The Signing

It is just before five on a Saturday afternoon.  The author is scheduled for the five to six o’clock slot.  A fantasy writer had four to five so there is a gaggle of pierced and tattooed teenagers milling around who will soon disperse over to the music section looking for Indie and Goth bands.  A lady who wrote An Herbal Guide to Menopause will round out the signing session. 

              Liz Slocum is the assistant manager.  She welcomes the first time novelist and offers advice.  “You might want to make small talk with folks until quarter past and then do a reading or discussion.  If I see a mad rush, I’ll send someone over to help organize the chaos.” 

              Liz asks if the author needs water and wonders if Poland Spring is acceptable.  He is grateful.  She is a short, squat woman with several lanyards around her neck to signify her status in the store’s hierarchy.  She strikes him as a take-charge person.  If anything happened to the manager, she would call a brief staff meeting, praise her predecessor, then offer up a few changes in the way things are to be done around here from here on in. 

              For his outfit he has chosen what his wife calls “early Dan Brown” of Da Vinci Code fame--tan slacks, a black turtleneck and a muted gold, Harris Tweed jacket.  He arranges a dozen copies of his novel on the signing desk.  It would be too imposing to sit behind it so he chooses informality and leans against the side.  The so-called writer’s nook is really a box canyon of shelves, the desk at the dead end and a few dozen folding chairs blocking any forward escape. 

              At ten after five there are still no visitors.  He studies the large poster advertising the signing.  His portrait is stilted, posed.  It is the same one used for the book jacket.  He looks too professorial.  All that is lacking is an ascot and pipe.  He cringes momentarily because he is wearing the same jacket and turtleneck as the photo.  But then he sees that this has a good side.  He will never have to waste time figuring out what to wear. 

              An elderly man with a ten year-old in tow comes up. 

              “My grandson reads this fantasy stuff and wants to know where he can get the first two books, right Anthony.”

              Anthony has already recognized the error of the situation and tries to pull away.

              “He’s as smart as a whip but shy about meeting you.  Once you get him going on Yoda or Lord of the Rings there’s no stopping.”

              The author explains the obvious, advises checking with the assistant manager for any leftover, signed copies.  The grandfather is apologetic; he should have read the poster and there was traffic on 101 by the overpass.  He starts to leave.

              “You anybody famous?’

              The author explains that this is his first book but some short stories have appeared in literary reviews.  He thinks about mentioning an O’Henry and Pushcart award but catches himself.  The grandfather picks up the novel and reads the back cover.

              “So you’re from Vermont.  When they were younger we took our kids up to a marble quarry in Proctor; Townshend anywhere near there?”

              The author explains that Townshend is northwest of Brattleboro.  The grandfather puts the book down.

              “I’m partial to history myself.  Kenneth Roberts’ Northwest Passage was terrific.  They even made it into a movie.  You get your money’s worth with history writers.  To shell out $21.95 for just under three hundred pages in soft bound is too rich for my blood.  Nice cover though.”

              There is a handshake and good luck on selling the book.  The interlude killed ten minutes and, more importantly, attracted two customers who sit on opposite ends of the last row.  He walks back to them and asks if they have any questions about the novel he can answer.  Both shake their heads no.  He wonders if they write.  Each nods “yes” and the one nearest him slips a manuscript out of a tote bag emblazoned with a public television logo

              “I was wondering if you could give this to your agent and publisher.  There are two copies and my name’s on the title page.  If you have any questions, I’m local.”  She thanks him and bustles away.

              Her twin remains seated so he walks over to her. 

              “Do you have a book also?”

              “I write but keep it strictly to myself.   My husband has seen me naked upside down to sideways, but I never show him what I write.  That was Laura Hopkins.  She gives everybody who comes here a copy of the drivel she grinds out.  They have a writer’s group at the library that meets on Tuesdays.  I never go, but Kelly Sizemore tells me what goes on; Queen of the slush pile is what they call her.  Are you going to read a passage?”

              The question takes him by surprise.  It is ludicrous to stand thirty feet from a person and read his book.  But, if he doesn’t do it, what would become of his reputation.  While he considers how ridiculous the book-selling process is, she speaks up.

              “Does the library have your book?”

              “It just came out so I don’t think so.  Maybe if you requested a copy they’d order it for their collection.”

              She gets up, goes up to the small desk and takes down the publishing information she needs.  She puts the notebook back in her purse and walks back to him. 

              “What does ‘picaresque’ mean?”

              “It’s a literary style.  Huck Finn and Don Quixote use it.  A character just has a series of adventures with no real thread to the plot.”

              “I take it from the blurbs there’s lots of sex, crude language and violence.”

              “It’s not for all readers. There are plenty of literary references but it would never be assigned in a high school classroom.  Any movie would have an “R” rating.”

              She doesn’t respond, but there is enough judgment in her body language to let him know that he would be in a circle of hell just above Laura Hopkins. He makes his way back to the desk, drinks some water, grabs a copy of his own book and opens it.  He re-reads the opening paragraph he’d slaved over for days.  He reads the next four pages from the moral prospective of the woman who just left.  He gives up and starts leafing through the book.  He pauses on page 139 and reads a few lines until something jumps out at him.  A sentence makes no sense.  There is a comma missing and possibly a word.  He is sure he found every typing mistake.  Christ!  Errors like this were like cockroaches; if you spot one there are certain to be more.  Patting his pockets for a pen, he marks the spot and decides to spend the rest of the time looking for other gaffes. 

              “Excuse me.”

              Her voice startles him. 

              “Excuse me.  I see you’re not busy and was wondering if you’d watch my little boy while I use the ladies room?”

              Before he can answer the boy is standing by his side.  “Eric, I want you to stay with this nice young man.  Mommy will be right back.”  She addresses the writer over her shoulder as she trots off.  “He is very bright for five.”

The boy picks up the author’s novel and looks at the front cover.  He takes two more and compares them.

              “How come you have all these books the same?”

              “I wrote it.  I’m here because some people might want to buy it, and they like to have the writer sign it.”

              “That’s stupid.  My friend Kevin’s dad knew a guy from his work that got Tom Brady to sign a football.”  As he speaks he picks up a copy of the novel, grips the pen childishly in his fist and starts scribbling on the inside of front cover.  “That’s how I write my name.  I can block print it too.”  He makes an oversized “E” before the writer yanks the pen and book from him.  The boy looks shocked and begins to wrinkle up, tears at the ready.  The writer reaches over to the shelf behind him and pulls an oversized book from several.  It is Jacques Pepin’s Food and Wine of Province.  He gives the pen back.

“If you want to draw, sit over there and use this book.”

              Eric cradles the oversized book with both hands, goes to a folding chair, barely able to hold the tome on his knees as he begins “autographing” each page.  In a few minutes his mother comes back, thanking the writer from twenty feet away.  She asks a few polite questions, offers up that her sister is the reader in the family before she notices what her son is up to.

              “Eric! What are you doing?”

              She sprints over to him.  “Oh my god, that’s a ninety dollar book.  What got into you?”  She rescues the book from a surprised Eric who had evidently been expecting praise for his handiwork.  She looks back at the writer still leaning against the desk.

              “You were supposed to watch him!  What’s wrong with you?  Didn’t you see what he was doing?  I’m not paying for this.  And whose pen is this?”

              She holds his pen out as if it were a flaccid penis.  “You gave a five year old an expensive book and a pen!  Are you nuts?”

              Her voice is raised.  He spies Liz over at customer service, lifting her head to see what the fuss was about.  He gives her a friendly wave.  Like a grazing animal she returns to the placid world behind the counter.  Eric is dragged by the arm down the aisle straight towards the exit.  The writer utters a sigh of relief, picks up “Jacques” and neatly replaces him on the shelf.  He swings around to find a young girl leafing through his book.  She is very tall and has developed a slouch to make her look shorter.  She is thin, gangly, wears braces that seem to make it difficult for her to swallow and has glasses that only her grandmother would think stylish.

              “Hi, I’m Sandy Mossburg.  I’m going to be a sophomore, but they are letting me be editor of the school paper.  We don’t really do much creative writing, but I did stuff for Mr. Burnside’s class.  Do you write poetry?”

              “I’m strictly literary fiction.”

              “I was over there shopping for my summer reading list and felt sorry for you.  No one seems to show up at these things.  I don’t know why the store even has them.  How much do they pay you?”

              “My publisher sends me a list of places to go.  This is my first one, and I’m not looking forward to the next one.”

              “You should have friends come.  I read where politicians do that all the time.  They even know the questions before-hand.  I can’t drive, but, if I could, I’d get some of the people on the paper or in the band at my school to fill up the seats.  I play the French horn.  If you want I could be your audience stooge. ”

              “This really isn’t a book for teens; a bit too much sex, Dostoyevsky and violence.” 

              She blushes a little at sex and is puzzled by the Russian reference. “Where are you going next?”

              “There’s a Toadstool Bookstore outlet in Keene.  I think that’s my next stop, middle of next week some time.”

              It is nearing six.  She is nice.  He thinks about giving her a copy of the novel to review for her paper, but, if her parents or teachers got hold of it, there might be hell to pay.  Three older women come in and occupy the first row, getting a jump on the herbal lady crowd.  Two more are in a holding pattern down range waiting to pounce.

              “I wish you well on your writing, Sandy.  I’m tempted to say that sticking with the French horn is a more lucrative career option.”

              “Do you have an e-mail address?  Maybe I could write you sometimes, like pen pals.”

              He grabs a book from the pile, turns to page 139, rips it out and writes his e-mail address on it.  Her jaw drops as he hands her the paper.

              “There’s a mistake on this page.  You’ll see it right off.  I don’t know what I can do about it.”

              “But you ruined a perfectly good book!”  She is almost in tears.  It is as if he drowned a kitten in front of her. 

              “I’m really not crazy about this novel. There are errors which render it senseless.  I’m working on something else that will be better.  This whole book publicity and signing deal is asinine.”

              “I save everything I write.  I would kill to be where you are.  When I get to be famous, some university will get my notes and study them.  You should respect your creations more.”

              A woman with enormous hips covered in brightly flowered material and loaded down with two shopping bags has moved to his right.  Something leafy peeks out of one bag.  He sees Liz pushing a dolly filled with the herbal lady’s books as she threads her way through the aisles towards him.  He picks up the dozen or so copies of his book, stacks them neatly and holds the sacrificial offering out to the young maid. 

              “Here, they are yours to do with as you wish.”

              The girl is stunned, loses her grip on the slippery cover surfaces and an avalanche begins.  He helps her round up the strays.

              “But I thought this was an adult book.’

              “I don’t know what anything is anymore. Tell the people at the front desk to bill my publisher.”  As he weaves his way through the chairs, he nods to the menopause audience, wondering if there are any herbs that could counteract his malaise at this stage of life.

D. E. Fredd lives in Townsend, Massachusetts.  He has had fiction and poetry appear in several literary journals and reviews.  He received the Theodore Hoepfner Award given by the Southern Humanities Review for the best short fiction of 2005.  A novel, Exiled to Moab, will debut in the Spring of 2007.  He teaches Writing and Literature at New Hampshire Community Technical College.