by Derek M. Powazek

Twenty-five Cents and Counting

I walked into the Booksmith the other day and they were still there. Sitting there, the happy couple, just staring at me. Mocking me.

I muttered under my breath and walked out. I could stand outside and wait for Heather to get her shopping done. It would be easier outside. I could smoke. And glower.

It wasn’t always like this.

I wrote a book. It took me nine or ten months, depending on when you stop counting. And they were the longest nine or ten months of my life. I faced all those demons that authors face, and in the end, I had a book with my name on it. Not a collection of stories, not really, but a compendium of how to design community sites. What I’d been doing for six years. And I was every bit as proud of it as any mother who’d spent nine months making a baby.

But now my children mocked me every time I walked into the Booksmith. Those two, still sitting there. Unloved. Unread. Unpurchased.

I’d gone in a few weeks earlier. I went straight back to the computer books section of that little store on Haight Street and they didn’t have my book in stock. I got my courage up and walked to the counter.

“Um, hi.” I said.

“Hello,” said the counter guy, long brown hair, more well-read than I’d ever be.

“I was wondering if I could talk to whomever makes the book purchases for the store.”

My mind spun. Is that the correct use of the word “whomever”? I’m an author now, I should know these things.

“She’s not here right now,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Well, I wrote a book.” I said, a flash of pride passing over my face like embarrassment but warmer. “And since this is my local bookstore, well, it”d be really cool if you stocked it.”

“Sure,” he said turning to a computer. “What’s your name?”

“Powazek,” I said. “Pee oh double-you….”

“Design for Community?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“What’s it about?”

I told him. He tapped a few keys and said he’d order a couple.

I smiled and sat there for an uncomfortable moment.

“Oh, and I wanted to buy this,” I said putting a book on the counter. It was Rob Breszny’s novel. He’d be performing at Fray Day 5 in a couple weeks. I figured I’d better read it.

The counter guy rang it up. $18.25. I rummaged through my wallet.

“Um, I only have eighteen bucks, but I could — “

“That’s okay,” said the counter guy. “Author discount.”

I walked out of the store smiling.

Those two books he ordered came in a couple weeks later. I’d come in every couple days and place them prominently on the computer books shelf. Jakob Nielson had sold enough, I figured. He wouldn’t mind if my little tome wound up usurping his corner placement. I hear this kind of thing matters. Authors hear these things.

They’re still there, as far as I know. I hope they find happy homes someday. Until then, I’ll be in every couple days, just to make sure they’re okay. It’s as close as motherhood as I’ll ever get, I think. And besides, it’s the least I can do to earn that discount.