Author Signing
By Bob Thurber
Not counting store personnel, nine people attended. After the reading, only one member of the audience purchased my novel. A dull looking fellow in suspender overalls and dirty work boots; an outfit that a plumber or a painter might wear. He approached with the book open in one hand so that the covers flopped like wings. He rifled the pages. I felt a whiff of air.
God, I wish I could do what you do, he said. I’d love to write for a living.
I smiled and removed the cap from my pen.
If he only had to do what I had to do, I thought. That and only that for a week, a month, a year. Swapping my life for his, he’d want to trade right back, reverse the switch, keep his sorrowful existence.
He presented the book and held it steady as I scribbled my signature. He thanked me. He sounded quite sincere. I shook his hand.
As he walked away, I considered the back of him. I admired his uninhibited, unhurried gait. Given the opportunity, I’d cling to his common dullness better than he ever could.