I was questioning my sanity as I walked out of the building today. The forecast was for a heat index of over 100. I had a bottle of water with me, frozen overnight, that a lovely, light-skinned black woman gave me yesterday minutes before I closed up. She either lives or works in the area, passing me daily, always flashing a beautiful smile and saying hello. I set up the floating bookshop at my usual spot and stepped into the shade, where there was a nice breeze. I immediately realized it would have been stupid not to have come out. Sure enough, one of my mantras: "Take a shot," was soon proven again. Ned, a young man in his 20's, director of the Sheepshead Bay Bites and the Bensonhurst Bean websites, stopped by to chat. He asked if I were interested in doing a column and I begged off, citing the blog and the editing of Bob Rubenstein's book, The White Bridge, which may kill me before it's done. I have no interest in journalism other than reading the New York Post and scanning online headlines for anything I may have missed. I felt like a rat, even more so when Ned purchased A Hitch in Twilight. He's read the stories I have posted online.
Having mentioned Bob, I'm reminded of an item in today's Post. During WWII, so many Nazi soldiers were infected with venereal disease by French prostitutes that the high command ordered the making of blond, blue-eyed sex dolls to serve as a substitute for the real thing. Apparently, they were 30-40 years ahead of their time. The idea was rejected by the rank and file, who feared the disgrace of being captured with something like that in their possession. Did the Nazis have a lock on perversion or what? Of course, I immediately emailed the item to Bob, whose new novel has a lot to do with eyes of blue.
The sale to Ned would have been more than enough on such a hot day, but soon a cab rolled up to Waj's gyro stand. I recognized the driver, who has purchased books from me several times. He reads thrillers between calls. He chose four. Then Susan approached and purchased some children's books, including Lassie Come Home, for her grandkids. And a bit later a middle age woman stopped and stared at the sign I wear around my neck. I explained what was what, and she fished in her purse and came out with three dollars. She refused to take any books, as she isn't a reader. "For your grandkids," I implored. "I don't have anybody," she said abruptly, hurrying away. And for the second time during the shift I felt like a rat, as if I were being deceitful.
Thanks, folks, and to everyone else: Take a shot.
Read Vic's stories, free:
http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
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