The chain bookstore, not far from Boston, was located in a large mall, the sort where you can buy everything under the sun and nothing that any sensible member of our species could conceivably need or might actually want. I could find only one vacant parking space—right in front of the bookstore, as it happened. And glory be, as I heaved down upon it in the clanking old Loser Cruiser, hunkered behind the steering wheel in my ancient Red Sox jacket and cap, the once red “B” above the bill long since faded to the same rusty hue as my car, right in the middle of the parking slot I spotted a stand-alone sign: AUTHOR’S EVENT TODAY. THIS SPACE RESERVED FOR HOWARD FRANK MOSHER.
Leaving the Cruiser running—the remnants of the wired-on exhaust system sounded as loud as a jet engine through the crevasse in the floor under the brake pedal—I got out to move the sign.
Out from the big-box store, at a purposeful clip, came a young gentleman in a black suit, black necktie, and highly polished black shoes. Around his neck hung an ID badge proclaiming him to be the manager. Good Jesus! The guy was a dead ringer for a painting I’d seen recently of Genghis Khan in his twenties.
“Hey!” he called out. “That sign is there for a reason.”
“What’s the reason?” I said.
“Read the sign. We’ve got an author coming this afternoon. That place is reserved.”
I pretended to study the sign. “I’ll get right out of here,” I said.
“Well, you’d better,” said the Scourge of the Steppes. “Can’t you read?”
I hopped back into my thundering car, pulled out of my designated parking spot, flashed the chain-store manager a thumbs-up, and drove around behind the mall, parking beside a large green Dumpster.
“I’m not telling you what to do, Howard,” said Uncle Reg. “But I can tell you what I’d do in this situation.”
I was sure I knew exactly what he would do in this situation, and it would not be pretty. Then again, I wasn’t my uncle. I removed my baseball cap and jacket and made my way on foot around to the front of the store, where the child Genghis was worriedly looking at his watch.
“He isn’t here yet?” I said. “Your author?”
The guy shook his head. “Sometimes they don’t show up at all. You wouldn’t believe how high-handed some of these writers are.”
I realized that not only did my corporate friend not recognize me as his author—he hadn’t even connected me with the poor apparitional dummy in the Loser Cruiser.
I gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I imagine your writer will be here any minute,” I said, and headed in to do my event at the first and last chain bookstore on my itinerary. This was starting to be fun, and I wasn’t even out of New England yet.