was — for Green Apple Books and Kar — to host the event, honoring a figure many loved and admired, and if it was just standard courtesy, Kar gave the words gravitas and feeling and heart.
The result, from my perspective, was near-miraculous. All of us gathered for the event kind of exchanged looks, and thought “Kar is right! This is a special event!” and what followed were some amazing readings — and free-flowing discussion afterward.
Zagaris read from his essay in the book, focusing on the common passion he and Pedro Gomez shared for the Rolling Stones — whose San Francisco shows in 1972 Zagaris shot after talking his way on tour, a story he recounts in this clip.
It turned into a magical night for those of us who took part, like so much in conjunction with this amazing project, which I first wrote about at The Bold Italic back in May in this piece, On Losing Your Best Friend During a Pandemic.
At one point, talking about the long hours photo editor Brad Mangin and I had worked to put together the book on a severely truncated publishing schedule, Zagaris shook his head admiringly and said, with great seriousness and earnestness, that it reminded him of a particular recording session of Led Zeppelin. I nodded and tried to freeze the moment: the first and last time my creative pursuits will ever be compared to those of a band my boyhood neighbors and I all loved.
I’ve done book events all over the country, encountered many great, book-loving people who worked at stores, but Kar Johnson impressed all of us deeply that night — and offered a reminder that when it comes to offering a haven for people who still love books with passion and urgency, you can’t beat San Francisco.
Thanks, Kar — and many thanks, Green Apple Books. I’ll forever adore you.
Sign up for The Bold Italic newsletter to get the best of the Bay Area in your inbox every week.
