The Idiot�s Guide to Fame and Fortune

A Fiction.

There’s a certain excitement that comes with the publication of your first book. When I heard that a collection of my poems were going to be published – into a real book with a SPINE and the ever coveted ISBN, I was ecstatic. The letter was cheery. The letter head was printed in three colors: red white and blue. I took that as a sign. I accepted the contract with all its glorious and meticulous small print. I went over the manuscript with an obsessive  eye, making sure I caught all the typos. I made them fix the galley when the fonts they chose were wrong, and again when their printing incorrectly broke some of the lines of a some of the poems. I wasn’t naïve; I knew there wasn’t any money in poetry. Pretty much the only people who read poetry were the same people who went to poetry readings: other poets, would-be poets, or artsy high school kids who think their diaries contain the next great epic. But I didn’t care. It was a book.

I let the publisher handle the press releases. I had sent them a few names of places to send them: my hometown newspaper, a few newspapers of note in cities I’d lived in. I wanted it announced in my hometown paper for the sheer pleasure of rubbing it in their faces. The other papers were so that people I’d met along the way who’s addresses I lost might see. I finally DID it. F**k yeah, I thought. Finally got a book under my belt.

Of course, because of who the publisher was, I knew there wasn’t going to be a big book tour. No couch conversations with Oprah. No spotlight in the Times Book Supplement  (this was back when they still published it). The release was quiet. I bought myself a moderately expensive bottle of scotch to celebrate. After I drank about half the bottle sitting at my kitchen table, I decided I needed some air. I was feeling particularly literary. The spring in my step was undeniable.  I decided to wander the bookstore and drink a cup of coffee. 

I drove to the nearest mega-chain bookstore. It was a Saturday evening, so there were a lot of people milling about. I walked to the back of the store, where the coffee bar was located, and ordered a cup of coffee.

“Coffee?” the kid working the register asked, as if I wanted something that wasn’t on the menu. He had to be in high school… certainly old enough to know what real coffee was, even if he never drank it.

“Just coffee.”

“What flavor?”

“The kind that tastes like coffee beans.”  He wasn’t amused.

“You want room for cream?”

“No thanks.”

“Hot or cold?”

It’s COFFEE, I wanted to tell him. You serve coffee HOT, you f*****g emo freak.

“Hot.”

The kid still looked confused; his forehead was wrinkled as if her were in deep thought. His hair, all spiky and carefully mussed, shimmered under the bright lights. For a spit second I thought I saw traces of mascara around his eyes. I needed coffee.  I began to suspect there wasn’t a button on his register with a picture of a plain cup of coffee.  Then after what seemed like forever, he rang me up. I paid in cash. This also seemed to confuse him. He gave me change, and set down my cup of coffee. I didn’t leave a tip.

The coffee was hot, fresh, and a little on the bitter side. I was amazed, since I had expected some fucked flavor with a ridiculous name like Hibiscus Nutmeg Soul Fusion. But the kid had actually managed to dig up a regular cup of coffee. I started to feel a little bad.

It passed quickly.

I started wandering the Fiction and Literature section. In this particular bookstore, they didn’t bother to sort between general or genre fiction and literary fiction. Actually, that made it easier, since everything was organized alphabetically. I’d seen some interesting organizational strategies over the years – ones that made the Library of Congress System look streamlined and Dewey Decimal like something out of the Idiot’s Guide. At least they didn’t pretend that it made any difference; literary is as much a genre as sci-fi/fantasy – except the woman all have smaller tits and the guys are all complex and secretly wanting to connect with their “feminine side.”

                There wasn’t much that interested me; the ones that did were authors I’d already read. There seemed to be more books with a NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE sticker on them. The covers were a scene from the movie – especially if it starred a big name. Those kind of books annoyed me, and still do – if people don’t have the courtesy to read the book before it’s got Brad Pitt’s face on it, then f**k them.  

                The Fiction and Literature Section emptied into the Graphic Novel and Anime section.  There were more people in this section than in any other section of the store, including the self-help section.  I had meant to wander into the Poetry section, but they must have moved it since the last time I was there. Some of the people in the Graphic and Anime section were kids; a couple of them, however, looked to be a little too old for Superman. I noticed a couple of girls; they were all decked out in black, highlighted with odd hot pinks or greens. One of them had crayon red hair, pale skin, and dark, dark mascara. She was wearing a tight top with spaghetti straps that her breasts were clearly too big for. Heavy looking boots. Dressing to stand out, but somehow, offended when anybody notices them. She looked like she was carrying a book. A real book too… not a comic book or one of those Japanese Anime books that are basically cartoon porn.

                She gave me a dirty look. “What’re you looking at FUCKWAD?”

                “Ah, nothing,” I answered, smiling. “I was just trying to see what you’re reading.”

                She clearly didn’t believe me.  Women now are so goddamn cynical. “Oh yeah?”

                “Yeah,” I said. “I can’t help myself. I just had a book published. Natural curiosity.”

                She cocked her head to the right and squinted. Her hands were on her hips. “Ooooo,” she teased. “You got a book published. Goodie for you. Now f**k off you dirty old drunk. What do you do get hammered on cheap gin and cruise bookstores looking for young girls to molest?”

                It was scotch, I wanted to say. “No, really. It’s nothing like that, I swear. I was just…”

                “Oh,” she stepped a little closer, pushed her b***s in my face. Her friend stood back and watched, laughing to herself. “So you don’t LIKE me. You think I’m UGLY? You think I’m a FREAK?”

                “No,” I answered, stepping back. “I don’t think ANYTHING. I was really just curious about the book, that’s all.”

                “Oh.” She held it up. It was a paperback edition of Mark Twain’s  A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. “You like this book?”

                “It’s ok,” I said. “Twain was a good writer.”

                “This book,” she proclaimed, “sucks. It sucks because most books suck. But my dad likes it. I’m getting it for him for his birthday. HE’s OLD, just like YOU. He likes sucky books. I bet your book is sucky. Why don’t you tell me the name of it so I know what to buy him for Father’s Day?”

                I turned and walked away. I heard the crayon-red haired girl and her friend the goth freak laughing.  “Guess I’ll see you when you do Oprah,” she cackled. “My mom reads whatever Oprah says to read. “

                The poetry section was on the opposite side of the Fiction and Literature section, near the restrooms. It was the smallest section in the store. I scanned the titles, thinking about buying a book, when I saw it. It was MY name! My BOOK! Right on the same shelf with Neruda. F****n’ A, I thought. I took it off the shelf. I wanted to hold it. I wasn’t expected to see any copies of my book anywhere, and I wasn’t sure how they got there. Maybe they stocked one or two new writers every once in awhile. I felt my buoyancy return. It didn’t matter if the emo freak didn’t know what regular coffee was. It didn’t matter if a color-blind illiterate girl made fun of me. None of it mattered.

                I flipped through the book. All the lines of all the poems were familiar, of course. They were still echoing in my head.  Then I flipped to page 45 and read the poem. Even though I knew each poem intimately, there was something new about reading it from the book. I read it slowly, focused on each word. It read off the page exactly the way had wanted it to read.

                That was when I noticed the typo. It was in the second to last line of the third stanza. Fro instead of For. F*****g hell. I looked up and at the end of the section, near the way leading towards the main doors, the crayon-red hair girl and her goth friend were staring at me. When I looked up at them she snarled, “How’s it feel, you dirty f*****g DRUNK? It’s not fun when people STARE at you, is it?” She stuck her tongue out at me. It was pierced. Then the two of them walked away. I could hear them making fun of me all the way out the door.  I waited until I was sure they had driven off, and then I left to go home and finish my bottle of scotch.

Author's Note

All comments and feedback welcome.

Reviews

[Rain]

I do know that "Editing" is the hardest part of getting your book published right...that, an over pricing. I also thought your mental observations of the characters was dead on. I could see them. I likes this short piece, but I'm waiting on your writing to catch up with your talent. I'm convinced you are talented. Reality writing you need the talent to enhance an actual experience, but with fiction, the doors are wide open for you. I am in no position to advise and instructor, but it was right there for you to put that jolt, and you let it pass. You had a b***h and her friend. You weren't constricted by reality. I like"How you like me now?" stories. Good story, but you missed a chance to give the reader a "YES!" moment. Still a good read. Rain..

[Brian Custer]

For being 'a fiction', your realism is uncanny! I find the painting of the emo and goth punk as exceptionally humoring. We have seen them all too many times, especially, "This book," she proclaimed, "sucks. It sucks because most books suck. But my dad likes it. I'm getting it for him for his birthday. HE's OLD, just like YOU. He likes sucky books. I bet your book is sucky. Why don't you tell me the name of it so I know what to buy him for Father's Day?"

And we wonder why 1 in 7 Americans have literacy issues! Interestingly enough, I remember similar topics of a few nights ago! LOL! Take care!