I could be normal. I could be cool. I could be regular. Right?
I went into my favorite Eugene bookstore yesterday, a used bookstore that sells a few new books. Just a few.
And I thought, are they going to carry my book? I hadn’t heard anything from them. Hadn’t heard anything from my publicists or the sales reps. So maybe this store hadn’t heard about my book. Maybe they needed me to tell them that I had a book coming out.
So I went up to the register and said, “Uh…..who…….uh………who does the…….uh…….who does the uh…….book buying here?”
The sales girl said, “Oh, did you order a book?”
“A book?” I said.
She pointed at the stacks, then at the hold-area behind the register. “Book,” she repeated.
Like I was slow.
But I am slow.
“Oh, okay,” she said. “What’s the last name?”
“The last name of what?”
She frowned. “Your last name. What’s your last name?”
She started to check the order lists.
And I realized what she was doing. So I said, “Um, no. See, I have a book.”
“You have a book?” She looked really confused. “You already have your book?”
“Well, not my book, not a book I ordered, but I do have a book. My book.”
“Huh?” She stopped going through the orders. “What?”
“I have a book,” I said. “I, uh, I wrote a book, right?”
“Right?” She didn’t look too sure.
I had to prove it. But how do I prove a book that isn’t in my hands. “It’s selling,” I said. “It’s a book. A real book. I wrote it.”
“Oh,” she looked at me like I’m sure she’s looked at a thousand self-published authors before me. “Right,” she said, “You should contact Evan.”
“Yes, Evan. On a week day.”
I nodded. “Right. On a week day.”
Then I didn’t know what else to say. So I walked out.
As Awkward Man strikes again.