Go to Hell, I'm Reading

Yesterday at lunch C gave me a very big surprise. It seems her mother had read in the paper that an author I like, Greg Iles, would be signing his latest book at Murder By the Book and C agreed to take me. A book signing you say? The last signing I attended was when Ernest Gaines came to town and I thoroughly embarrassed myself. There he was this great writer of Southern African American literature, right in front of me, and all I could think to say was “Your wife’s dress is pretty.” Humiliating? Sure, but I think it made an impression.

So, on our way to the signing I tell C how excited I am and thank her for doing this which is surely not nearly as fun for her as watching football with one thousand strangers in a smoky sports bar. In return, and to ease the pain, I suggested we eat at a Cuban restaurant that we both love but is usually too far away from home to get the early bird blue haired special. That got her thinking maybe this artsy fartsy book stuff wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

My excitement level grew as we got closer. I wondered out loud if I would be able to see him clearly? Would we have to wait in line a long time before getting our book signed?

She looked at me like with this worried expression that betrayed her outer calm and says “Do you think there will be that many people here?”

“What did you think?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You and maybe ten or so people. Maybe just you.”

Insert eye roll non-verbal response here.

The evening went great and I walked out of that book store feeling like I had just attended an Aerosmith concert.