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Perseverance Pays Perseverance Pays by Jerry McCarty The bookstore was not much more than an oversized pantry wedged between Sears and Oscos. The shelves were all but empty and the window needed cleaning. If it had been clean, people could have looked in at the display of three books that had been sitting there so long, the covers drooped. Paint was flecking from the door frame and the lock was giving Charles trouble. He pushed and pulled at it as he struggled with the key until it suddenly creaked inward and let him stumble in. Charles was 86-years-old and the effort of entering left him trembling even more than his normal shakiness from Parkinsons. Blood raced a to his head and emphasized the splotchiness of his skin as he flipped on the overhead, dangling light and ambled to the high stool behind the counter. Disappointment creased his brow as he looked around him at failure. But undeserved hope lingered too. There had to be a way. The first 500 copies of his book, Mooseymouse, had sold quickly as he knew it would. He had presented it to friends and past business associates and they were wild about it. It was a ’s picture book filled with heart-touching adventures of a mouse who lived in a moose’s ear. He had ordered another 500 and written another book. It too began to sell well just before he had an IDEA. If he could sell that many of his books, he could sell a thousand. Twenty self-publishing authors could sell 20,000 of theirs. If each of them contributed $50 per month, they could rent store space and display at least twenty books. If each author would contribute a day of his time each month, there would be no payroll expense. And thus, for almost nothing, they could launch their treasured creations into the world. Their books would circulate. More people would buy them. Then ‒ discovery! A mainline publisher like Simon Shuster or Harper Collins would want to publish them. At least that was the plan. Charles’s plan didn’t take off as quickly as he had expected. He visited writer’s groups, libraries, conferences and book stores and ran down 263 wannabe authors before he found eighteen who had books to sell, $50 per month to spend and eight hours a month to sit in total boredom in the little book store. That took a year, perseverance and limitless optimism. He looked another six months before he found a store where there was heavy foot traffic that he could rent for under $800 per month. Most people would have thought it impossible but Charles had unrelenting hope. Charles tried to see through the dirty window and strummed his fingers on the counter knowing as he had for months that any minute a representative from Simon or Harper would come by and find this gold mine. He hadn’t counted on half the books being so poorly written. Many of the customers leafed through a few and left looking sick. There were some encouraging sales of the better books the first few weeks, but then traffic died. For about three months the authors reported for their turn to work the counter excited and determined to sell. They began calling Charles then and asking him to substitute for them from time to time until Charles found himself in the store four days a week. After six months, he seldom saw any of the authors even though he had emphasized that the pulling point of the store was for a real, live author to be in the store to sign books when a customer came in. That unique twist was what would lead to success, he had assured them. They believed him, but, “Gee, Charles, an idea hit me in the middle of the night. If I stop writing, I might lose it. Would you mind, just this time . . .” Charles was a writer. He understood. A little extra work wouldn’t hurt him but when the representatives showed up, he would push books by the authors who did do their share of the work, he told himself. It was hard for Charles to work at the store that much and find time to recruit more authors to replace those who decided, one after another, that they couldn’t afford to keep ploughing under $50 per month, but he was sure that maybe ten out of every thirty would stick with the program until he had twenty permanent authors and he could go back to writing himself. He was certain of it ‒ even though he’d had to start with eighteen and never had reached twenty. Through the dirty window he could see people stopping to peek inside and then continuing on their way. ‘Each time someone goes on past the door,’ Charles thought to himself, ‘It’s one person less between me and the publisher’s rep.’ Charles had brought in his legal pad and a pen this day as he had for almost a year. Few customers entered the store before lunch time, so he was able to write a few paragraphs and polish them each day for his newest book about the green snake with the red hat. He hadn’t thought the plot through yet, but he knew that with the snake for his main character he would have a winner. The bell above the door dinged a few times about twelve o’clock and a few people turned a few pages of the few books. They strolled out frowning and looking at Charles suspiciously from the corners of their eyes. Charles knew people had to think awhile before they bought something. They would be back. In the middle of the afternoon the bell above the door ding-dinged again. The man who entered looked at the shelves ahead of him and at the clerk at the desk sleeping with his head on a legal pad, pencil still vertical between his fingers. He strolled along the shelves opening books randomly until one grabbede his attention. He smiled at the picture of a mouse in a moose’s ear and carried the book to the desk. He tapped Charles on the shoulder, but there was no response. He stepped back and punched the buttons on his cell phone. “Hey boss, I found a dandy little ’ book I think we can sell big time. . .The author? . . .uhh, his name’s Charles something. Foreign name. . . Yeah, I’ll look in the phone book and see if I can locate him.” He hung up and nudged Charles. “Hey buddy, how much is this book?” When Charles didn’t respond, the man pushed him. The pencil fell out from between Charles’s fingers onto the counter as Charles’s body slid from the stool to the floor. |
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Ahhhhh.....yes!! I can clearly picture the setting which you've described. ...such a sad finish to a life..sighhhh
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