The fellow at the next table saw my display when he turned to leave. “Did you write all these?”

40ish. Pale. Thin. Darkly dressed. Maybe a Brit.

I said I had.

“I don’t remember the last novel I read,” he said.

“Only two of these are novels,” I said.

“Yes, I do,” he said. “A friend wrote it.”

I pitched, in 50 words or less, total, the four books that were not novels.

He made videos. He did not believe books had a future.

I believed they did.

Adele said, later, “Become his friend, and maybe he will buy a book of yours.

I considered the plusses and minuses.

Note: Keen-eyed, unmemory-impaired, numerically-obsessive readers may note there has been no Week 45 in this space. Do not worry. It shall appear. Meanwhile…]

Sold, via this very web site — where all my books are available — one “Outlaws…” The buyer identified himself as a fan of “Pirates” — and a publisher, who invited me to write for him. His e-mail proposed a 40,000 word “primer,” on a subject I took a shine to, for a figure on a check which would be more than I’d seen in a while but, per word, wasn’t. So I responded with an inquiry about royalties, on what I envisioned as a stand-alone pamphlet, inquired about a series,…

“He only wants 4000 words,” Adele, with whom I share the e-mail address, said.

Ooops.

“You probably think I’m n idiot,” I followed up to the publisher. “But I’m in.”

Sold two “Best Rides.”

That Berkeley author/publisher (See earlier blog) wanted to check me out. “Give me the one from the New York publisher.” (Since BR doesn’t reflect how I write now, I threw in a free “Cheesesteak.”) Then that UC English major (See even earlier blog) lived up to his promise to buy a novel once he had some cash with him. (Given what I hear about his department, I suspect he wanted to see what Old White Men have been up to,)

In other news, the home answering machine picked up one of those “I’m trying to reach the Bob Levin who wrote ‘XYZ'” messages. (These are less frequent, though more exciting, than those hoping to schedule an appointment with Bob Levine, the acupuncturist.) My mind immediately swung into its usual fantasy, which, tellingly, involves my receiving hundreds of thousands of dollars fro Hollywood rather than, say, an inquiry as to when I might be free to pop over to Oslo to pick up my award. Since the caller did not identify his purpose, I Googled his name and found he might be an assistant secretary general at the UN, a defensive tackle for the University or Arkansas, or a fellow who shared his Twitter photo with a monkey.

Stay tuned.

[Bob’s books are available at this very web site.]

Sold three books. (I hate to say it, but Donald Trump may have the economy booming. Trickling down to my café table anyway.)

An M.D. at Café One bought a “Best Ride” and a “Schiz.” (He’d already bought a couple of my other books, so he must be a true fan, not just being polite.) Then an aspiring writer at Café Two, with whom I’d previously bantered “career guidance,” bought a “Cheesesteak.”

My display at Café One also drew into conversation a more accomplished and better known, while still under-appreciated Berkeley writer. We talked Commerce and Art. (He has his own non-profit publishing house to which he kindly invited me to submit my next manuscript.)

And in yet another testament to semi-unconscious networking, this fellow with whom I had played basketball for over a decade without knowing his surname, let alone that he had studied with John Barth before becoming a regular contributor to national magazines and author of several books, graciously gave me contact information for his agent and okayed my using his name as a referral.

I may have to start looking more kindly upon my fellow man.

[Bob’s books are available from this very web site.]

T. asked how the book sales were going.

I looked up from my table. I said I seemed to have saturated the market.

We had met at the other café where I do business, when he had said my “Buy Bob’s Books” sign was too confusing. It should say “For Sale.”

I had offered to swap him a book for such a sign.

He had not availed himself of this opportunity.

He asked if I no longer went to the other café.

I said half the time I did.

He said he no longer did.

When he had been living in his van, he said, he had needed the café for Wi-Fi. Which meant he had to buy a coffee ($3), and then a pastry ($3) and, if he stayed for lunch, a sandwich ($6) and another coffee. But now he had a room in a house. He had a big screen TV. He never even went on his lap top.

And reading did not appear to factor into his equation.

2.

“I have never seen so many people stealing books, burning book. And this is Berkeley,” said the woman seated outside the café, a backpack under her poncho, shopping bags by her sides. “Mostly redheads.”

[Bob’s books are available from this very web site.]

Ten of my old pick-up game regulars attended this winter’s reunion at the west Berkeley bar. We discussed a few hearts, a hip, a cancer, two backs. Five of us still worked. Only one played basketball.

One fellow, who’d worked for the park district, told me he’d enjoyed “Cheesesteak” and regretted missing the launch party of “The Schiz” (flu). Copies were still available, I told him.

Three fellows had bought copies at the launch party. Two did not mention it. Which did not surprise me. But one, a lefty trial attorney, said, “I read your book.”

“What’d you think?” I ventured.

“It was funny.”

Which did surprise me. “Which book?”

“The new one.”

“‘The Schiz’?”

I mean, it is funny, but most people…

He said he had liked the skewering of lawyers and doctors.

He also said, when it got slow, he skipped ahead.

I did not believe it was ever slow, but, over all, I was pleased.

“How’s the heart?” I said.