A Cold Day in Hell

Once upon a time, I tried to peddle my books at a bricks-and-mortar bookstore. When I got there I introduced myself and asked to speak with someone about selling my novels there. A couple of minutes later an elf appeared, apparently looking for a man in a suit or at least the latest fashionable attire from that yuppie-loving outfitter L.L. Bean.

When the elf finally realized that I was the author and that yes, indeed, I was wearing a ball cap and a barn coat, her face turned ten shades of elf color and then she spent what little time she gave me by trying to make me feel as bad about myself as she possibly could for 1) being in a barn coat and ball cap, despite the fact that I was clean-shaven and otherwise well-groomed, 2) being a Print-On-Demand author which the elf made very clear to me that there were just so many of them around (as though we bred like flies and had our hands out for the rest of our lives) and 3) that I had interrupted her day to talk about a POD book (and not a real one from their distribution list out of New York City) and that I had the gall to do so while wearing a barn coat and ball cap (despite the fact that it was a new barn coat and an attractive ball cap advertising Martha’s Vineyard).

Despite the fact that almost everyone in the bookstore was dressed casually and some even more casually than I was, I immediately got the picture.  Nobody in that bookstore was dressed up. Nobody had a tie and jacket on. This was a college town. Ball caps were on heads everywhere. But, I got the message this incredible little snob wanted me to get. She wanted me to take my five books and just go away. Fine. I'd do just that but not just yet, I told myself, undeterred by her nasty demeanor. I was determined not to be bested by the snooty FemBot before me, elf or no elf. I asked her if I could leave my card with her and, reluctantly, she took it without even looking at it, like it was alive and already in the act of violating her somehow. Then I thanked her (for what? I later asked myself) and left.

Outside, I asked myself if I would ever sign books in such a place as that, in the unlikely event that my novels would one day appear on some big-time New York City publishing list. Then, without hesitation, I answered myself.

“It'll be a cold day in hell,” I replied.