there we were. This girl’s horn-rims were purely ornamental. There was no magnification in the glass.
I gave her the best smile I could manage with a head full of sleepless confusion and said, “I’ve never seen it in a bookstore before. Then I saw it in the window, and—”
“I just read it,” the girl said. “It was wonderful.” Her voice was very firm. I wondered if it would be as firm if she were talking to V. C. Andrews. V. C. Andrews doesn’t know the difference between the English language and a banana split.
The girl was kneeling on the avocado green carpet, pulling copies of my book from the drawer in the side of the display table.
“If you have a minute, it would really help if you signed some of these,” she said. “In this neighborhood they like them signed if we can get them signed. We have signed copies of the Krantz book, of course, because we always have signed copies of the Krantz book, we always give her a party, but if you have a minute—”
She thrust ten copies of my book into my arms. She picked up twice that many for herself.
“If you sign them on the title page,” she said, “we can’t return them. It’s as good as a sale.” She grinned.
I grinned back. “Why doesn’t PR tell me these things?”
“Oh,” she waved a hand in the air. “PR.”
I know an ally when I see one. I hooked the books under my arms. “If you’ve got a place for me to sit,” I said.
She was already halfway across the carpet to the back of the store. “We have a little office,” she said. “I can give you some coffee. All you have to do is sign your name. Then when people come in asking for them inscribed”—she made the word sound like bad Park Avenue French for something unprintable—“I can give them some of these.” She pushed open a heavy metal door and held it until I walked through. “Anybody stupid enough to pay half a million dollars for a one-bedroom apartment,” she said, “is stupid enough to feel superior about a signature.”
The office was small and cramped and functional, with a rickety little desk and a minuscule chair wedged between unsteady piles of books. At least half the books were paperbacks. At least 90 percent of the paperbacks were romances. There was an overflowing green tin ashtray on a bookshelf above my head. I took it down, lit a cigarette, and dropped the match among the butts.
“Just your name,” the girl said again. “If it was before publication, I’d have you date them, but that’s the only kind of date these people want. Like other people will see the book on the coffee table and pick it up and read the date and think the guy who owns it has some kind of in.”
“I could always backdate it,” I said.
“Whatever for?”
“It would be nice if you actually sold some of these things. I’d like to be read, for God’s sake.”
The girl dismissed this with another wave. “These people don’t read,” she said. “I mean, they do, but they read trashy paperback originals. I mean, I like trashy paperback originals. Even so. These people pick up three impressive-looking hardcovers and a dozen Phoebe Damereaux and pretend the Damereaux are for their invalid mothers. If you know what I mean.”
“I know Phoebe Damereaux,” I said. “Long may she wave.”
“Yeah,” the girl admitted. “She’s pretty good. And she’s in hardcover now, so I suppose she doesn’t count. But you see what I’m saying.”
I said I did and started signing books. I was very tired. My signature looked like a secret code for the mining of Haiphong Harbor. In Vietnamese.
“What I heard,” I told her, “is nobody’s reading romance novels any more.”
“Nobody’s reading the lines,” she nodded emphatically, making a wild gesture at the towers of paperbacks surrounding us. “Look at these returns. God, you should see the kind of trouble we have with those. Sabotage. I’m not kidding.”
“Sabotage?”
“With the dumps. You know, the display
I gave her the best smile I could manage with a head full of sleepless confusion and said, “I’ve never seen it in a bookstore before. Then I saw it in the window, and—”
“I just read it,” the girl said. “It was wonderful.” Her voice was very firm. I wondered if it would be as firm if she were talking to V. C. Andrews. V. C. Andrews doesn’t know the difference between the English language and a banana split.
The girl was kneeling on the avocado green carpet, pulling copies of my book from the drawer in the side of the display table.
“If you have a minute, it would really help if you signed some of these,” she said. “In this neighborhood they like them signed if we can get them signed. We have signed copies of the Krantz book, of course, because we always have signed copies of the Krantz book, we always give her a party, but if you have a minute—”
She thrust ten copies of my book into my arms. She picked up twice that many for herself.
“If you sign them on the title page,” she said, “we can’t return them. It’s as good as a sale.” She grinned.
I grinned back. “Why doesn’t PR tell me these things?”
“Oh,” she waved a hand in the air. “PR.”
I know an ally when I see one. I hooked the books under my arms. “If you’ve got a place for me to sit,” I said.
She was already halfway across the carpet to the back of the store. “We have a little office,” she said. “I can give you some coffee. All you have to do is sign your name. Then when people come in asking for them inscribed”—she made the word sound like bad Park Avenue French for something unprintable—“I can give them some of these.” She pushed open a heavy metal door and held it until I walked through. “Anybody stupid enough to pay half a million dollars for a one-bedroom apartment,” she said, “is stupid enough to feel superior about a signature.”
The office was small and cramped and functional, with a rickety little desk and a minuscule chair wedged between unsteady piles of books. At least half the books were paperbacks. At least 90 percent of the paperbacks were romances. There was an overflowing green tin ashtray on a bookshelf above my head. I took it down, lit a cigarette, and dropped the match among the butts.
“Just your name,” the girl said again. “If it was before publication, I’d have you date them, but that’s the only kind of date these people want. Like other people will see the book on the coffee table and pick it up and read the date and think the guy who owns it has some kind of in.”
“I could always backdate it,” I said.
“Whatever for?”
“It would be nice if you actually sold some of these things. I’d like to be read, for God’s sake.”
The girl dismissed this with another wave. “These people don’t read,” she said. “I mean, they do, but they read trashy paperback originals. I mean, I like trashy paperback originals. Even so. These people pick up three impressive-looking hardcovers and a dozen Phoebe Damereaux and pretend the Damereaux are for their invalid mothers. If you know what I mean.”
“I know Phoebe Damereaux,” I said. “Long may she wave.”
“Yeah,” the girl admitted. “She’s pretty good. And she’s in hardcover now, so I suppose she doesn’t count. But you see what I’m saying.”
I said I did and started signing books. I was very tired. My signature looked like a secret code for the mining of Haiphong Harbor. In Vietnamese.
“What I heard,” I told her, “is nobody’s reading romance novels any more.”
“Nobody’s reading the lines,” she nodded emphatically, making a wild gesture at the towers of paperbacks surrounding us. “Look at these returns. God, you should see the kind of trouble we have with those. Sabotage. I’m not kidding.”
“Sabotage?”
“With the dumps. You know, the display
Similar Books
