‘The drowning man is not troubled by rain.’ Persian proverb
Any book event that begins with a near-death experience should be abandoned at once. I learned this lesson the hard way several years ago, when I inexplicably agreed to do a reading at a bookstore in a small town in Arkansas. Getting there required flying first to Memphis on a small, propeller-driven commuter aircraft, not ideally engineered for breaching heavy, low-altitude thunderstorms. The jolting turbulence yanked the earphones of my Sony Walkman off my head, just as a mountainous woman next to me began singing Bible hymns at the top of her lungs. The trip was so dreadful that the pilot insisted on apologizing to each of us personally after our very rough, but welcomed, landing.
Instead of bolting straight to the nearest bar, I idiotically climbed in a rental car for the long rainy drive to the bookstore. That leg of the journey also brought adventure as a tractor-trailer rig jack-knifed a mile or so ahead of me, rolled over and effectively blocked the interstate highway in both directions. At this point a sane person would have understood that God was trying to send a message; I, however, was on a mission to sell books. Blithely I steered at high speed off the pavement, dodging the mangled truck and motoring onward through the rotten weather.
Here I must backtrack to recall an important clue that I had foolishly overlooked. Months earlier, after agreeing to add the Arkansas event to my book tour, I had been asked in all earnestness if I wanted to be a ‘celebrity’ judge in the town’s famous chili cook-off, which by lucky coincidence would be taking place on the same day of my arrival, in the same shopping strip where the bookstore was located. I had demurred, citing phantom gastroenterological disorders. In retrospect, I should have recognized the chili-tasting invitation as the dark omen it was, and cancelled the gig immediately.
When I finally found the bookstore, I noticed that it was as quiet as a morgue, and as empty of life. I chose to attribute this to the torrential downpour and prevailing tornado warnings, and not to any lack of enthusiasm for my novels. The proprietress of the store, a lovely and gracious woman, assured me that hordes of loyal readers would descend at the first break in the weather.
I passed the time – and time passes slowly in Arkansas, I assure you – chatting with the store clerks, one of whom let it slip that I was competing that afternoon not only with the chili-cooking contest but also with the annual college football game between the University of Arkansas Razorbacks and, I believe, the University of Oklahoma Sooners. A casual stroll through the shopping plaza confirmed the dismal fact; everyone seemed to have a bowl of chili and a portable radio tuned to football. A reporter for the local AM station was supposed to interview me during half-time, but evidently he’d gotten so swept up in the game that he forgot.
So I trudged back to the bookstore and waited patiently for someone, anyone, to walk through the front door. Eventually the owner said I might as well take advantage of the ‘lull’ and sign one of the wooden folding chairs that she had set up for the anticipated throngs. Over the years I’d autographed posters, photos, bumper stickers, even a young woman’s chest, but never had I been asked to put my signature on a piece of cheap patio furniture. The owner explained that it was a popular tradition at her store, and indeed led me to a stack of chairs autographed by visiting authors, the most notable of whom was John Grisham. Naturally I whipped out my Sharpie and signed one with a flourish.
Eventually the rain tapered off, but nobody ever showed up to hear me read. So I didn’t; I sat. As the final excruciating minutes ticked down, I personalized a copy of my novel for each of the store clerks (who would have rather gone that day to the football game), and also for one or two of the store owner’s relatives (who were kind enough to stop by and pretend to be customers).
As my freshly autographed chair was unceremoniously folded away with the others, the store owner said she felt terrible about the ‘low turnout’, and professed to be mystified. I declined with heroic politesse when she offered a hot cup of homemade chili for my journey back to the Memphis airport.