No sales.
Not even a nibble.
A fellow offered to swap the recitation of a poem of his authorship. I passed.
However, a few conversations to record before I fall too far behind.
1.) Young woman with light brown hair in neat bun sees my display and “Meet the Author” sign. “You must be the author.”
“Want to meet me?” I say. “Want to buy a book?”
“Oh, I don’t read. I mean, I read, but…”
“You must be one of those STEM students I’ve heard about.”
“That’s me.”
Her coffee is to-go, but she turns and comes back.
She has not changed her mind.
2.) Young man with matted, shoulder length dark hair, baggy white t-shirt, baggy purple shorts, belly like a slow-pitch softball slugger eyes my price stickers and says, “Too rich for my blood, man.”
On his way out, he recommends Alex Graham’s comic, “The Devil’s Gun.”
3.) James II asks about self-publishing for a book he is writing in which, if I have this right, Marx, Freud and Buddha meet, and the “soul” is discussed. It does not go well.
James II has close-cropped grey hair, a “Revolution” tattoo on his left forearm, and the skin of someone who has been spending time outdoors. He is up from San Diego for a spell before heading to Mexico. His t-shirt says “ Van’s Off-the-Wall,” which has outlets in L.A., S.F., and N.Y.C.
Present day Berkeley displeases him. The counter-culture has disappeared. Peet’s and Starbuck’s have blocked their electrical outlets so he can not plug in his iPad. The public library will not provided advice to aspiring writers. “The times aren’t right for what I bring to the table,” he says. “I have no idea any more where the table even is.”
So many Bob Levins on the Internet; I'm the Bob Levin who writes.