"Raindrops, so many raindrops..." as Dee Clark sang, only these aren't metaphorical. The gloom began late morning on Saturday, paused for a few hours yesterday, and is forecast to continue all week. Yuck. There was no choice but to go to the viaduct. I lugged an extra bag, filled with romance novels, in case Yelena showed on a coffee run, but she didn't. I did manage to get rid of some of the weight when a man bought the Russian-English dictionary. He talked me down to a dollar and let me keep the quarter that fell out of his wallet. I was glad not to have to carry the huge tome anymore. Too bad I'd left the English-Russian version in the trunk. He might have taken that too. Spasiba, sir.
I assign nicknames to people who have passed the floating bookshop many times, whether they've stopped by or not. There's Slim, who's about six-four and thin as a rail; there's Big Guy, who always says hello; Herb used to be Milquetoast before I got to know him. Today Kaline strolled by. He stopped once to tell me how crazy I was to be selling books on the street - as if I didn't know. He's an avid baseball fan. Detroit Tiger Hall of Famer Al Kaline was his idol. He is stunned that I remember that. I think it's an easy association and, therefore, memorable. I used to remember one of my regulars, Jerry, because he reminded me of the actor William H. Macy. I haven't seen him in a long time. I hope the demon rum hasn't done him in, as I'd feared whenever I saw him inebriated. Anyway, Kaline spends six days a week hunting down baseball books. His collection has reached forty thousand. He always has a Strand Bookstore bag in hand. He says all the walking is taking a toll on his feet. He was wearing brand new sneakers today, or tennis shoes, as my Michigan friends would say. I've had two stat books in the trunk for months, hoping we'd cross paths. Alas, the car was blocks away. Maybe next time. If he buys, I'll ask his real name.
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