My books were somewhere in the Local Authors Section.
After four or five scans of the bookcase, I found them. They were on the second-to-bottom shelf, hidden behind a heavy table stacked with local doodads like Cincinnati coffee cups and pint glasses bearing the Reds logo.
It was an intimidating set up.
To get to them, I would need to either move the heavy table or crawl beneath it. I opted for the latter, fearing any attempt to move the doodad table would draw unwanted attention, and would likely result in a tumbling of the carefully stacked tchotchkes. But I had to do something. The current setup prevented anyone from actually seeing my books, and I sincerely doubted my not-so-vast group of literary admirers was lining up to ask for them by name. I felt compelled to reduce their anonymity by any means necessary.
I dropped on all fours and started crawling.
Unsurprisingly, my actions were noticed almost immediately. Apparently, a baby-crawling adult is more notable than my novels, which had been relegated to a sort of “if a tree falls in the woods” existential location. You know—if a book is on a shelf, but no one can see it, is it really there?
To be honest, I had no idea what I intended to do once arriving at the books’ ignominious location. Maybe buy them all in order to save them from a life of obscurity? Or maybe it was my own obscurity I feared.
“Excuse me, sir. Excuse me. What are you doing?” I was almost completely under the table but could see the bottom half of the clerk if I ducked my head under my left arm. She hovered behind me, likely staring at my ass and—I imagine—looking agitated, wearing white gym shoes and loose-fitting khakis. My head movement, restricted by the table, prevented me from seeing her face, no matter how hard I contorted my body.
“Sir, customers are not allowed under the tables.” I accepted her pronouncement even as I doubted its veracity. Was there somewhere a written rule against customers crawling around the bookstore? I doubt it to this day.
“Oh. Sorry,” my voice muffled by my armpit. “I was just trying to get to a book on this lower shelf here.” I pointed to one of my books, which I doubt she could see me doing, and pointedly did not mention I was, indeed, the author of said books.
“Sir, if you’ll crawl back out of there, we’ll move things around so you can get to that shelf.”
I had no choice but to comply. What was I to do? Grab the books with one hand and scurry away like a three-legged dog?
I stood idly whilst reinforcements were summoned. It took three of them move the solid doodads table, which was accomplished without destroying any of the items on the table itself. Impressive.
“Which book did want, sir?” The clerk, the original one with white gym shoes and khaki pants, pointed at the local author shelves.
“Um…that one.” I pointed at First Date, wondering if Stephen King ever suffered through such a moment in his hometown of Bangor, Maine. Abashed, I continued to withhold the fact I’d written the damn thing.
However, it appeared I’d not yet caused a big enough scene, as now one of the store managers joined the party, ostensibly to direct the table movers, whose task was nearly complete. After verifying the table had been moved exactly three feet to his right, the manager turned his attention to me.
“What book were you looking for, sir?” I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d already covered this ground with the white-gym-shoes-khaki-pants girl, so I pretended this was the first time I’d been asked the question.
I pointed again. “That one there…it’s called Drunk Log.”
“Hmmm…Drunk Log, eh? Can’t say I’m aware that any of those have sold.” The manager waived his hand toward the copies of Drunk Log and First Date.
I was sure my head was going to explode.
“Is it possible the lack of sales might be a result of poor product placement? I mean, my books are way down on the bottom shelf, and until moments ago were only accessible to toddlers or crawling adults.”
“You say that’s your book?” I’d shared this information accidentally, mostly due to my rising frustration with being trapped in the Local Authors Section. “These are in alphabetical order by author, so it’s where it should be.” I cursed myself for not having a last name that started with an “A.”
“How long have they been there?”
“Well, I think the Drunk Logs have been there almost a year, while the First Dates just a couple weeks. Listen, is there any reason you can’t put my books over there?” I nodded at a table fifteen feet from us. It was positioned almost directly in front of the entrance foyer. “You know, on that table everyone passes when they come in the store?”
“Oh . . . no. I don’t think so. That’s for new releases only.”
I nearly screamed that First Date was still a new release, but bit my tongue, oddly fearful that if I pressed too hard, they might remove my books altogether. Not that it would have made a difference in sales.
The manager examined another set of shelves, ones unhidden by stacked knickknacks. “But these are for local authors also. You want me to move your books over here?”
It occurred to me that, under the circumstances, this was probably the best I could do. “Yes, please.”
“I’ll even do a face-out.” Now he was being extra nice. A face-out takes up more shelf space and displays the front of the book.
“That would be very kind of you.”
I hung out while the books were moved to the new shelf, their position now at eye level for a human of average height. No crawling required. When he finished, I thanked him profusely, but as soon as he was out of sight, I grabbed two copies of each book and gingerly placed them on the New Releases table.
To no avail.
They were back the Local Authors Section an hour later.
Those clerks don’t miss a thing.
