Sold two copies of “The Schiz.” One went to a woman in my high school class. One was to the woman at the health club whom it had reminded of Nathanel West. She intended it as a Christmas present for a nephew, whom she believed would like it.
“He’s a professor of philosophy…,” she explained.
Ah, I thought, always eager to gain insight into who might constitute my audience.
“…and he’s six-foot-six…,” she continued.
Hmmm, I thought.
“…and he collects typewriters.”
“Which book of mine did you want, exactly?” I said.
People have continued to express regrets about missing the launch party. One had his conversational French class. One had an HOA meeting. One arrived after everyone had left. Too late, Milo suggested my reply should be, “Sorry you couldn’t attend. But copies remain. How many would you like?”
Sometimes when I sit in the café with my “Buy Bob’s Books” sign beside my wares, I feel like a small shopkeeper looking hopefully out the door while potential customers walk by with no one stepping in.