People
pressed against the window, all colours, looking in; all colours, crowds of
them, lined up, up and down the age scale, waiting, fanatics peering at me;
mothers, fathers, daughters. I’m purposely not looking but I can see them in
the periphery, against the glass, avid, catching a glimpse of my profile,
imagining, thinking what they’ll say in the few seconds we exchange. I keep my
eyes averted. There’s a long line of them with their hands cupping their faces
at the glass scrutinising my every move, nudging their family, friends, whose
eyes are wandering from the task, saying: ‘There he is, look, that’s him.’ The
queue moves insufferably slow. I’ve been a member of such queues. But they’re
not frustrated, they’re excited, and shuffle interminably closer to the
entrance some fifty, seventy feet away (it’s hard to see how far back it goes),
and with each shuffle more zeal, more nerves, more pressing against the glass
for it all to begin. The signing hasn’t started yet but already the queue
slowly, if imperceptibly, steadily moves, condenses, people get closer,
fractionally, to each other predominantly, but in their minds they’re already
getting nearer to me. These are middle range fans. They’re avid but not crazed.
They arrive a few hours before my appearance, to get a good place, but they’re
not right at the front. I can’t see those guys, my real fans, the zealots.
They’ll be pushing at the door. They’ll be so excited they can’t talk. They
just solidly wait. The real fanatics have been here since 5am, earlier, the
real ones. Some of the people down the road, equally out of my sight, late
comers to the event, won’t get their turn: a book signing can only go on for so
long. You have to arrive early. You can’t just drop by and expect to get your
signed copy, those days are gone. I’m way bigger than that now. I look away,
concentrating on my task. I’m nearly on. Many of these people idolise me. They
quote me; they hang on my every word. To some of these people, I am their
favourite person, who they would most like to meet, dine with, sleep with maybe.
Today some people’s dreams come true. I’m a big part of that realisation. They
wish they were me. The next best thing is being with me, getting a signed copy
they can cherish. Many are would be authors, celebrities. One day they hope to be
me. They’re working on it, day and night some of them. Others have given up.
Today might inspire them. They’re squashed against the window, as if to give
them the closest view, as if they will maybe osmose through the pane if they
keep up the pressure against the glass long enough, for these people believe in
the impossible, are not afraid to dream. They believe in the power of thoughts
and words over actions. Many are loners who live in their heads. They will give
themselves entirely to something that likely will give nothing in return, a
prayer. They are believers. I was like them and now look at me, like they look
at me and can’t take their eyes off me; dreaming, praying, believing. They know
I could be like them, and once was. They’ve read the biographies, the news
reel, the copy. They know me inside out, better than I know myself. They
continue to stare. I’m about to start signing books. It’s palpable now, the
throng pulsing. I can feel it in my blood. They energise me. They’re urging me
to sit and start signing; with every breath they urge me. When they finally
meet me they hope that some of my magic will rub off, my creativity, transfer
to them in a hand shake. Of course they are crazy. If it’s given to them it’s
given to them on the page; read my work, but I will inspire them. So meeting me
will have some magical effect, motivational. They’ll leave here today, or
tonight, changed, developed, and they’ll write probably until the early hours;
they will write with a renewed spirit. They will remember me, my encouraging glance,
my nod of approval, and they will write like they’ve never written before. I
understand that passion. I was once them, and queued for hours, well one hour;
writers weren’t as popular back then, before the resurgence: Kindle, Fifty
shades, and all that jazz. Now we’re the superstars again. Who would have
thought? I like to think I had some part in it. Of course, it makes the queues
longer, but it’s a buzz for me. My book: ‘The Dog’s Road Finished’ is on sale
at all bookstores, websites, electronic and hard format, at competitive retail.
Do yourself a favour, buy a copy.
Right,
they’re waiting to get this moving now. We’re already ten minutes late. I must
remember my roots; I came from that queue. Hang on, who the f**k is this in my
seat?
“Excuse
me, sir. Sir, you’re not allowed beyond the rope. The queue is outside, see, out
of that door. See there, sir. Sir?”
“But
I’m here to sign books, my book.”
“Bob,
escort this gentleman outside, please.”
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