Sold one “Cheesesteak.”

I was sitting outside the French, waiting for a visit from B, when H walked by. I had been counting on him for a sale since we had discussed self-publishing when it was just a gleam in the eye. But he had disappeared about the time my book appeared. I thought he’d moved, but he had only been boycotting the café because the new owners had instituted a mini-dress code on the barristas. (It’s Berkeley, after all.) Anyway, I had a copy in the trunk of the Honda and he bought it.

By then B had arrived, but before we could begin catching up, who should appear but S. She had been a friend of ours (mainly Adele’s) before moving to Marin 20 years ago. We had recently re-connected when I’d joined Facebook. She had her won book out, and we’d agreed to swap. She had hers with her, but I’d sold H mine, so I bought hers and she agreed to buy mine. In fact, she liked the idea of selling books at the café so much, she said she’d bring a stack, tell all her East Bay friends, and we could sell our books together.

I made progress at Amazon (See last week’s report) and now have ONE copy listed there. If it moves, I guess I now know how to list another, so I’ll be able to proceed one-at-a-time.

And while my POB has remained a dry hole, book-wise, it did land coupons from Andonico’s, which could save us $40 on groceries, which is more than paying for itself.

In other news, I’ve paid the printer for “The Schiz,” stocked up on bubble mailers and stamps (I’m going Wonder Woman), and sent a feeler to the cafe’s management about holding a Book Launch party there. Next project: on-line book reviews.

CHEESESTEAK: $20. Spruce Hill Press. POB 9492, Berkeley 94709.
Other Books: www.theboblevin.com

Encounters
As I was leaving the post office I ran into L. When I had spent the week here in June 1968 which cemented our futures together (See p. 95 of “Cheesesteak,” available for $25, from Spruce Hill Press, POB 9492, Berkeley 94709), we had out poignant parting dinner before I returned to Chicago at the Chinese restaurant L owned on Shattuck Avenue. When I had my office in Berkeley, I ate chicken chow fun there, usually once a week.
Following her divorce, L sold the restaurant. I’d seen her a few time since but not in several years. We kissed cheeks, discussed arthritis (hers), cardio problems (mine), dry rot (mutual), and six grandchildren (also hers). Then we parted, having, I suspect, making each of us feel better that here we both still were.
I had barely resumed my seat at the café when a woman entered whom I also thought I recognized. For a brief time, in the late nineties or early oughts, I saw her as another customer in the back room or, even more briefly, working the register of what-I-call-in-my-writings (See, for instance, “Fully Armed,” available from www.theboblevin.com) “Café Frenzy.” She was Mexican, maybe a Berkeley City College student, and strikingly attractive, with thick, below-shoulder-length black hair. She never acknowledged my stares. I never spoke to her beyond, when she was at the register, “Short double espresso” and “Thank you.”
She was putting a top on her to-go cup when I said, “Excuse me, but…”
She was surprised – and pleased – to be remembered. “How are you?” she said, even though she could not have remembered me. “I have a 10-year-old son.”
I recalled her hair. “And then you cut it.”
“Oh,” she said, “I cut it so short.”
“Bob,” I said, extending my hand.
“R,” she said.
Her grip was firm.

Later I thought about her mention of her son. I thought who she may have been at 20, being stared at by men in back rooms, not knowing where her future would lead. This son, I thought, signified a pride and self-assurance and attainment she could not have been sure would ever be hers.
I was glad I had spoken