Jim Thompson, �The Transgressors�
Jim Thompson with a happy ending. I�m not sure I�m ready to deal with that.
Actually, I�m not sure I�m ready to deal with a lot of things. Such as my impending stardom. No wonder so many authors are reclusive. Sheesh!
I sent out an e-mail to about 60 people about the release party for my book, and put the ad on places like Friendster and the Bro Board, which would probably only connect to the same people who got my original e-mail. Then I made a lot of jokes about how nobody would show up.
Then the e-mails started to trickle in, most saying they wouldn�t be able to make it. I figured as much. But soon after, I got a few e-mails from people saying they were showing up � and I figured they were lying. I decided my best bet was to try and sell these things to people at the bars and tried that tactic, but only sold six copies in a week�s time.
The night before the reading, I ran into an old classmate who told me she was going AND bringing three friends. �Good!� I said, �that means they�ll be three people there!�
On the day of the reading something happened. The e-mails had dried up. We had put 5:30 on the flyers, knowing that we wouldn�t start until 6:00 because punks are notoriously late. I know this from first hand experience. After all, Gilman Street re-christened PTL, our first band, from �Preachers That Lie,� to �People That Lag� because we could never show up on time.
At five o�clock, the girl I saw the night before walked in with one friend. So it looked liked there would actually be two people there. They went to get coffee when I told them it wouldn�t really start until 6:00. I figured they wouldn�t be back.
Craig showed up with the infamous Kate, she of ten million Your Mother songs, so I thought this would be like the many times our bands had played together � we would perform for our girlfriends and each other.
And then 5:30 rolled around. People started streaming in the front door. Some I knew, most I didn�t, but they were all there for the reading. All of the sudden, I was nervous. My boss showed up, relieving me from my counter jockey post, so I went outside to play reclusive author. But more people kept coming, many of them people I knew. More handshaking, more hugs, more feeling of being uncomfortable for whatever reason.
My girlfriend appeared in a brilliant tiny skirt, knowing that I was going to read a passage that said, �I don�t know who invented the skirt, but I�ll bet dollars to donuts that it was a man. Regardless, to whomever did invent the concept of skirts � thank you. No really. Thanks. I can�t thank you enough.�
So now I�m nervous and horny. Wonderful.
I smoke my cigarette, my arm around my girlfriend. My mind is reeling so much that when a car pulled into a nearby driveway and started honking its horn, gesturing for me to come over, I didn�t know what to think. With so many people asking about the reading, I figured it was yet another person asking where to park. I walked up to the truck, and a Mexican guy rolled down his window, grinning broadly at me.
�Hi,� he said, teeth flashing.
�Hi,� I replied.
I stood in front of his passenger window, him still grinning at me.
A half a minute passed. He held out his hand.
�I�m Jose,� he said, taking my hand.
�Hi,� I said again.
The pause continued.
�That your girlfriend?� he asked, pointing toward my incredibly hot girlfriend in her short skirt and high boots. Suddenly, it all clicked.
�Yeah, and she�s not a hooker,� I said, walking away suddenly.
�Just for a little while?� he yelled after me.
This ought to prove how nervous I was, just for the fact that I couldn�t think of anything to say. Jezum Crow, the missed opportunities! I could�ve said something like, �You realize she�s really a man, right?� or �for two hundred dollars she�ll make your asshole rumble like a volcano.� I could�ve said I was Officer Friendly, Vice Squad and ordered him out of the car and impounded his vehicle! Instead I say, �yeah, and she�s not a hooker.�
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Instead my girlfriend and I go back inside. The room where the reading is supposed to take place is packed. Neither Craig nor I have any idea about how we should begin this, and to compensate for it we both mill around talking to people. Six o�clock hits and neither Craig nor I make any attempt to begin, both of us actually edging away from the side room where the reading is to take place. Finally, one of my co-workers grabs me forcefully and drags me past the crowd, shouting, �Here he is! Here he is!� practically throwing me into the cat tree that is to serve as our lecturn.
Craig goes first, giving a little insight on how the book came about, which is good as I hadn�t thought of anything to say, or what the hell I was going to do. He reads three short passages while I stand next to him looking like a total idiot. He finishes much too soon and hands me the copy of the book and steps to the side.
I hadn�t even marked the point that I planned to read from, so I mumble a few words that go something like, �Uhhh, I went to England. This spawned from that time, though I�ve changed the names.� I find my place and start to read.
I�ve never particularly liked my voice, and I know from experience that I tend to race through the words when I have to read aloud in front of a group. I also seem to have a problem with remembering to breathe. But I start, and the crowd laughs at the appropriate points, and there are a lot of these appropriate points. I start to relax.
That is, until I realize that the section I�ve picked is significantly lengthy. Seven pages doesn�t seem like much until you read it aloud. I go from standing in front of the crowd to leaning on the cat tree, finally sitting on the corner as I drone on and on, wondering if there�s a way I can edit stuff out, which I can�t because the passage I picked has a circular theme.
But the crowd is still laughing. I look up at one point and make eye contact with some members of the crowd, remembering my classes in public speaking. But I quickly revert to the book when I see how many people are actually there. I have to not wince when I read over three errors in the portion I�m reading.
Finally I finish and it gets a big laugh, so I�m thinking the applause isn�t just because I finally shut the fuck up.
The store exploded with people, many trying to grab Craig or myself to talk with us, despite the fact there was now a line of people buying the book at the register and they had set up a table for us to sign copies. We slink though the mass of people and sit at the table, immediately descended on all sides by people who want us to sign their copies.
I now have a new respect for people in these signing lines, as it�s impossible to think in this chaos. Several people who asked for a signature � people who I had already thought of what I would write on their copy if they were to buy one � got a lame generic signature with an inscription that said something like, �thanks for encouraging my behavior.� Some even got their copy inscribed with, �See you next year � K.I.T!� I�m surprised I didn�t write, �no, she�s not a hooker,� though I think that would have been better than some of the drivel I did write.
And it still hasn�t let up. One of my co-workers, a girl who has previous major chain bookstore experience, points to the display of my book to nearly everybody who comes in, gesturing at me while I�m working. I have no idea how to react when she does that. I�m not a salesman. I�m not a celebrity. I�m just a guy who spends too much time typing. Besides, when my mom saw a copy and saw the front cover, she pitched a fit.
�Sometimes I don�t understand you,� she said, �Why would you put that picture on the cover?� (The picture is on the top left side of this page, geniuses.) �I wouldn�t buy something like that,� she continued. �Nobody would want to buy something like that! Why would you think killing an animal is funny?�
It got worse when she opened the book and saw I had included my actual e-mail address (which reads in part, arrghfuckkill). �All that�s going to do is turn people off!� she said.
I tried to explain she didn�t like the movie Clerks for the same reasons and Kevin Smith is rich as fuck, but she cut me off, and kicked me out of the house.
So now my co-worker is trying to sell my book to a decrepit woman with an arm-full of romance novels. And she succeeds. I�m envisioning this woman coming in two days later and throwing my book at my head while making signs of the cross.
But, surprise, surprise, it is selling. I�ve sold over 60 copies in two weeks without really trying, and without selling many to my close circle of friends, whom I�m pretty sure can�t read. (There are plenty more, so feel free to order.) But I still can�t get over the shyness factor to try and sell my own book.
But I can�t whore out my girlfriend either, so I guess it�s not just from false modesty.
