“Something concerns me,” the Director of Marketing of the health club said.
I was sitting on the couch kittie-corner to the office he had come out of. I was near the men’s and women’s locker rooms, with a stack of “Cheesesteak”s and a “Buy Bob’s Books!” sign on the table in front of me. I had sold seven copies there. It was my second best location.
“What if ‘Joe’ wants to offer tax advise?” the Director said. “What if ‘Mary’ wants to sell her pots? You see where I am going?”
I offered the club ten percent of my gross.
“The ownership,” the Director said, “frowns on commercial enterprises on its premises. Thank you for understanding.”
I had already put my sign away. I was surprised I had gotten away with it for this long. A tri-athlete had told me she had been forbidden from selling the pain relief ointment she smuggles in from Germany when she competes overseas.
I left one book out. “What if I’m reading a copy and someone asks about it?”
“That would be fine,” the Director said.
And if I read it upsidedown, I thought, that should increase interest.