Here is a Lydia Davis story:

HER BIRTHDAY
105 years old
she wouldn’t be alive today
even if she hadn’t died
…
why is this a story you may very well ask
why isn’t this another one

Sold one “Cheesesteak.” Its cover caught the eye of a fellow at the café, an ex-Berkeley High teacher, who was from Conshohocken and graduated Temple, ’62. He balked at the price, but I threw in a “Huge,” and we were cool.

In other news, a) it looks like we’re a “Go” with Milo’s distributor pal. “The Schiz” will be in his company’s fall catalog — and maybe “Cheesesteak” too. So coming soon to a store near you… (But to avoid the rush, you may order both — and other of Bob’s books now — from this very web site.)

And b) the ten lucky winners of the “Cheesesteak” lottery at Goodreads have been announced. (There were 690 entries, and the over/under — well, there is no “under” — on how many heartbroken losers will now order a copy they must pay for is Zero.) Statistical analysis shows one was male and nine were female. They reside in nine states. (Texas had two.) Mostly they came from cities I had not heard of. (The biggest were Talahassee, Corpus Christi, and Columbus, OH.) Mostly they read, like, James Patterson and Steven King. The youngest was 20 and he oldest not within a decade of me.(The over/under on how many of my previous books the winners had read is Zero too.)

I inscribed each copy “Thanks for the interest. Enjoy.” I included my card/e-mail address in each. I look forward to any responses.

The Vietnam vet who had installed the garage door had disappeared. Miguel, who had fixed the door the last time, had quit the business. The woman at the 877 number took the information and said someone would call him within the hour and the job would be done within four. When he called back two hours late, the woman said she would put him through to the dispatcher. The dispatcher wanted to confirm he was Levy Robin. Robin Levy said that was not so. The dispatcher wanted to confirm he lived in Kipplefinger, California. Robin Levy said that was not so. The dispatcher said he would put him through to his supervisor. The phone rang 15 times before an electronic voice said there was no room for additional messages. When he called back, the woman said she would have someone call him immediately. An hour later, when he and his wife walked past the answering machine they saw that someone had called on the number he had told them not to call and that because of emergencies, no one could come until tomorrow.

[Bob Levin’s books are available from this very web site.]

Sold a “Huge” to a musician/impresario pal at the café. (“Doesn’t pull any punches, does it?” he said.) Shipped a “Cheesesteak” to the younger brother of a high school classmate. I’d sent her a freebie but she wanted to pay for it. “Okay,” I said, “but I’ll send another to someone as a gift. How ’bout Nelson?” Shipped a “Schiz” to a director/writer/teacher pal in LA who said he’d finally sent me the check he’d been meaning to. Shipped another to a musician/writer pal in NYC who’d mailed me and envelope that had been lying on his desk so long that, he scrawled on the outside, he’d forgotten what was in it. A check was what.

In other news, I spoke with the distributor with whom Milo had connected. He seems willing to include “The Schiz” in his fall catalog of new releases; but, he warned, there will be problems, like shipping and payments taking forever and stores not wanting to order it since it isn’t technically “new,” even though it’s never been in stores. Plus, Milo says, we shouldn’t send out review copies until the book is in stores, as opposed to, say, getting the book reviewed so stores will want to stock it.

Don’t ask me. It’s all a learn-by-stumbling-through-the-dark-banging-into-walls-while-smiling-goofily-whistling-a-happy-tune kinda thing to me.

When I was new to FB, it suggested as someone I “May Know” an attractive brunette with extremely large bazooms. Our connection was not readily apparent, so I clicked on her name and learned only her hometown and that she had only one other “Friend,” another woman with large bazooms. Since I knew someone in her hometown, I recommended him to her as a friend and alerted him to watch out for her. “Bob,” he replied, “she isn’t real.”

A week ago, I received a Friend request from an attractive blonde. Her bazooms were not in evidence; in fact she seemed preppishly dressed enough to be Socially Registered. She had no friends either, but she self-reportedly lived in NYC and worked for UNICEF. What the hell, I thought.

I accepted her request. I asked why she wished to be my Friend. Was it, I wondered, my literary output, the sense of mystery and danger registered in my home page photograph, the wit and pith of my posts in this very forum.

She enigmatically answered, “Where are you from?”

I mulled this over. Since my city of residence was evident, I said, “Philadelphia, originally. You?”

She (seemingly) mulled this over, replying some days later. “I am American.”

“Your syntax,” I said, after further consideration, “doesn’t seem to be.”

“Ok,” she said, a day and a half after that. Perhaps she was busy with UNICEF.

Then 12 days later, she said, “Hello.”

“Ok,” I replied.

“Good,” she said. That took her eight hours to arrive at.

“Hello,” I said, five hours afterwards.

“How are you doing?” she inquired the following morning.

“Ok,” I said, the following afternoon. “You?”

“Same Ok,” she said.

Then “Where are you now?” she asked this morning.