IF A BOOK FALLS IN COLLINGSWOOD …? The Conclusion

Fifteen feet from the dryer, I did some stretching exercises to prepare myself for the task ahead. Feeling limber and confident, I decided to go with the simple, palm-up method that rarely had worked for me before. As my trusted memory is my only witness, the most amazing indoor meteorological event in South Jersey history was about to take place. At the 8-foot mark, the little white unit sensed my wet hands and let loose a blast of warm air that nearly pushed me into stall #2. Regaining my balance, my dry hands and I walked out of the lav, and prepared to clasp palms with my generous and grateful readership. Little did I know then that my experience with Hurricane Latrina would be the highlight of my day.

With an extra hop in my step, I returned to Table 82, checking out my literary exhibit from all possible angles. The display board showcased a nice caricature of So So Gai, my fictitious, irreverent Chinese philosopher, along with samples of his so-so philosophy, and a chronology of his life and times. Flanking the board on the table were piles of books and brochures advertising my services as a speaker, copies of one of my poems and samples of So So Gai’s wisdom. My new business cards were sprinkled around the bookmarks and the clever sign on the far side of the table, so the Collingswoodians would see it before ascending the stairs to the gymnasium and the bathrooms. I greeted the 10 am opening with positive anticipation, as I noticed that there was still no occupant across the way in #47.

What follows are my hourly recollections of the fourth annual Collingswood Book Festival:

Hour #1: During the first forty-five minutes or so, I had plenty of time to sweat in the sauna-torium where I was stationed. The crowd had not started to arrive in earnest, so I also had plenty of time to rearrange my book display and crack my knuckles. A couple of people stopped by and laughed at a couple of So So Gai-isms, but did not feel the urge to buy his wisdom, even at the discounted rate with personalized messages from the author. A couple kids asked if it was okay to eat some of the candy corn. I mentioned, in vain, that it was for display purposes only, and I could not vouch for its cleanliness. By the end of the hour, the green sponge that was the base for the bookmark hangers was starting to reveal itself. Ruby phoned near the end of the hour to inform me that she was on the way back to Collingswood. Book sales were stagnant.

Hour #2: I had plenty of time to look up at the ceiling, and noticed a few tiles missing, revealing a slew of exposed electrical wires. Hey, if I wanted to see that, I could have stayed home and tried to sell books from my garage. The pace of readers was starting to come through. Most would glance at my display on the way up the stairs to the gymnasium, or on the way downstairs to the children’s area in the high school basement. I started to engage in more conversations with the locals that would linger a little while at my store. Some grabbed business cards and brochures; another guy remembered me from last year, and honored his tradition of laughing at my book but refusing to buy any copies. Still others noticed my Eagles cap, and talked a little football with me. Never a bad thing.

Near the end of the hour, a young cutie, with a tiny fistful of candy corn in her mouth, asked me if she could have one of the bookmarks. The ogre in me politely explained that I could not give one to her, but that they were free with the purchase of any two of my books. After conferring with her parents, she asked if she could buy one for a dollar. In a less polite fashion, I declined her generous offer. Taking inventory after two hours, I observed that while book sales were flat, there was a decent run on free brochures and business cards. But help was on its way. Ruby called to ask me if she could bring me a toasted sesame bagel. Of course, I said, basking in the near presence of my wife and a snack that had always been good for me.

Hour #3: I was nothing if not prepared, supply-wise, for the event. The day before, I had started reading John Grogan’s Marley and Me, and brought it along in case business wasn’t brisk. For the rest of the day, the cover shot of Marley was placed between my own books and the display board. Hey, even if I could not mislead the yokels into finding a connection between my book and this lovable bestseller, I could at least enjoy a quick discussion about the joys and rigors of dog ownership. As a marketing ploy, it worked like a hex.

As the day moved on toward halftime, I found it more difficult to suppress my dark side. Sure, I helped parents carry their strollers up the stairs, and I directed lots of people to the gym, but a certain acrimony had taken hold of me. To those who I thought could handle the humor, I started yelling like a Philly carnival barker. “Yo, step on up, and find a bunch of overpriced books that really suck.” Some enjoyed the humor, but those same people did not have any disposable income with them.

In between phone calls to Ruby, I started writing out a new sign that would change my fortunes. Something drastic and ingenious was needed: my inventory of books and bookmarks had not changed, and even the free candy corn was only depleted by half.

Hour #4: My new sign was a masterstroke of genius, if I do say so. It read, in bold, black Sharpie lettering, as follows:

With the Purchase of a Beautiful Bookmark from China

Discounted to $18

You May Choose Any Two Books For Free!

Much as the sign seemed to bolster my flagging spirits, in due time, I wondered if I had just hit the final frontier of indignity. Yes, a few people seemed to be amused by the sign, but they rewarded me with laughter, but no greenbacks.

After only a half hour, I put the sign away for a less rainy day. My main conversations with the public involved telling some high school-aged kids that, yes, they could eat the candy corn with my compliments. In a jaded moment, I may have even mentioned that it was homemade, and good for their teeth.

A breakthrough did come shortly after I retired the sign. A fifty-ish woman of obvious good taste leafed through my book of poetry, and actually started pulling money from her purse. A sight of an actual dead president coming my way made me a little weak in the knees, but somehow I remained upright. I accepted it graciously, signed my book, and was about to French kiss the lady, when I spotted my beautiful bride carrying a “bagel bag”.

Hour # 5: Ruby handed me the bag, which I ripped open to find a cold, untoasted plain bagel topped with a smattering of butter. I accepted it in the best spirit, and probably mumbled something unintelligible when she asked me how things were going. I figured that she could do the math.

Realizing that we were overstaffed, my better half asked me if she could get me something else to eat. Not mentioning my trips to booth #95 and the hot dog cart, I said that I could use a hot dog and a hot chocolate. (I am happy to report that Ruby did not get lost to and fro the hot dog vendor.)

With more time on my hands, I searched for instant perspective on what was going wrong with my marketing aspirations. Why had my delusions of grandeur been downgraded to dreams of solvency?

I decided – sour grapes or not – that there were only three groups of people that tended to actually sell a fair amount of books at these events:

The “I’ve heard of that guy/lady” author, who had achieved some name recognition in at least some of the local Philadelphia-area households. The ones with the tables, tent cards and microphone access.
The people who were selling grab bags of gently mangled books for $.50 or $1, so the bargain hunters could fill up their plastic bags with these clearance items.
The authors who told all their friends. I also told all my friends, but am ashamed to tell you that neither of them had the courtesy to show up.

In between bites and sips of hot dog and warm chocolate, I did manage to sell a humor book or two, and had another very sincere lady ask me how long I would be there, as she would go to the Mac machine in the meantime. A wise veteran of such conversations, I knew that I would never see Ms. Sincerity again.

Hour #6: The homestretch had arrived, and neither the few recent book sales nor my instant perspective were doing much to ward off my dark side. I vowed to stay until the end of the event, even as other booksellers were starting to fold down their tables. After all, I am a Philly sports fan at heart who never leaves a game early despite the margin of victory or deficit. Ruby started packing up some of my stuff as my lack of sleep and surplus of bad mood was taking my mind elsewhere.

In my daydream, I found myself in the midst of the new musical Collingswood, a newly minted parody of Chicago. In this town of big spenders who didn’t read, and big readers who didn’t spend, I had become an incarnation of the invisible Amos. Here I was, the one-and-only Mr. Sell-Nothing! The refrain was running through my head, as the Collingswoodians refrained from buying my books. I did all I could to stop from singing my new showstopper out loud:

Sell-nothing / I’m Mr. Sell-nothing

Won’t you buy something / So I can wear some bling

But you just walk right past me/ and look right through me

And never buy a thing..

(I was really starting to roll now)

So, Mr. Hicktown shnook / Won’t you buy my book

Are you afraid to look …

When Ruby interrupted my hit musical with a request that we leave ten minutes early – like almost everyone else – I found no rationale to protest. We packed up all our stuff, and I started the end-of-the-day trudge through the cafetorium. I made several trips outside the high school with my precious few belongings, putting blind faith in the belief that although the locals did not buy any books, they were also not the type to steal any.

Pleased with this bit of logic, I made my last trip to booth # 82, when I looked up to see Ms. Sincerity and a friend waiting for me.

“Matt, I was afraid you would leave, and I wouldn’t get a copy of your book,” this paragon of virtue said with a smile.

“Oh, I wouldn’t leave without seeing you first,” I said with all the false conviction I could manage. I looked around to see one carton of unopened humor books, from which I happily pried one loose. For one of the few times that day, I signed my collector’s item and wished her a good day. If the bookmarks weren’t on the sidewalk, I would have thrown a few in as well.

Returning to the sidewalk, Ruby’s car arrived almost on cue. Working together like Forrest and Bubba, we somehow were able to jam in the very same items that we had stuffed in early that morning. Taking the wheel of the car, I could barely see my marketing partner, obscured as she was by the table. Mr. Sell-Nothing or not, I tried my best to provide some cheer for my wife, for myself and for unknown authors everywhere.

“You know, “ I said, most likely sounding somewhat like a fighter after losing a championship bout, “If you factor out the gas, the bagels, the hot dogs and the hot chocolate, and you don’t count the money I spent for my own books, I think we made a little money again this year, honey.”

Our 6-foot table seemed to shake in agreement, behind which my wife had evidently dozed off. Perhaps, the love of my life was dreaming what I was thinking: If we get our registration fee in a little earlier next year, we can secure a prime spot in the cafetorium should it rain. As dreams go, it wasn’t much, but it did get us home safely from Collingswood.