This past Saturday, I did a signing at a Barnes and Noble a little up the coast from here. There was a guy named Victor (mid-twenties, at most), a B&N employee, who stood near me and by the entrance. He asked each and every entering customer if they'd like to sign up for a B&N membership. And wished each leaving customer a good day.
Anyway, Victor isn't quite right. He has a leg that doesn't work well, a slurred speech pattern and a perpetual smile that's just a little, well, too perpetual.
Victor and I got to chatting. He said he'd like to write a book one day. I think a lot of people want to write a book. Probably because everyone has a story, a different take on life. I really like to hear the varied premises.
"About what?" I asked.
Okay, guys, take a breath....He'd write about the drunk driver who ran into his family's car when Victor was five. Victor's dad was paralyzed. Victor's mother was thrown from the car and suffered broken bones only. And Victor became, well, Victor.
I was packing up to leave when Victor tapped me on the shoulder. He'd bought a copy of I So Don't Do Mysteries. A girly middle-grade mystery. In hardback. Victor probably makes a hair above minimum wage.
"I want to read about the places in San Diego I heard you talking about to everyone," Victor said, handing me the book. "And I want you to sign it."
Victor, I'm so glad I got to do a signing next to you. You should write your book. Definitely.