Bookselling in a New England College Town

Having written about being in the service industry (see entry below), I find myself needing to explain something about this.
I am now 36 years old; I've been working in retail, one way or another, since I was 16. That's, yes, twenty years. (I'm bad at math, but good at remembering my life.) For most of those years I've been a bookseller in this college town where I live now. I've mostly been very content with this; I like the overwhelming majority of my customers, I love the books; I find some obscure pride in knowing that I'm one of those people who can sometimes connect someone with a book that really makes them happy, or helps them, or does something good for them. A book is often a better friend than a friend is. That's not a nice thing to say, I realize, but I do mean it.
So I'm very sad to report to anyone who cares, which I assume is pretty much nobody, that I've left my position as book buyer at the small independent bookstore here, the local institution where the overly degreed hang out and massage each other's egos.
I didn't leave because I have a better offer. I've left even though I've not even got one job interview lined up. You may ask, "Why? Didn't you really really want that $12/hr job you had that seems so unbelievably cool?" The answer is, If I'd been treated differently by my employers, I might. If I'd felt I was getting an ounce of professional respect from the people I work for, I would probably stay. If I'd had an office; a phone in said office; a proper email address; a filing cabinet, for Christ's sake; if I'd had a professional salary and real health care and more than 10 days vacation per year. I might have stayed.
But I didn't have, and I didn't stay.
I am tired of fighting this good fight. I believe in independent bookstores; I believe that Barnes and Noble really does dumb down the cultural dialogue which happens in bookstores and because of bookstores across this country. I believe that Borders isn't that much better.
But I also believe that I'm burnt out. I used to work in rare books, and it was, compared to this, a cakewalk. With used books, you never have to plan author events. I never had to worry about publicity -- I never got emails saying "Appearing on Live! With Regis --" and then had to think, "Do I want to order this idiotic self-help book?" Back in the days when I worked in used books, I frequently said to customers, If I have my way I'll never sell another self-help book again as long as I live.
For the past two years, I've kept self-help to a minimum in this store -- and, to the store's credit, we really didn't have too many customers looking for this shit -- but you know what? It's too much. I do not enjoy what bookselling is, now. It's not the same business that it was when I was 18. There have always been bad books, sure; but I didn't used to have to pay attention to them. I didn't have to order them. At this job, I did. Now I had to feel responsible for getting this shit into people's hands. People who I regard as friends, god help me, they're in publishing and they thrust ARCs into my hands and say, "You must order this for the store, they'll love it." Well, listen, my friends: my customers didn't love it. No one asked me about any of the books I've ordered because I was cowed and ordered the crap you publish. I've had to return all those books. You probably didn't notice.
I've tried to sell the mediocrity that gets the hype. I tried to sell Jenna Jameson. No one cared. I tried to sell Ann Coulter. No one cared. I tried to sell Michael Savage. No one cared. All these books were or will be returned. Robert Parker; James Patterson (god! all those James Patterson books I will never have to think about again! I practically want to open a bottle of Champagne to celebrate). All of this proved to me, over and over again, that you, my friends in publishing, and your reps never had any idea what the hell was going in in this little bookstore I worked at.
Sex sells, sure. But not just any sex. And mean nasty funniness sells. But not just anyone's mean nasty funniness.

I took this job two years ago as an act of desperation: I wanted a job that would give me minimal pay and offer me and The Most Ethical Man in the World health coverage. Two years have gone by. I have no raise. My Christmas bonuses were jokes. The Most Ethical Man in the World has a job which offers medical care that's a zillion times better (I was never able to find a local gynecologist on my job's plan). He hates the job; it leaves him drained and angry and depressed every day. But it's still a better job, in conventional regards, than any job I've ever had. And in two years, he hasn't come up with a preferable Plan B for himself.
I feel like I've basically wasted two years. It's a sad feeling.
I'm going to work toward going back to the books I love: used and rare. There's not much money for me to make doing this, I realize, but it will be, I think, a purer enterprise for me. It will allow me to be truer to what I want to do with my time; it will allow me to focus on the things I love. I hope to God I'll be able to make a little money doing it.
To my customers, who will I'm sure never read this: stop me on the street and say hello. I really like you guys. I just couldn't take working for the Fearless Leader anymore.