JSF: Oh, gosh. Could it be the time in Plattsburgh, New York, when I was held captive by the only person who showed up--a prison guard who talked to me for two hours? Or the brand-new chain bookstore in Ithaca where I sat at a rickety table, utterly ignored by all shoppers, and discovered the manager had never worked in a bookstore before, but had, in fact, come there from managing a Bed and Bath store? Or the very nice bookstore in Minneapolis with the very strange man who kept asking (in front of an audience of twenty) exactly how much I made per book?
No, no, I know what it was. Seattle. Denise and I had to drive from one end of the peninsula to the other, through rush hour traffic, forsaking hot showers and food (which, as you may recall, is a Very Big Deal with Denise) in order to make it to our evening signing. It was grueling, but I knew it was going to be worthwhile, because I had spoken at the Well Known Bookstore the year before, and had been impressed with their organization, stacks of books, and the large number of suburban mystery fans that turned out. The first hint that something was amiss came when we called for directions. The clerk Denise spoke to led us through one residential area after another. And when I say residential, I mean I was stopping while kids
Meanwhile, I'm more and more puzzled, because I remember the bookstore being in one of those tastefully upscale suburban strip malls, the sort that are named "The Galleria." And when we finally got out of the land of the little houses, we were in an area of the city that looked like The Hill, below Cornell. Laundromats, semi-seedy bars, organic lunch counters. Finally we pull into the parking lot. I've never seen this bookstore before. Denise says, "I have a bad feeling about this." Ominous music as we make our way to the front door.
The manager meets us. She's very apologetic. Seems this is the Well Known Bookstore's brand-new satellite store. We were booked in here because another author is at the Well Known Bookstore, right now. Denise and I look at the counter, the tables, the wall next to the door, where, conspicuous by its absence, there is no indication that we are signing tonight. Nothing. Nada. There are seven people in the store, all of them twenty years younger than Denise and I. Five of them are wifi'ing on their laptops in the cafe.
"This store is intended for the campus crowd," the manager explains. That would explain the prominent positioning of Camus and Derrida on the front table. "We actually only sell used books right now. But we're hoping to get into new books soon!" She leads us to the back, where our books await signing.
There are seven. Each. I have three hardcovers and four paperbacks. Denise has four hardcovers and three paperbacks. We sign them, smiling. We accept the manager's offer of a pistachio soy latte with a demi-glace from the cafe, smiling. We shake the manger's hand and get hercard, smiling. Then we leave the store.
Denise grabs the keys and heads for the trunk of the rental car. "What are you doing?" I ask.
"I'm checking to see if someone left a semi-automatic weapon back here," she says. "I want to take it, and go back inside, and kill everyone in the store."
No comments:
Post a Comment