Read Online The Bright Silver Star by David Handler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Handler
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store’s motto: A Mind Is a Terrible Thing to Lose.
“Hey, Mitch, good to see you!” he exclaimed, dashing back to hisstoreroom. He returned a moment later toting two cartons of Mitch’s paperback reference volumes. They began unloading them onto a library table. “You’re doing me a real favor, man. Believe me, I need all of the help I can get.”
“Jeff, I’m an author,” Mitch chided him gently. “You’re the one who’s helping me.”
He got started signing the books, passing each one along so Jeff could slap an Autographed by Author sticker on its cover. As they worked their way through the stack a boy of twelve or so came in the door, looking very intimidated.
“What can I do for you, buddy?” Jeff called to him encouragingly.
“I-I was just wondering if the new
Codfather
book came in yet,” he stammered, his voice soaring several octaves.
“I don’t sell that garbage in my store,” Jeff snarled in response. “Try Borders. Try Amazon.
Anywhere
but here, got it?”
Which sent the little kid scurrying out the door in bug-eyed terror.
“I can see you’re really working on your people skills,” Mitch observed.
“Ab-so-tootly,”
Jeff responded with great sincerity. “The old me wouldn’t have mentioned those other outlets at all.” On Mitch’s doubtful look he added, “Mitch, we have to measure our progress in inches. I learned that from my dear sweet mother, right along with another heartwarming chestnut: ‘You’ll never amount to anything.’ That’s why Abby dumped me, you know. She thinks I
want
to fail because deep down inside I think I deserve to. Didn’t want to be around my vibe anymore. Said it was contagious. What do
you
think?”
“I think that you have a beautiful shop and you should be very proud.”
“You really think so?” he asked Mitch imploringly.
Needy. That was the word to describe Jeff Wachtell.
“I really do,” Mitch assured him.
Pleased, Jeff began moving Mitch’s signed books to a prominent spot by the front door. Mitch browsed a bit. Among Jeff’s Store Picks he spotted a paperback copy of
Horseman, Pass By,
the slender firstnovel by Larry McMurtry that Martin Ritt had made into the movie
Hud.
Mitch had lost his copy and had been meaning to reread it, so he brought one up to the counter and paid Jeff for it.
As Jeff rang it up he started sucking his cheeks in and out again, peering at Mitch uncertainly. “Mind if I ask you something else? I just scored Abby’s tour itinerary from her Web site, and she’s making her way straight through Connecticut this week on her way to Boston. She’s already stopping at C. C. Willoughby and Company in Sussex, right? And her publicist, Chrissie Huberman, is here in town with Esme and Tito, right? Would it be out of line for me to ask her if she’d maybe schedule Abby to stop
here?
Abby sure would bring in the customers.”
“Jeff, you don’t carry any of your wife’s books, remember?”
“I could have fifty copies of
The Codfather of Sole
here by noon tomorrow,” he said in a determined voice. “All I have to do is pick up the phone.”
Mitch raised his eyebrows at him. “This is a tectonic shift for you.”
“Dead on,” he acknowledged, adjusting his glasses. “But I need to make certain allowances if I’m going to survive in this business. What do you think?”
“I think this is a very healthy development.”
“No, I mean about me approaching Crissie.”
“Why don’t you just talk to Abby?”
Jeff shook his head vigorously. “We only speak through our lawyers—at a cost of three hundred and fifty bucks an hour. Saying ‘Hi, how are you?’ runs me twenty-nine ninety-five.”
“I guess it couldn’t hurt. The worst thing Chrissie can do is say no, right?”
“Right,” Jeff agreed, a bit less than convinced. “Thanks, man.”
Mitch headed back out to the food hall with his book. It was lunchtime and the place was teeming with hungry Dorseteers, the din of their voices rising
“Hey, Mitch, good to see you!” he exclaimed, dashing back to hisstoreroom. He returned a moment later toting two cartons of Mitch’s paperback reference volumes. They began unloading them onto a library table. “You’re doing me a real favor, man. Believe me, I need all of the help I can get.”
“Jeff, I’m an author,” Mitch chided him gently. “You’re the one who’s helping me.”
He got started signing the books, passing each one along so Jeff could slap an Autographed by Author sticker on its cover. As they worked their way through the stack a boy of twelve or so came in the door, looking very intimidated.
“What can I do for you, buddy?” Jeff called to him encouragingly.
“I-I was just wondering if the new
Codfather
book came in yet,” he stammered, his voice soaring several octaves.
“I don’t sell that garbage in my store,” Jeff snarled in response. “Try Borders. Try Amazon.
Anywhere
but here, got it?”
Which sent the little kid scurrying out the door in bug-eyed terror.
“I can see you’re really working on your people skills,” Mitch observed.
“Ab-so-tootly,”
Jeff responded with great sincerity. “The old me wouldn’t have mentioned those other outlets at all.” On Mitch’s doubtful look he added, “Mitch, we have to measure our progress in inches. I learned that from my dear sweet mother, right along with another heartwarming chestnut: ‘You’ll never amount to anything.’ That’s why Abby dumped me, you know. She thinks I
want
to fail because deep down inside I think I deserve to. Didn’t want to be around my vibe anymore. Said it was contagious. What do
you
think?”
“I think that you have a beautiful shop and you should be very proud.”
“You really think so?” he asked Mitch imploringly.
Needy. That was the word to describe Jeff Wachtell.
“I really do,” Mitch assured him.
Pleased, Jeff began moving Mitch’s signed books to a prominent spot by the front door. Mitch browsed a bit. Among Jeff’s Store Picks he spotted a paperback copy of
Horseman, Pass By,
the slender firstnovel by Larry McMurtry that Martin Ritt had made into the movie
Hud.
Mitch had lost his copy and had been meaning to reread it, so he brought one up to the counter and paid Jeff for it.
As Jeff rang it up he started sucking his cheeks in and out again, peering at Mitch uncertainly. “Mind if I ask you something else? I just scored Abby’s tour itinerary from her Web site, and she’s making her way straight through Connecticut this week on her way to Boston. She’s already stopping at C. C. Willoughby and Company in Sussex, right? And her publicist, Chrissie Huberman, is here in town with Esme and Tito, right? Would it be out of line for me to ask her if she’d maybe schedule Abby to stop
here?
Abby sure would bring in the customers.”
“Jeff, you don’t carry any of your wife’s books, remember?”
“I could have fifty copies of
The Codfather of Sole
here by noon tomorrow,” he said in a determined voice. “All I have to do is pick up the phone.”
Mitch raised his eyebrows at him. “This is a tectonic shift for you.”
“Dead on,” he acknowledged, adjusting his glasses. “But I need to make certain allowances if I’m going to survive in this business. What do you think?”
“I think this is a very healthy development.”
“No, I mean about me approaching Crissie.”
“Why don’t you just talk to Abby?”
Jeff shook his head vigorously. “We only speak through our lawyers—at a cost of three hundred and fifty bucks an hour. Saying ‘Hi, how are you?’ runs me twenty-nine ninety-five.”
“I guess it couldn’t hurt. The worst thing Chrissie can do is say no, right?”
“Right,” Jeff agreed, a bit less than convinced. “Thanks, man.”
Mitch headed back out to the food hall with his book. It was lunchtime and the place was teeming with hungry Dorseteers, the din of their voices rising
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