The Tour
The line wand around the shelves almost to the door of the bookstore. My wife smiled at me.
“Ready.” She whispered. I smiled back at this lovely woman who had been with me on this incredible journey.
“Yes, honey, I’m more than ready. She nodded to the store manager.
“Ok ladies and gentlemen. Oak street books is pleased to welcome Hunter Blackstone and his lovely wife Elia. Mr. Blackstone will sign his latest novel, the critically acclaimed ‘A Gest for Life.’ If you have copies of his other books, he will sign them as well. Please limit you time to one minute or less. Thank you.”
One minute? My mind when back to the times when nobody came to my signing. Before I had limited myself to an hour. And that was too long. At the end of an hour, I packed up and ran like a guy escaping prison. When my wife suggested a book signing tour, I just stared at her.
“Honey, I love you and I would do anything for you. But couldn’t we do something less painful? Like pulling my finger nails off with a pair of plyers.”
She laughed. “It won’t be that bad.”
“Yeah, that’s what they said about World War 2.” But because I love her, I said. “Ok, you set it up.”
So she did. I came in from my office to find her on the phone. She held up a finger, meaning for me to hold on. I waited as she finished the conversation. Ending the call, she said. “One more. “
“How many does that make?” I said, hoping for only one or at the most two.
She looked at her list. She smiled at me. “Ten.”
“Ten? Ten? You were at this for…” I glanced at my wristwatch. “Three hours and you got ten?
“No, I took a break for about a half hour.” She said, smiling.
“For how long?” I threw myself on the couch.
“Two hours. One wanted three, but I held them to two.” She said, looking at the sheet of paper in her hand.
“Couldn’t you just shoot me?” I said in despair.
She set down beside me. “When you’re writing, what do you think about?”
“Murder, mayhem.” I said, trying to kiss her. She pulled her face away.
“Let me put it another way. Who do you think of?” She said, looking at me intently.
“My readers, of course.” I said.
“It’s about time you met them. How much was the last check? “She said, getting back up.
“I don’t know? Little over ten?” I said, standing up.
“12,200 and 54 cents.” She said, looking at the bank’s website. “We have enough to pay all the bills and buy that little red sports car you’re always talking about.”
I had been perusing the internet looking at sport cars for the last few months. When she showed me the finances, I knew it was time to take the plunge.
She had set up the signings in a circle. A vacation, she called it. Some vacation. A working vacation. We saw several cars. Something seemed to be wrong with each one. One afternoon, she came to me while I was working. I had just finished a murder scene and was still coming down. She appeared at the door to my office. It was three in the afternoon and I was done for the day. She stood there for a few seconds. I smiled, motioning her inside.
“I didn’t want to interrupt a thought.” She said.
“You’re not. Just finished. What’s up?” I said. She handed me her cell phone. On it was the image of a cute little red sports car. It was a few years old and looked in tiptop condition.
“It’s only got 60,000 miles on it. The owner had it in the garage for a long time. He just wants to get rid of it.” She sounded excited. “We can see it tonight. “
I looked at the price. The town was maybe 15 miles away. I had performed a book signing there at a small bookstore. I shuttered to think of it. I fled from the store and the town like my tail was on fire.
The car set in his circle drive. We pulled in behind it. The paint a little dull, the tires would need to be replaced, the inside needed a good scrubbing. The windows were dirty. I had just opened the door when an older gentleman came out the front door of the house. A ratty smell assailed my nose.
Shutting the door on the car, I turned to face him. He extended a hand. “Bill Strome.”
“Hunter Blackstone.” He stepped back and pointed a finger at me.
“I thought it was you. You write books.”
I held up my hands, smiling. “Guilty as charged.”
“My wife has all your books. Would you mind signing them for her?” He said, somewhat embarrassed.
“Sure, be happy too. Does she have the latest one?”
Nothing would do, but we had to stay for dinner. Mrs. Strome turned out to be a very pleasant woman. After the meal, Bill and I walked outside.
“This was my dad’s car. Didn’t drive it too much. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t take care of it as he did. “
“I’ll try to take good care of it. “I said, thinking it would take a lot of work. We settled on a price. Less than what he listed it for. I threw in a newly signed copy of A Gest for Life. And a promise of delivering a signed copy of every new book I wrote. I drove it home that night with my wife following and the windows down. I took it to our mechanic the next morning.
He changed the oil hoses and did a complete tune-up. New plugs and changed the transmission fluid. At Walmart, we had four new tires installed. It ran like a well-oiled machine. But it still smelled old and moldy. It took two days to get the smell out. I threw the old floor mats away. I scrubbed the seats and dash. I rubbed a cleaner renewer into the surface of the car until it shined like it was fresh from the showroom floor. A week after we purchased the car, I was ready. I knocked on the front door of our home. My wife came to the door, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“Mrs. Blackstone, I, as your boyfriend husband and lover, wish to take you on an excursion to Dairy Queen.” I swept my hand to the shiny automobile in the driveway.
“I’d love too. “She said, getting her purse and locking the door. We took the roadster for a drive to Dairy Queen. We flew up the highway, the top down. The wind in our hair eating ice cream cones. We laughed like school children. Later that night, we drove down to the river.
When we packed for the tour, I took my laptop and zip drives with the book I was working on. I must admit I was looking forward to the book signings like a root canal. Only a root canal would have been less painful. The great thing was the signings were only a small portion of the day. The rest of the time, my wife and I would be free. We could travel in the country, parks, out of the way places. It would be like a second honeymoon. If I got bored at the signings, I had my laptop. I could work on my next book.
I had enough rejections from publishers to float a battleship. Or at least it seemed that way. My sudden success was anything but sudden. I couldn’t accept that I had a lot of readers. To me I was still back in the doldrums of publishing a book without a bunch of readers breathlessly waiting for it.
So, we began the tour. When my wife and I met in high school, one of the first things I noticed about her was her attention to detail. If I was early for a date, I would set uncomfortably, I might add, while her dad interrogated me. If I was late, she would watch from her front door. So I timed my arrival to the minute.
I knew now the tour would go smoothly. After all, she had weeks to plan. We drove through Amish Country enjoying the scenery. At noon, we stopped at a little mom and pop country store. In back of the store were several picnic tables. We had an excellent lunch. My wife, to my chagrin, informed the owner I was the author of some books she had for sale displayed, among her other goods. I did an impromptu book signing with one person in attendance. The owner. She surprised me when she asks my wife to take a photo of her and me. She ran it off on a printer and ask me to sign it. Which I did. I also gave her an autographed copy of A Gest for Life. We left the store with a new friend.
After checking in at a pleasant hotel, we ate dinner at a high-end restaurant. If it had been up to me, I would have ended the evening right there. We had a very pleasant day. The car had performed beautifully. Now we had to ruin this great day with me setting embarrassingly alone at a table with a stack of my books.
We arrived at the store by the back entrance. Elia rang the bell from a little button at the side of the door. I felt like a rabbit caught in a trap.
A man in his early 60s opened the door. I had a fleeting thought he would shoot us, then he smiled.
“Mr. and Mrs. Blackstone. I’m David Livy. Meeting you at last is a pleasure. This way, please. The reporters are waiting.”
I looked at my wife. She smiled.
Thank you.” I said, following him.
“Reporters?” I whispered to my wife.
“You’ll see.” She said, still smiling. David led us into the store part of the building. Two reporters met us at a table set up in the middle of the store. People seemed to be just hanging around the bookshelves. When they saw me and my wife, they formed a line. The reporters ask questions relating to A Gest for Life and the process of writing. It was evident they had read it.
Precisely at 7 PM, David escorted me to the table. There was a scattering of applause, which I acknowledged with some embarrassment.
My wife took charge of organizing the signing. She went down the line of readers passing out ink pens I didn’t know she had. She greeted each person and ask them to write on a post note how they wanted the books signed. Thanks to her, the evening went by quickly. David made a point of locking the front door. I signed the last book at 9:15. We thanked David for a very pleasant evening. Back at the hotel, we relaxed in our room. On the local TV channel, a picture of the front of the bookstore came on the screen. My wife turned up the volume. The reporter’s questions were concise, but full of information. They ended with a shot of the cover of A Gest for Life.
“I should ask him to help me write my next book.” I said. “It would be short and sweet.” My wife smuggled up to me.
“I like your books just the way they are.” She said.
“Honey, you made this a wonderful day. What about tomorrow?” I said kissing her.
“You’ll see.” She said, turning out the light.
And so it went. Each day we toured the country, stopping at out of the way places. Each night we had book signings at small book shops. Eating at a pleasant restaurant. By the time we finished the tour, the public knew we were coming. My wife had perfected her art. Before each book signing, she went down the line, passing out ink pens with my name and the title of the book engrossed in gold. She seemed to have an endless supply. Now here we were at Oak Street Books, the last bookstore. Tomorrow we would return home. Yet as I set down in my office, I would have a new perspective. An army of readers eager to read my next book.