Signature Pose

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.”

Reviews

[SHEEMA HUQ]

hi there, excellent style, format, oberservational skills, engaging and memorable.

[Yheela]

lol
Makes me wonder what's true and what's not.

[John Alexander McFadyen]

Yes! a wonerful read. You played to the audience a little but it didn't really matterit was a nice twist and worth waiting for! Thank you!

[3rd Chance]

Your writing is, as always, a complex, beautifully-wrought cooking pot of enigmatic origins and emotions. A powerful, self-absorbed, nearly fascist rant on one's rising fame and importance, and then culminating in having it all snatched away at the very brink of being able to finally savour it. The ending is on a vague note, though I suppose this is on purpose. Is it a case of mistaken identity, some mental disorder where they see themselves in another's shoes? Has someone stolen his work, driving him insane? Does he perceive someone else as stealing his work? Is he a struggling writer, so deranged, that he's gone mad and believes himself to be at the apex of the tower of fame? Many unanswered questions accompany the climax of this story.

[Ina Waltz]

This made me feel claustrophobic at the beginning, then a feeling of glory and adoration came and then laughter. I cannot explain why I'm laughing, but the fact that this short story contains such complexity that it was able to provoke so many emotions tells what a great writer you are.
Lovely, indeed.