his car on Main Street in Huntington Village. He took out his memo pad containing a list of bookstores and checked the address one last time. It was the next to last entry on the paper. That meant he’d already stopped by seven other bookstores in the area. A flood of doubt washed over him. The terrible feeling that his father might have been right shook his confidence. Instead of trying to make a career out of writing, would he be better off driving full time for the cab company? It would be simple to add some more hours to the ones he already drove. He covered his ears as if he could still hear the echo of his father’s words in his head. “And if driving a cab ain’t good enough for my uppity son, he can learn to work with his hands and become a custodian like me.”
Being a writer was a tough profession, all right. Finding a publishing house that even bothered to read non-solicited manuscripts–those submitted by the author himself and not through an agent representing him–had been hard enough. Then, getting an agent to represent him had proved to be just as difficult as getting published. It was a catch-22. Agents wanted to pick up proven or published authors. And the publishing houses relied on the agents, who signed with published authors, to have already screened the better manuscripts.
Luckily, Charles’s book had been contracted by a small publishing house, but there had been no advance and he soon discovered that he had to publicize and market his own work. The task seemed indomitable at times.
Knowing he needed exposure to the public, Charles thought that a book signing would be a good way to start getting his name and face out there. He’d reasoned that booksellers would be happy to allow him to sign books in their store, because he’d be bringing in business with basically no cost to them. Even if he only sold one book, it would still be a sale they wouldn’t have had if he hadn’t been there signing.
He soon discovered many of the owners and managers of the book stores didn’t quite see things the way he did. When they told him their stores were too small and there was no place to set up a table, Charles made suggestions. However, those were countered with more excuses. His favorite excuse was, because he had signed with a small publishing house that relied on small, independent print firms to produce his books, it would be difficult to acquire his books in time. That in itself was a very lame excuse since no date for a signing had been given, so Charles couldn’t even argue that there was plenty of time. Talk about putting the cart in front of the horse. He was perceived as an unknown. Just as the unexplored New World had beckoned only the most daring explorers, it was going to take a brave bookseller willing to take the chance on having an unknown author sign.
Charles realized he was still sitting in the car. He suspected it was his way of delaying the inevitable. No matter what, he had to get out there and try. He didn’t have to reach too deep inside to rally himself. All he had to think about was failing and giving his father the opportunity to say, “I told you so.” If Charles didn’t believe in himself, why should anybody else? His book was good. With a little publicity, people would read it. And if they read it, they would like it. Besides, look how far he’d come in the first place. He couldn’t jump ship now–he might drown.
His resolution, though a little more tarnished, was back in place. Charles got out of his car and locked it. With his renewed resolve, he began to walk past the various stores that lined the street. His messenger bag bumped against his leg. Inside was a copy of his book, Gumshoe Blues. He prayed silently that the owner of Secondhand Prose would have a heart and allow him to have a book signing in the store. It would be such a wonderful little gesture for a struggling author like him.
Afraid his newly found fortitude might waver, he walked more quickly by the bakery, not slowing his pace until he passed the Sprint store, Mexican restaurant, printer, shoe store and bank, and reached the corner. The light was in his favor and he crossed the street, continuing on the other side without breaking stride. He put his long runner’s legs to work, remembering his track practice. His father had chided him because Charles had joined the varsity track team. “What’s the matter with playing a contact sport like basketball? You a sissy, boy?” Nothing he did ever pleased his father, who berated him for writing “fluff” and wanted Charles to write about African-American themes like those of Langston Hughes and Richard Wright. Charles wanted to have a broader reader base, appealing to all races.
Now he realized it didn’t matter what he wrote, if no one knew he even existed. One of Charles’s creative writing teachers in college, Mr. Phelps, once told him that all he needed to succeed as an author was one word–perseverance. Charles could now honestly say he understood why.
Standing in front of Secondhand Prose, he took one last breath, then pushed open the door. He entered and took a quick, nervous look around. The place had a warm, cozy feel to it, beckoning him to stay awhile and browse. The wooden shelving, containing its blend of old and new titles, gave the place a quaint look dating back to the early 50s when the bookstore probably first opened. The warm vibes gave him a good feeling–and hope.
Charles made his way to the register. A big woman with red hair swept up into a ponytail and large tortoise-shell glasses perched on her nose stood there watching him as she spoke on the phone. When he reached her, she held up a finger, indicating she’d be right with him. It took her only a minute or so to finish her conversation on the phone. She turned her attention to Charles.
“Can I help you find something?”
Just as Charles replied, “The manager, please,” the phone rang again and the woman answered it, spoke briefly and then hung up.
“Now was that a new or old book?”
The woman was smiling, but Charles couldn’t tell if she was putting him on. Had he spoken too quickly or hadn’t she heard what he said? He didn’t want to queer his chances by being rude or insinuating that she was an idiot, so he chose his next words wisely and spoke slowly.
“I’m sorry if I misled you. I’m not looking for a book. I’d like to speak to the manager or owner if he’s available.”
“Today’s your lucky day. You can speak to them both.”
“That’s great.”
The woman pressed a button on an intercom. “Abby, can you come up front?”
“Is she the owner?”
“Yes.”
Charles had second thoughts about going over the manager’s head. Usually they were the ones who really ran the businesses. “Wait. Don’t bother the owner. Ask the manager to come instead.”
“Okay. Not a problem.” Pressing the button for the intercom, she said, “Abby, I need you.”
“But, I just asked you to call the manager and not the owner,” Charles said, wondering why the woman was playing games with him.
“I did.”
“But, I distinctly heard you–” Charles began, his voice now strained.
“Can I help you?” someone asked behind him.
Charles turned to find a tall, nicely proportioned woman with soap scum covering her flushed face and clothes. Her blond hair was tumbling out in several directions from a hair-clip. At first, he’d been afraid that the crazy cashier had called the owner instead of the manager. Obviously, neither one was standing there in front of him. The ditsy redhead had called the cleaning lady to assist her. This was fast becoming a train wreck. He wanted to jump off before he became a casualty.
“I’m sorry if the cashier disturbed you. You’re obviously not the person I need.”
Charles
