Yesterday I went to Harlem to walk the Hudson and check out the Studio Museum’s new Caribbean art gallery. (My recommendation: See it!) Between the gallery and my walk from 125th street to 162nd street, I decided to stop at Hee-Man Bookstore, Harlem’s only brick and mortar bookseller. I went to the bookstore a few times last summer to browse the aisles. One time, I attended a Flavor Flav reading. I never bought books. Walking up and down Fredrick Douglas, I couldn’t find the store. I turned on my Google Maps and discovered I walked right past it. I turned around and there it was—closed. No books sat on the yellow shelves; no lights shined under the blue awning. I remembered the day before when I sat in Barnes and Noble, reading comics without making a purchase, as I do every week. I told myself that half the shelves were empty last summer, but that was no excuse. I said hi to Flav, said goodbye, and let the store close. Sure, the store failed to clean the shelves, stock the café, and organize their collection. They ran their business poorly—but I also didn’t do my part as a consumer, as a crucial part of the economy. Now Harlem lacks a bookstore. Sure, there street vendors, whom, as someone who once sold books outside a car, I love, but I love sitting inside a store, browsing aisles and drinking tea. Unless we start buying books more frequently, all bookstores will close.