Deathwatch didn’t sell.
Jonathon was
embarrassed, and angry. He didn’t come right out and say that it was my
fault, but he didn’t take all the blame on himself, either. What had
actually happened, I later learned, was that the idea of an AIDS-ridden
detective was not the novelty it had seemed. Every editor we approached
either hated the concept or had recently signed a contract for a book
based on a nearly identical premise.
“One thing is for sure,” Jonathon said, by way of spreading the blame. “None of the editors we contacted liked the name Smed.”
***
I
started the heavy drinking again, and shortly thereafter had my first
close encounter of the fourth kind. That is to say, with death. I was
crossing Nicollet Mall in a non-sober state, and I didn’t see the bus.
It actually brushed the front of my shirt, taking with it two buttons.
I stumbled to the nearest bench, collapsed, and waited for things to
stop spinning.
It took a long time. When I finally felt as
though I could stand up without falling down or hurling, I
walked—tottered, actually—back up the mall, staying close to the
buildings, until I reached the Barnes & Noble bookstore. I
approached the information counter.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked the pert young woman.
“That depends,” I said. I asked her if she had any of my books in stock.
She
worked her terminal with wizardly speed and confidence, rapping out an
authoritative fugue on her keyboard. After a moment she told me my name
was not listed.
I looked at the screen. “You’ve misspelled me,” I told her. “Leave out the ‘P.’”
She retyped, waited, then shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Could you order one for me?”
“Just
a moment.” She made the keyboard clatter again, then frowned and
shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir, but all your books seem to be out of print.”
My
encounter with the bus had sobered me up a little. The news that I was
officially out of print sobered me up a lot. The young woman was
pointing at the far end of the store.
“You could check our remainders section, sir.”
***
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