The Writer's Life
My adventures promoting my books on the streets of Brooklyn, and my thoughts on books, film and current events.
The Writer's Life 4/21
The ultimate nightmare occurred to the parents of six-year-old Etan Patz 33 years ago. He went missing. To this date, he has not been found, although there has been a prime suspect almost from day one. That beautiful little boy's smiling picture is back in the media this week, as the NYPD and FBI are excavating a basement very near his former Greenwich Village home. There have been several disappointments, dead ends, through the years. Perhaps there will finally be closure to this gut-wrenching case. I can only imagine what it must do to his family.
With rain in the forecast for the next 48 hours or so, I decided to forgo my weekly visit to my buddy Bags in order to get in as much time as possible today with the floating book shop. When I left the house at 10 AM, it looked like it was about to pour. By the time the chores and lunch was done at noon, the sun was shining. As I was setting up, someone called my name. Richie, one of my charges from my days coaching football, was double-parked in his SUV. He'd brought me a large box of popular books, both hard and soft cover. He had to hurry back to the liquor store he opened almost two years ago. His girlfriend works it during the week while he manages a car dealership. He holds down the fort on the weekend. He was always a hard worker and exemplary kid. I can't believe he's 50. Thanks, pal.
For the first two hours it looked like it would be a disappointing session, as even my regulars did not buy anything. Then customers suddenly came "in droves", as the late, great Classie Freddie Blassie might have said. I sold some of the books Richie donated and many more. Still, the crates were crammed. I had to get across Bay Parkway and onto 84th Street, about 100 yards back and forth with the three crates. My arms are still sore and probably an inch or two longer. I guess I should use that luggage carter that's in the basement of the old house. I just hate the thought of putting something else into the trunk of the car. Or maybe I'm leery of it seeming unmanly, being as silly as we were in elementary school, when we called a briefcase a "fag bag" or "punk trunk." For some bizarre reason, we thought we should be carrying our school things only in hand.
Thanks, folks, and also to whoever it was who bought Killing on Kindle this past week. Two sales in two weeks - I hope this is the start of something big.
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