Sold a “Lollipop.”
The buyer, a 30-something fellow wore a Tigers baseball cap but was not from Detroit. He just liked that shade of blue. An “events producer,” he worked the A/V side of things. He had come to the café with his wife and two small children, the oldest of which, a boy of eight, he described as an avid reader of graphic novels. I thought and thought but could not come up with any of my works that might suit his preferences.
Also had an engaging conversation with a retired elementary school teacher who looked over my books but bought none. She had come down from Lake County, four hours away, to (a) see her physical therapist and (b) pick up a pair of shoes she had left for repair. She had wisps of white hair peeking out from under a knit cap, rimless glasses, and an eye that was half-closed at all times. She relied on an empty shopping cart to keep her balance.
“I usually use a cane,” she said, “but it’s in my trunk under 50 bricks.”
“Why are you riding around with 50 bricks in your trunk?” I quite reasonably asked.
“To keep the gophers from popping out of their tunnels in my garden.”
When she turned out to be three-years younger than me, I was shocked.
But the big news has been the arrival of “Bob on Bob.” I sold six copies at the café the first day, eight the second, and one the third, with the assistance of a new sign (“NEW” written across a lightbulb) in full color, drawn by Fran. The buyers were a classical musician (two copies), a 94-year-old grandmother, (“I knew Susie Rotolo’s parents in the Village. Her mother used to tell Susie Bob would never amount to anything”), an abstract expressionist painter, recently burnt out of his studio, who knew Franz Kline at the Cedar Tavern, another writer (two copies), my high school yearbook co-editor (two copies), a therapist, another therapist, a retired nurse, a retired UC administrator, a retired UC electrician, and a basketball pal.
Sold a “Lollipop.”