Spring 2012
A book reading at The Grove wasn’t the worst thing in the world, Rohan mused. It wasn’t a jazz solo at The Met, but it wasn’t exactly doing the robot on the Santa Monica Promenade either. Austin, his literary agent, had told him this was a necessity, part of the whole ‘being a writer’ thing, but the reality of it was only now setting in. He thought for a moment about skipping out on the obligation, but knew he had no choice. The contract was exceedingly specific: if he didn’t do the tour, his lucrative royalties would receive a significant buzz-cut.
This wasn’t like him. Rohan was usually more grateful for his recurrent good fortune. He tried to lift his spirits as he walked from the Farmer’s Market towards the bookstore, nostalgic of the many afternoons he had spent lounging on the upstairs balcony, reading and admiring the scenery. In an impatient motion, he stopped and glanced at his watch without actually reading the time. The gesture comforted him as he waited by the busy crosswalk where Austin had agreed to meet him.
A few minutes later, his friend and agent pulled up in a new luxury sedan and rolled down the window.
“Hey buddy, you lost?”
“You’re late, we were supposed to be in there 10 minutes ago.”
“Then why the fuck are you standin’ out here? You need me to hold your hand for everything?”
Austin spoke with a Texan twang that had acquired a distinct patina from years of living by the beach. At his side, as usual, was a beautiful lady. It was easy to tell Austin didn’t have much trouble with the fairer sex. Rohan ignored the comment and leaned over the open window of the automobile like a highway patrolman.
“Excuse me ma’am, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Rohan. You must be…”
“I’m Cynthia, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Rohan. I loved your book. Austin gave me a pre-release copy last month. Finished it in two days.”
“Guess it wasn’t the most challenging read, huh?”
“No, no that’s not what—“
“I’m just teasing Cynthia. It’s very nice of you to say. In fact, I’d love to chat with you more about your literary interests. Why don’t you have my agent get us in touch?”
Austin broke in, “Alright, alright, that’s enough. Let me go park. We’ll meet you inside.”
Before he could finish the sentence, Rohan swung open the back door and hopped in, “Nice try, but I too want to relish the spoils of my labor.”
He paused briefly to admire the interior, then said, “You do realize the bitter irony of earning a commission from a working class Indian man and using it to buy a British make, right?”
“No,” Austin laughed, “but I knew you would.”
Cynthia interjected, “Oh come on, Tata Motors owns Jaguar now. Everyone knows that. If anything, it’s fitting.”
Rohan, not expecting to be corrected by Cynthia, looked impishly at Austin, who simply gave him a shrug as he put the car into drive. Ten minutes later, the trio arrived at Barnes & Noble, where they were greeted by an overly-cheery bookstore manager. She led them towards a back room and as Rohan was walking past the DVD section, he caught a glance up at the second level where the reading was to be held. He was surprised by the turnout. Pausing for a moment to see if there were any pretty women in the audience, he felt a hard shove from behind.
“There’ll be plenty of time for that aft’ the reading, young stud.”
They quickly went over standard protocol and the store manager eventually escorted Rohan to his seat.
He tried hard not to smile when she gave her flattering introduction. As she wrapped up, he pressed his palms together and prepared to perform for the crowd. In that brief meditative moment, the true nature of his recent anxiety was curiously revealed to him. Having gotten to this point, he felt suddenly trapped. For the first time in his life he lacked motivation, was absent the existential drive that served as constant assurance. Of course it was the height of folly to think he had experienced and learned all there was, that nothing novel remained, but he couldn’t escape the fact that since the memoir had been published, everything felt worn out. Like he had written the ending before the story was quite finished.
He shook himself from his reverie to the expectant gaze of the audience. A smile overcame his practiced stoicism as he mused at the rebellious nature of his subconscious.
In the act of casting aside his anxiety, a teaching of Tsunetomo Yamamoto’s came to mind: “There is surely nothing other than the single purpose of the present moment.” As it so happened, he knew exactly the single purpose of the present moment, because his publisher had explained it to him in no uncertain terms.
“Go out and earn that paycheck,” he’d said.
With that in mind, Rohan began to read.
“The weather and the women, they struck me before I ever set foot on campus…”