The Big Time

11am.  Awaiting my adoring public.

The splendor of Indian summer was in full bloom as I drove home Wednesday evening.  Having passed the traditional halfway point, I was pining for the upcoming weekend.  The unseasonably warm temperatures were forecast to climb even higher by Saturday, opening up a plethora of options not common in December.

My phone rang as I pulled into my driveway.  I didn’t recognize the number, so I let voicemail handle it. I’ve always had a strained relationship with the telephone, which is to say I don’t care for it. I miss the nonverbal cues of a face-to-face conversation and resent the dedicated attention it requires.   I tend to treat the telephone as a slightly less invasive version of the doorbell.  I feel no particular obligation to answer either. 

My wife, on the other hand, can function as if the telephone is a natural extension of her body, effortlessly adding it to a multi-tasking cocktail of conversing, cooking dinner, and helping our daughter with her homework.  The afternoon call I received was unexpected and caught me off guard. I awaited the message.   

It was from the owner of an independent bookstore.  One of my favorite stores because it stocked my book.  They’d sold out and needed more copies delivered, I imagined.  Envisioning holiday dollar signs, I played the message.   

The owner had called to invite me to participate in an in-store appearance that coming Saturday.  The dollar signs shined brighter in my imagination, and without further thought, I called back to accept the invitation.  

 

A bookstore appearance is often an easy way to move product and make some quick cash.  We were in the holiday shopping season, so traffic figured to be good, and signed books make unique gifts for those for whom buying is difficult. The work is easy.  You sit at a table, scribble your name on the title fly page, and make small talk.  It’s like being a celebrity, except I have to drive myself. And provide my own refreshments.  And Sharpie.  

I’d done an appearance at the same store earlier in the fall that was a success. If this was half as good, it would be a lucrative day.

 However, with visions of easy money and low-end celebrity inhabiting my head, I failed to consider the variables.  Competition would be stiff Saturday morning.  The University of Oklahoma football team would be playing in the conference championship game at the same time.  This was of little interest to me, but my indifference placed me in the minority. Nothing keeps people home in the autumn like a football game.  With the game taking on the added importance of being for the conference title, this figured to cut traffic significantly.

 

I should’ve known what I was in for when I couldn’t even secure any plants.  My wife and daughter had a Girl Scouts function, my mom was out of town, and my sister had attended my previous appearance and suggested I not push it.

 

And for the handful of people not interested in the football game, the aforementioned weather figured to be a powerful deterrent.  A projected high temperature in the mid-70s in early December isn’t exactly grab-a-latte-and-hang-out-in-a-bookstore weather. 

 

With limited time, I did the best I could to exploit the event–which is to say I posted about it on social media.  Saturday morning, I packed up my modest media kit and made the twenty-minute drive north to a suburban strip center.

 A moist south wind had propelled the temperature well into the 60s by 10am.  The sun-splashed freeway was virtually empty as I cruised with windows down and the music up.  Though the appearance time was only three hours in duration, I expected it to feel at least twice as long.  

 At my previous appearance, there were two authors.  Joining me was an attorney who cranked out erotic chick-lit like a ten-year-old Bangladeshi boy pulling down a dollar a week for making sneakers. She was billed as a romance author, but I think this was a euphemism.  This stuff was of the shirtless Fabio pawing a buxom breast on the cover variety, but lust isn’t an official literary category.   

 This time, I was one of four writers in the store, as history, recovery, religious self-help, and humor were represented.  What follows is a timeline of the day’s events as best as I can recollect.

 10:45 am. I park, grab my bag, and walk across the sparsely populated parking lot to the store.  The sky is cloudless, and according to my car’s thermometer, the temperature is already in the lower 60s.  Even I don’t want to be indoors. The smell of the Mexican restaurant at the end of the strip center gets in my nose.  Tacos and margaritas on the patio sound like a better idea.

 The opening associates welcome me.  Moments later, the owner emerges from her office at the rear of the store to greet me.  She is optimistic, thinking the mild weather will make for a good day.  She isn’t a football fan and has no idea what we would be competing against.  Coincidentally, the store is no longer open.  Lack of risk assessment may have been a factor.

 10:55 am. I set up my display at a folding table in the back half of the store, next to the coffee bar. A tablecloth has been provided.  I am soon joined by the other three authors on the bill.  A gregarious man a few years older than me, there to promote his new history book, facilitated introductions.   As the humor writer, I tend to orbit outside the circle of legitimacy, sent to the side with my jester’s hat and bauble.

11:00 am.  An associate unlocks the door but nobody enters.  My fellow writers and I check our watches and look at the undisturbed front door.  Like taking possession of a new car, our optimism depreciates immediately.

11:36 am. The bell chimes to signify the opening of the door.  We all spin our heads like eager dogs awaiting our masters’ return.  A woman enters and leaves after a brief conversation with the associate at the counter.

11:48 am. A couple enters the store and meanders to the coffee bar.  I can see their neck muscles straining to keep their heads from turning and making eye contact with any of us.  They each get a venti latte and a scone and take the long way back to the door to avoid passing in front of us.

11:53 am. The historian’s gregariousness starts to wear on me when he hands us each a pamphlet detailing another of his side hustles.  I reposition myself in the conversation from outlier to uninvolved.

11:58 am. A middle-aged couple enters the store.  Again, our collective eyes turn toward them with desperate anticipation. They browse for several minutes, making sure to steer clear of our side of the room.  

12:04 pm. The middle-aged couple exits without making a purchase.

12:05 pm. Denial 

It is obvious that the day is well on its way to becoming a bust.  My fellow writers make one last push at optimism. “People must be getting a late start,” one muses.  “After lunch, surely the crowd will pick up,” adds another. The optimism is nothing more than veiled denial.  We are firmly ensconced in stage one of grief.  We grieve the fast-approaching death of our literary careers.  

12:06 pm. I receive separate texts from two friends who planned to come to the store but now claim they are too busy to make it. In the exchange, both mention being bored.  I try not to take the blatant contradiction personally.

12:10 pm. My fellow authors offer their first display of agitation.  They begin asking where the customers are.  Our appearance becomes reminiscent of the record store scene in This is Spinal Tap.

12:15 pm. I commit an etiquette breach by pulling out my phone to combat drowsiness.

12:37 pm. A friend of mine enters the store with his wife.  After scanning the room, they walk back to where I am sitting.  We have a short conversation and they each buy a book and have me sign both copies.

1:00 pm. I am leading the unofficial sales competition, two-nil.  With the wind blowing in, my two-spot has a strong chance of holding up.

1:05 pm. We have seen precious few customers.  The handful of people who have entered the store have treated us like a row of homeless persons sitting on a sidewalk, impoverished hands outstretched.  Instead of cardboard signs, we hold books.  We don’t want handouts; we want readers.  Anything helps.  God bless.  

1:13 pm. The spirituality author becomes restless and neurotic concerning her drive home.  She’d traveled from a small town to be with us and had become preoccupied with finding the best route home.  Given her level of paranoia, one might think a dusk ice storm was imminent, but her concern was with “big city traffic.”  She considers packing up early to get a jump on the nonexistent congestion. I consider buying the self-help lady’s book.  However, a purchase would put me in the red for the day and I decide against it.  Besides, she openly doubts God’s willingness to see her home safely.  I don’t need the ambiguity. 

1:25 pm. If this were an election, the decision desk would declare me the winner with 75% of the polls reporting.  My two-book lead feels insurmountable in the unspoken competition.  I check my phone again and ponder the ways I might spend my take from the $32 in the register that I’m directly responsible for.

1:32 pm. Anger 

It’s been a long time coming, but my fellow authors reach stage two, with a generous side portion of second-guessing.  Snide comments are exchanged as a result of the lousy turnout and lack of sales. This quickly descends into a dogpile takedown of the day, the owner, and the store. They all suck. Promotion was inadequate and our time was wasted.

 “I guess we could’ve taken turns twirling signs on the side of the freeway,” I offer.  Nobody is sure if I’m being facetious or not.

1:34 pm. Bargaining 

This phase is skipped.  Nobody is in the mood.  The non-event can only end one way.

1:35 pm. Depression 

After more pointless bitching from my colleagues, I expand my field from humorist to voice of reason, mentioning the weather and football game provided stiff competition.  “What football game?” was the response. Depression takes root. We all stare out the windows, prisoners of our overvalued ambitions.

1:47 pm. Acceptance 

We are obscure characters operating in a dying medium.  Writers can’t compete with football in Oklahoma.  Or a lot of other things.

2:02 pm 

I pack up to leave. Regardless of the current, more accepted cultural meaning, carrying an armload of unsold books back to your car is the real walk of shame. I throw my bag in the backseat and drive home. 

It was not the type of day I’d hoped for, but the kind I’d expected.  We’d been unwittingly set up for failure.  I didn’t see it as a complete waste though.  I drove home into the bright sunshine with the windows down, enjoying the gorgeous afternoon with the notion I’d have something new to write about. Plus, in the mail next week, I’d be getting a check for nineteen bucks.

The big time indeed.

 

 

Light traffic, soft sales, heavy eyes.