Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 4/13

It was another gloomy day in Brooklyn, but only half as much as yesterday. Since the forecast called for more rain, the only option was the viaduct, my least favorite place to set up shop. Guilt would not let me stay home. I feel compelled to work at the literary aspect of my life every day in some way. Although I didn't sell any books for the second straight session, it wasn't a total loss. A woman to whom I'd sold A Hitch in Twilight to a couple of years ago said she thought the stories were great. I thanked her, although the skeptic in me wondered: If that's the case, why is she hurrying away and not asking if I've written anything else? And a while later I met one of those oddballs that make life so colorful. He looked at the books I had on display and lamented, as so many do, that he could never remember the ones he's read. Some popular authors seem to churn out several novels a year, many featuring the same hero. He said he was a little different than most readers, and pulled a book from his back pocket to illustrate the point. He tears the pages out and discards them as he goes along. He is up to Chapter Ten in his current read. I laughed and shook my head. What a character - just like a former gold trader I recently made a comment about on Facebook. A mutual friend, Joey Fork-Tongue, was asking NY Rangers fans to unite in prayer to insure their team's inclusion in the playoffs. I remarked that he should do what the guy in question, MC, did during the third period of Game Seven of the 1994 Stanley Cup Finals at Madison Square Garden - stay in the bathroom until the game was finished. He was so petrified his team would blow what fans had awaited for more than 50 years that he would not sit in the seat for which he paid top dollar. He also once taped himself watching a Giants football game just to see the lengths he went in support of his team. Of course, he often went to bizarre lengths while trading, which is capable of bringing out the ridiculous in even gentle souls. By the way, I call him Joey Fork-Tongue, the indians' term for the lies of white men, because he delighted in deceiving me while I was at the podium trying to supervise the three-ring circus action in the pit often was. These are characters that make life worth talking and writing about.
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