Shopping local (a true-ish tale of angst and raw brake pads)

The brakes on my Buick Park Avenue squeal as I steer into the used book store's parking lot. It's a Sunday afternoon, so there aren't a lot of other cars out there. I smile embarrassingly as people turn to stare in disbelief at my loud-ass ride. I stub out my smoke, kill the engine and hop out. 
When I get to the front door it's locked. A sign reads “Closed Sundays.” Checking their hours, with all their wonderful used books beckoning to me from the other side of the glass door, I see they're open until noon on Saturday and until five on weekdays. I resolve to return on my lunch hour the next day.
My brakes squeal when I get there. More people stare. I stub out my smoke. The door to the store is locked again. Next to the “Closed Sundays” sign is another: “Back at 1:30.” I resolve to try again Tuesday.
Squeals, stares, smoke stubbed out and the door is blessedly open. I can smell the antique book pages, such a wonderful aroma, when I enter. A lady in a white wool sweater two sizes too large and glasses thicker than Coke bottles sits behind a counter near the back of the place. She's reading a book.
“I'm looking for 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows' in hardcover,” I tell her.
She replies. “I have that in fantasy. It's twelve dollars.”
“Twelve bucks? Is there a local discount?”
She finds the book for me. It's missing a dust jacket. Not good for anal collectors like myself. Without missing a beat, she says, “No local discount. Sorry.”
“I can get this online for one penny, plus $3.99 in shipping and handling. That's eight dollars cheaper,” I add as pleasantly as I can on the off chance she sucks at math.
My brakes squeal as I leave the used book store for the third time. At least they had the book, I think to myself. In fact, they still have it.
NOTE: Post written for the sake of argument. Those seeking a good local experience for books, just to avoid confusion, please visit The Well Read Coyote in West Sedona!