One Day in November by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

One day in November of 2014 found me at a window seat in the Starbucks inside the Metropolitan Target in midtown Charlotte. It was about noon, I guess. I was on my lunch break.

The weather was sunny yet windy: a refreshing autumn day. I was consuming a cheap lunch of miscellaneous grocery items that I had just purchased, as I watched the construction of another mid-rise apartment building inside the I-277 bend at Stonewall Street. Well, the cranes are certainly going again in this burg. I wonder how much those units will rent for. Over $1000 a month for just a studio, I’m sure. A two-bedroom unit would be out of the question. Ah, just stay focused on the complex at 3rd and Kings. Easy walk to work from there. Would be perfect. Monique would certainly like it. But, with my credit score … maybe, no way. Enough fantasy.

I then began to overhear a conversation behind me, about twelve feet away, at a table next to the wall. Two middle-age white guys in gray blazers were talking very excitedly. I quickly activated my DAR (Digital Audio Recorder). One guy seemed to be an author and the other guy … well, I couldn’t quite figure out if he was a prospective literary agent or client of some sort or a potential customer. Without further ado, here’s a veritable transcription of their conversation with the apparent author, Dave, leading off.

“And that’s what I’ve been doing.”

“No, wait, tell me that again.”

“Damn it, George! You are much more focused on that frilly coffee than what I’m saying.”

“Ok, Dave, this time you will have my complete attention. I promise.”

“Listen, I’m only going to repeat this one more time, and that’s it.”

“Ok, ok. Go. I’m all ears.”

“You do have some big, hairy-ass ears, George.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. And fock [sic] you, too, Dave.”

They both had a hearty chuckle. Then the George guy continued the conversation.

“Now, what did you say that you were doing with the chapters of your new book?”

“I’m doing what I did to get the last book moving along. I’m posting whole chapters on different sites, on different platforms, in different media.”

“What the hell do you mean, Dave?”

“I mean, for instance, with my last book, I put all of chapter one on my personal blogsite.”

“Ok, did you charge a subscription fee to read it?”

“No, it was – and still is – up for anyone to read.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No, I’m not. It’s still there.”

“And, I think I remember you saying that chapter two is online somewhere, too. Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s correct, George. Chapter two of my last book is still on my facebook page.”

“The whole chapter? Can you really post something that long on facebook?”

“Well, it’s broken up into sections, but it’s all there, and it’s set to public viewing, so even non-friends can read it.”

“Amazing. And you said that chapter three is on twitter. Am I right?”

“Your memory isn’t so bad, George.”

“So, chapter three is just 140 characters?” George asks and quickly guffaws.

“No. It’s a short chapter alright, but it’s not nearly that short. I mean, c’mon, George, a six-sentence chapter? Really?”

“Hey, I never know what you’re capable of, Dave.”

“I broke it up into about 400 tweets.”

“Broken up into about 400 tweets? Unbelievable, Dave.”

“I try to be, George.”

“Ok, where is chapter four?”

“Excerpts from chapter four were posted in the comments section after various news stories on the internet.”

“You posted them on news websites?”

“Yep. Just a few paragraphs here and there. Always managed to get the amazon link in.”

“So, you spammed your way to literary glory, Dave.”

“It’s not spam, George; it’s obliquely related to the particular news article.”

“Obliquely? You’re too much, Dave. I’m sure you got torched with hate mail along the way.”

“Yes, sometimes. And, when it occurred, I just replied with chapter five.” Dave grinned while adjusting his glasses.

George looked completely stunned. “You are absolutely mad, Dave. Truly mad.”

“George, you have to do out-of-the-box things to get anywhere if you’re an unknown author.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re saying. Ok, what are we up to? Chapter six?”

“Yes, chapter six.”

“Ok, let me guess, you handwrote it on rolls of toilet paper in select hotels in New York City.”

“No, in London.”

They started laughing hysterically. The unbridled laughter continued for about ten seconds.

“Actually, George, chapter six was printed on large, 11-by-17-inch, yellow sheets of paper, which were then folded into airplanes and launched off random building terraces all over the US.”

“You’re surely kidding me this time, Dave.”

“No, I’m not, George. I saw people below on many occasions taking pictures of the paper planes. And, get this – this still gives me goose bumps - I later saw the unfolded planes on the internet. Ingenious publicity, huh, George?”

“I’m really surprised that you haven’t been arrested yet.”

“Me, too. But, I never launched more than three paper airplanes from any one building. Wouldn’t want to be known as a litterbug.”

“Whew! Too much, Dave.”

“Just doing what I feel like I need to do.”

“Ok, and where can one find chapter seven of your last book for free, Dave?”

“Chapter seven of Eight Minutes Below Dawn, which, by the way, is the final chapter, is only available at my seminars. I project the text on the walls. It’s also where I distribute the paperbacks.”

“Paperbacks? So, you’ve actually been physically published.”

“You thought I was just shopping a digital file?”

“I never know what you’re pushing, Dave.”

“I’m getting the paperbacks printed for about three bucks each. I charge $19.95 a head for the seminar. I just give the books away as door prizes.”

“Door prizes? Seminars? Who would pay money to come to your seminar, Dave?”

“You would be very surprised. Quite an assortment of people from all phases of the spectra. Once you advertise that you get a book, a lottery ticket, coffee and finger food, you’d be amazed at how many attend.”

“Well, what do you bill the seminar as? What’s the moniker? What’s the hook line, Dave?”

“The hook line? Learn how to fold the longest-flying paper airplane and win big money.”

George started laughing. “That’s hysterical! I should be recording this conversation, Dave.”

“I’m sure that someone around here is recording us.”

That’s when my DAR died. I got up to leave. Dave and George stopped talking as I made my exit.