Sold one Schiz.
The buyer was a middle-aged, keeps-to-himself-at-the-cafe mathematician. He said he’d bought a Cheesesteak, but, to tell you the truth, I’d forgotten. I’m still not sure I believe him. Maybe he wanted a cover story to justify picking up something as trigger-jerking as this one. Or maybe I’ve benefited from my recent goodwill networking.
Safeway, next door, is coming to the end of its annual Monopoly game, and, instead of sticking to its one-ticket-per-$10-purchase policy, is handing out entire boxes. Many of these tickets come with tabs entitling the bearer to free (donuts, gravy mix, bottled water, aspirin) or discounted (bacon, paper towels, cookies) stuff, and I’ve been handing them out like Johnny Appleseed. (The game, itself, has prizes up to $1 million. Adele and I, after putting in about, oh, 50 hours, have won $5.)
Actually, my books have been moving so slowly, I’ve taken a more aggressive approach at expanding my name-recognition. For instance, a fellow in Philly e-mailed me because he’d read my blog “Notes on Camp,” from 2014 and was now the director of the one which had taken over mine 60 years ago (He’d also graduated my high school 28 years after me) and wanted to learn more about me. So I sent him a Cheesesteak, fantasizing about the legions of ex-campers he might tout it to.
Then a friend sent me notice of an exhibit of photographs of historic West Philadelphia at a gallery at 40th and Walnut, a half-block from an apartment he and I’d shared 1964-5. I e-mailed the photographer offering a Cheesesteak, imagining he might want to incorporate a stack of them as an installation and/or sell them on consignment at the gift shop. He ignored me, but I sent him a copy anyway.
Sold one Schiz.