dancombsauthor

[dancombsauthor]

Street Sales

           I depend heavily on my social media presence to advertise my books. It’s easy and costs virtually nothing, although the effort it takes to access the internet can sometimes add up to more than a few hours. Not wanting to spend money on a connection to the web means I need to patronize a local library in order to post announcements for everything from signing events to annual sales promotions.

           Having recently moved to a town small enough that the high school library doubles as the Public Library, I imagined the opportunities to repeat the circumstances of my last signing, held at a branch of the Corpus Christi library, to be few and far between. Luckily, the local store where I offer the Danger Boy series decided to hold a sidewalk sale. The proprietors of the Orange Grove Emporium had been experiencing a downturn in customers since the onset of the COVID era. Along with a general disregard for their very existence. They’d done their best to get on every commercial rating site but in a town of just over thirteen hundred, the chance that someone was using the internet to locate a vendor of any product here was pretty low.

           The retail district is at the heart of downtown, a one-block long stretch of asphalt lined with shops, a museum, a laundromat, a daycare facility, and a healthcare provider. Oh, and a senior center on the corner. Not much foot traffic. When people drive in to see what our not-exactly-bustling town has to offer, many folks call asking for directions to the Emporium while sitting in their cars right in front of the place.

           Why not set up on the sidewalk so anyone passing by would be able to see that many kinds of stores were operating under their very noses?

           As soon as enough of the people selling goods at the Emporium agreed that the answer to this question was, “There’s no good reason not to, so let’s go for it,” a date was set to do the first sidewalk sale the town has ever seen. Which meant I needed to come up with some way to make my product stick out. A large sign should do the trick. Maybe a giant poster of the book cover, big enough to be seen by passing traffic. Not many cars on a Saturday. How about some way to show what was in the book? That’s it. A visual biography, highlighting my achievements. Good thing I’d scanned most if not all of the newspaper clippings and awards and programs in my collection of memorabilia.

           Here’s where saving boxes comes in handy. I still had the giant box my futon came in. Cool. Cut a big slab of that, print out nine or ten pages of photos, arranged in a tasteful presentation, glue them on, and viola.

           I set up a small table in front of my bio, laid some books down, and waited for the crowd of people I and a few other vendors hoped would be passing by. And waited. Things picked up an hour later when a group of women doing some training for the daycare place noticed a smell of gas in the room they were using. Nothing like a fire truck and several firefighters roaming the street to call attention to our sale.

           Whenever someone got close enough, I would say hello, and point out some of the better pictures on my big board: me shaking hands with another skydiver after a successful jump, a shot of me posing on a red carpet in New York while attending the premiere of a film I was in, me as the drum major of my high school marching band. That was a favorite, many folks smiling as if reminded of their own school days.

           I did sell some books, signed my autograph, and had a great time. But, more importantly, made connections with the local populace and got the word out that an author now resided in their town.

           One of the other vendors didn’t seem to be having as much fun until I pointed out that our little sale wasn’t necessarily about making money but taking advantage of what was, essentially, free advertising.

           As they say, any publicity is good publicity.

           Until next time, this is Danger Boy, signing off.

[dancombsauthor]

How To Sign An Ebook

           I did a book signing a few months back for my WWII historical romance novel entitled Love, Johnnie. It’s still only available in electronic form, low sales leading the publisher to hold off on ponying up for a hardcopy version. This event was held at a local library in my then hometown of Corpus Christi.

           The genesis of this little party, as it were, was rather interesting. I’d been using the library as an online resource, not having an internet connection at home nor on my phone. Long story. Moving on. One day I noticed a poster stuck to a window next to the front door announcing a local author book signing, something I’d never even considered, having done my previous appearances at places like art galleries and performance spaces.

           I called the library later that week. The woman I spoke to, the one who was in charge of pretty much everything at this small branch, was quite pleasant and helpful. She explained that she could easily arrange a time, and asked when I would like to schedule my signing. I floated a date, she said the one I chose was a bit close to another author’s, we negotiated, and finally settled on a Saturday, a couple of months in the future, at 3 p.m.

           Easy. Or so it seemed.

           Then she asked if I would be gracious enough to donate a copy of my book to the library. I responded that I would be delighted. I asked, “Who should I send the ebook to?” She said she would have to look into that. Fine. A week later, I got an email from her telling me that they only did ebook business through a certain online retailer. I contacted my publisher; they said they would look into it. All I’d wanted to do was gift the Neyland Library an ecopy from Barnes and Noble and this seemed like a lot of unnecessary hassle but whatever.

           I dutifully began my promotion campaign, making a flyer, updating the news and events section of my website, and telling a few friends around town. A week after that I got another email from the library director. Turned out the date I had picked coincided with a book-related event at a newly-created historical festival. She wrote: “My boss thinks we should move your book signing to the following weekend.” I pushed back as hard as I could, stating that I would need to make changes to my promotion, re-text invitations, yadda, yadda. She wouldn’t budge. So, we moved it. She did offer to have someone on her staff whip up a poster and some flyers as compensation, so I took her up on this generous offer and supplied a jpg of the book cover and a photo of me.

           The flyers were great: just less than a half page, a picture of the cover, date, time, location. They really looked good in the windows of the downtown businesses that agreed to post them, standing out among the many other artsy advertisements.

           The event itself went wonderfully. A few friends and roommates showed up, along with some local book nerds. I did a short reading. Intending to highlight three different sections of the book, I used a technique from my gigs at the Bodega Monthly events in Brooklyn back when I was still workshopping the Not Another Danger Boy stuff - where authors were required to keep their presentations under seven minutes - and breezed through the material at a speed the library director thought a bit too fast-paced, but I thought would give me plenty of time to read the other two sections without boring the audience.

           After that part of the show, people starting asking questions. Good ones, thoughtful, heartfelt musings on the characters’ lives and the historical significance of their the situations. I ditched the other readings.

           I sold a few books. The library provided free WiFi so a couple folks used their phones to access a bookstore. There were pictures taken, hands shaken, and books signed. How do you sign an ebook, you ask? I’d thought through this dilemma before the ink on my book contract was dry. Actually, the answer came to me when I did the Smashwords ebook versions of the Danger Boy material. Before the Neyland event, I printed out beautiful, full color copies of the Love, Johnnie cover and dusted off my Sharpie.

           Take that, e-retailers.

           Until next time, this is Danger Boy, signing off.

[dancombsauthor]

Book promotion 101

           I haven’t written anything new for this blog in a long time. The first installments were all about the process of becoming an author: finding a subject, writing a book, getting it out there. Now that it is, along with several others, I have some catching up to do.

           Before Not Another Danger Boy was up on Amazon, there was the little problem of making others aware of its existence. The research I’d done suggested following its release by flooding social media sites with anything related to the book. I never imagined I’d find myself on Facebook or any other similar platform. It just wasn’t my thing. But now I was being told by reputable sources that it was a key to promoting my work.

           When I moved to New York, I wanted to make contact with other writers. So searching for groups dedicated to the art of filling a blank page with words felt like something I should be doing, anyway. The first such place I found required that members be on Facebook. No problem. New York Writers Circle here I come. Oh, right; you had to include a picture of yourself. Which I didn’t have.

           Photos of me are not as rare as they once were. But having discovered over the years that I was in possession of a near-photographic memory meant that I never felt as though carrying a camera around was necessary. And the concept of the selfie hadn’t really become common. At least as far as I knew. So I bought one of those disposable cameras and gave it a shot. Not good. I happened to be down on the waterfront one day and saw a professional photographer taking some snaps of the water taxis. I asked him if he would take a picture of me with my camera. After giving me a strange look, he complied.

           One writers group down.

           Then I became familiar with MeetUp, a site that lets people form online associations with the ultimate goal of meeting in person. Brooklyn Writers. Okay, that’s two. Enough to get started.

           The Writers Circle was a bit complicated. You had to RSVP and buy a ticket for a nominal fee, then trundle on down to mid-town Manhattan for an event in the party room above a bar. Not bad. The guest speaker was a woman who had spent ten years writing her book while conversing online with a community of Kindle users. She was one of the first people to use a self-publishing service called Smashwords, for ebooks. They wanted to get their clients’ product out to as many readers as possible so put her book up on their site for six days, free to anyone who wanted to read it. She was thrilled when many, many people downloaded this project that had consumed her life for a decade. And even more ecstatic about the check she received after the free offer expired and readers were expected to buy the thing.

           My experience with Brooklyn Writers was much more casual. We would meet at a wine bar in an upscale neighborhood, talk about what we were working on, and pretty much hang out. I had been a bit apprehensive about having to read my work aloud to the members. Or being assigned a topic and expected to write something on the spot. I’d heard about such groups. Not this one, thankfully.

           So when the first volume of what has become a four-part series finally hit the shelves, I felt like I was ready to get on the self-promotion train. I made a separate Facebook page and coerced as many of my Friends to Like it. I asked around at Brooklyn Writers regarding what I should do about a website. One of our members suggested coming up with a handle that was unique and would lead anyone Googling my name directly to it. We thought dancombsauthor would do the trick. Luckily, no one had taken it yet. That also became my email account for the book. Then Twitter, LinkedIn, etc.

           Sometimes I feel like I’m Tweeting into the cold, dark vacuum of space but what the hell.

           Has all this vaulted my work onto the New York Times Best Seller list? No. But I do have faith that, if nothing else, someone out there is seeing what I'm offering, and responding with interest if not purchasing a book.

           Until next time, this is Danger Boy, signing off.

[dancombsauthor]

The End.

            Which brings us back to an independent bookshop in the Washington Heights section of Manhattan.

            “Dan, come on down!” shouted the host of the No Name story slam.

            Clearing my throat, I walked to the Word Up bookstore stage, grateful that I’d had plenty of time to whittle the anecdote I was planning to read down to a version that would fit the format. The whole Magic Hat thing was a total surprise. A last minute change the host dreamed up on her way to the shop.

            I stood at the microphone and told what was essentially a new story, embellishing it with gestures and vocal inflections that I made up on the spot. All while watching the host out of the corner of my eye as she consulted her stopwatch to make sure I didn’t go over the time limit. Somehow I wrapped things up with ten seconds to spare, took a quick bow to a smattering of applause, and scurried back to my seat.

            Not my best performance, but it turned out to be the culmination of a process that began a couple of months earlier. I’d attended or participated in several events either held at or sponsored by this particular store. So when I ran into the owner at a friend’s art opening shortly after the No Name show I had no problem asking if she would carry my book.

            I recently had one of the clerks there take a picture of me holding it near the Local Authors section.

            So it turns out I do want to be a writer. At least for now. Returning to music is always a possibility. Back in my composing days, if I had some spare time I would sit at whatever keyboard I was using and work on a song. Now when I have an extra minute or two I hit the power button on my computer - a tiny notebook model that fits in my bag - and start typing.

            Dreams. Everybody has them. Even if you don’t know they’re there. Sometimes you find them, sometimes they find you. The trick is to know when it’s right to go after them.

            From my experience, that time is always now.

[dancombsauthor]

The End, cont'd...

            During this period I continued to work on my book. I was calling it Danger Boy and Other Stories. A common thread ran through it: risk. The first chapter detailed my first skydive. I tried to keep that one light, almost satirical. Another told about the time I overdosed on PCP. Which was an accident. I also thought my first paying gig as a musician fit the theme. That one involved a funeral

            By this time I’d signed up with another MeetUp group, Brooklyn Writers. These guys were into cranking out the pages. We would meet at a wine bar in a semi-posh neighborhood and write for one hour. Then we’d sit around and drink, or not, and talk about anything, including self-publishing. I was all over that.

            Thanks to a long term assignment that allowed me to write for big chunks of my work day, I finished what was now Not Another Danger Boy in a little over a year. The change in the title was due to my friend Gigi, who I’d hired to do the cover. And a bit of research into what the covers of most autobiographies looked like. We decided on a picture of me, similar to the one on Walter Cronkite’s book. Gigi took the whole Danger Boy thing to its logical conclusion. If he was my inner superhero, then that’s the way she would draw me. I thought doing everything in Superman colors would tie my image into the adventure-laden comic book world, and there you have it.

            I had the text, I had the cover, and with a little help from an online facilitator called CreateSpace, my book was now available on Amazon. I’m not sure I can describe exactly how that felt. I remember ordering ten copies for a book launch party and not being able to open the box they came in for a full day. I was overexcited, certainly. But there was something else. Now that I  was a writer - money wasn’t pouring in but I was earning a small amount with each sale - my life was going to change. It had to.

            The launch party was fantastic. I held it at a bar in the East Village. Playing host, signing books, thanking friends. My buddy, Steven, brought his camera. Gigi came by. I hung around until the last guest, my friend Hanna from Brooklyn Writers, made her way into the night, already late for a party.

            Good times.

            My life has changed. This may be the most motivated I’ve ever been. I’m currently working on getting that first volume into some local bookstores, even as I labor to finish volume three. It’s said that having more than one book available does wonders for sales. I guess people assume your work is popular, what with two or three titles.

            I do want to be a writer. At least for now. Going back to music is always a possibility. Whenever I had some spare time I would turn on whatever keyboard I was using and work on a song. Back in the day. Now when I have an extra minute or two I hit the power button on my computer, a tiny notebook model that fits in my bag, and start typing.

[dancombsauthor]

The End, cont'd...

            A fateful meeting, that first day at what amounted to my first real temp job in NYC. I would go on to perform many different tasks for three separate agencies, from receiving hundreds of shipments in the J. Crew mail room to mining data for IBM. But after quitting time of each one I would check the Unknown Artists’ web site to see what they were up to. So every show they put up - mostly at The Producers Club, an Off-Off Broadway venue near Times Square -  was a performance I saw.

            It would take several months of hanging out with these actors and directors and writers before they gave me a chance, my “big break” into the New York theater scene. We were all having after-show drinks at a bar in the neighborhood. Pam and Sarah were talking about something. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but as I sat down next to Pam she looked across the table and said, “We are so strange.” I raised my eyebrows. She turned to me and added, “But you like that.” To which I replied, “I keep coming back, don’t I?” She said, “Give me your e-mail.”

            Which I did. Now I didn’t have to check the website anymore. Announcements came directly to my e-mail in box. One of them was a call for scripts. Another Scene Night was coming up. Perfect. I wrote a scene that was intended to be the beginning of a larger work and sent it in. Pam - one of the founders and head coordinator - rejected it. She didn’t like its lack of an obvious finish. So in my response thanking her for the opportunity, I attached a silly piece with a neat, buttoned ending. Her response to my response was extremely positive, so I reworked that one a bit and…they produced it.

            Did that make me a writer? I wasn’t sure. In some ways I’d been a writer for several years, cranking out screenplays and what I was calling a novel. But none of that had resulted in my being paid for my creative sweat.

[dancombsauthor]

The End, cont'd...

            I decided to wait for a lull. When I turned around there was a car pulling up in the parking lot. Two men and two women jumped out and ran toward me.

            “It’s locked,” I said.

            Like any human beings when told that they cannot do something or get something, they rushed to the door to see for themselves that it indeed would not open. So the five of us waited for the show to end. Because no matter how hard we banged on the door, no one came to answer it. When it finally did swing open, and we walked in, Pam was livid.

            “That is so messed up!” she shouted. “I was sitting right here, videotaping. Never heard a thing.”

            “It sounded good from outside,” I said.

            “You’re all getting comped into the next show. Ryan!!”

            She went over to talk to guy who was running the box office, pointing us out, and nodding her head. I did come back the next night. Bizarre show. Great songs, good singing and acting. Fun. We all rode back to the ferry in the last shuttle van out of campus. And ordered drinks on the float home. Cool thing about the ferry: a bar.

[dancombsauthor]

The End

            “I told you,” Pam said, “we found this amazing black box theater at a college on Staten Island.”

            “Oh, yeah,” Tony said. “Maybe you better give me one of those flyers.”

            Listening to Pam spar with her coworkers while I was entering client information into a giant spreadsheet helped to liven an otherwise dull workday. Quite a character, Pam: tall with long, dark hair curled to perfection, dressed in appropriate office attire, but with the flair of someone not accustomed to sitting in a cubicle. Sharp wit, a requirement if you’re going to survive in any sales department.

            “You putting on a play?” I asked.

            She looked up from her desk. We hadn’t interacted at all since I arrived a week earlier. “Musical,” she said and thrust a large postcard-sized handbill in my direction.

            I took it and said, “Thanks.” The Unknown Artists present…

            “We only have the theater for three shows,” said Pam.

            “I’ll try not to forget,” I said.

            This was good. As I told Jonas on my first day in town, writing for theater was something I wanted to do. Maybe they needed material. I did have a silly piece about sexual harassment training I wrote for a friend of Gavin’s.

            Staten Island is not that far from Manhattan. A quick twenty minute ferry ride. The last time I was on a ferry was with my family during a short vacation to Milwaukee. I was ten or eleven. That boat had to negotiate Lake Michigan in some semi-stormy weather. The ferry out of the Battery Park area wouldn’t have survived that kind of pounding. I boarded with lots of other people and sat quietly, watching the Statue of Liberty drift by.

            I’d checked a map and decided to walk from the dock on Staten Island. Mistake. It took a lot longer than I’d anticipated. When I got to the college I happened to run into a security guard. I asked him where the theater was and he directed me to a wooded area that was across a four lane street from the school. I never would have found it without his help. Late. The door of the small, concrete building was locked. I was about to knock on it when I heard music coming from the other side. And it was loud enough to make me think the production was taking place only a few feet away.

[dancombsauthor]

The Middle, cont'd...

            Time to have the temp agency transfer my file from Michigan. I stopped by their office and talked to a woman who suggested I tailor my resume for local expectations. Going from Administrative Assistant to Office Clerk wasn’t really a demotion. Having them send me to the basement of a Nike store where twenty other unlucky souls and I ran around a maze of fifteen foot high shelves, pulling shoeboxes down and sending them upstairs to waiting customers, eager to try them on was.

            I hit the web the next day, searching for another company that would, hopefully, find me an assignment more suited to my skills. Nope. New agency, same mindset. My job was to box and label print samples for a place that did SEC filings. They were preparing to move to a new building across town. I was told that the work would take a few days, so I set my pace accordingly, moving quickly. Wrong. I finished the next day, twenty minutes before lunch.

            They did call be back a week later. So I got to unpack all those boxes and turn their contents into a small but well-organized library. Then they found some data entry to keep me busy. That was more like it.

[dancombsauthor]

The Middle, cont'd...

            Job.

            Actually, that could wait. I did have enough money to relax and settle in before I needed to stress about finding work. All I had to do was hit a local branch of the same temp agency I used in Lansing. And if they couldn’t find me anything, there were tons of others who would.

            Time to hit the library: free internet access. A must if I was going to make contact with other writers. I’d been a regular patron of the library since I was a kid. Stowaway to the Mushroom Planet. Probably not the first book I ever borrowed, but close. Poring over a good book is one of my passions. Almost any printed page gets me going, for that matter. I remember reading a Superman comic to my grandfather, one night when I was sleeping over, Mom and Dad out with some friends.

            Sitting in the Rose Main Reading Room, eyes glued to the screen, I scoured the web for any group dedicated to the craft of scratching intelligible marks on a piece of paper. New York Writers Circle caught my eye. A MeetUp group. OK. I tried to put in an application. Crap. You had to be on Facebook and supply a photo. I’d been avoiding the whole online friends thing. My buddy Gavin had joined and was instantly bombarded with Friend Requests from people he hadn’t seen in years, and wasn’t all that interested in getting reacquainted with.

            What the hell. It is the 21st century. I’ve read science fiction novels where people grew tiny organic computers in their brains that allowed instant access to all manner of people and information. I signed up, loaded the only picture of me I had from a thumb drive, and gained entry to the world of online communities. Actually, this was a great kick in the ass. If I was going to be a worthy member of the New York Writers Circle, I better get writing. I started the first story of my new book that day.

[dancombsauthor]

The Middle, cont'd...

            “My grandson,” he said. “He’s not here now.”

            “That’s fine.” I still had one day reserved at the hostel. “Let me give you the deposit now, then I’ll move in tomorrow.”

            He dropped a suitcase and said, “Oh, I tell my wife.”

            I waited as he disappeared into the rear of the large apartment. The place was as ragged as the lobby. But clean. My new landlord returned with a woman even shorter than him.

            “She says you pay the rent,” he said.

            “I’ll pay the rent when I move in. Deposit today; rent tomorrow.”

            A rapid-fire exchange in Spanish, the old lady waving her hands around, then silence.

            The old guy looked at me and said, “OK. Give me the money.”

            I did, the old woman scanning my face for deception. She said something to her husband, he snapped back. They were still bickering as the door closed and locked behind me.

[dancombsauthor]

The Middle, cont'd...

            Which I got right back on as soon as I’d spoken to the agency that placed the ad. A quick trip on the A express to upper West Harlem. When they asked where in the five boroughs I wanted to live, I said, “I kind of like it right here.” The neighborhood was a block up from Riverside Drive, a wooded lane next to the Hudson River. I could see New Jersey directly across the water. It took a little over twenty minutes to pay the fee and get the address.

            148th and Broadway, 5th floor. Not a great-looking building, broken floor tile, a bit on the filthy side, covered in the kind of dirt that comes from decades of wear, grime that you couldn’t remove without a sandblaster. Up in the rickety elevator, knock on the door.

            “Who”? A voice from the other side.

            I scrutinized the business card the guy at the agency gave me, “They sent me over from NYC Rooms For Rent. Are you Belkys?”

            The bolt lock clicked open and the door swung back to reveal an old man, maybe five foot four, his shoulder-length, grey hair tied back in a ponytail.

            “Come on,” he said, the words flavored with a Spanish accent.

            I followed him down a narrow hallway. We passed one door and stopped at the next. He used a key to open it. Not much: a bed, a television on a wooden stand, and a tiny refrigerator. And someone else’s belongings. He immediately began gathering them into his arms.

[dancombsauthor]

The Middle, cont'd...

            Thus began a whirlwind tour of a what New York has to offer in the way of the arts. A tiny slice of what is available. Off to meet Paula, who guided us through an exhibit of black and white photographs, some of which were laid out on tables, unframed, for our enjoyment. She knew a bit about almost every one, describing the photographer, the era the print was made, and the value. Then a brisk walk to Phillips De Pury for what turned out to be not just an opening, but a gala, complete with champagne, celebrities, and paparazzi.

            Right after we’d drunk three glasses of champagne and seen every item on display - twice - Sharon announced that she had a birthday party to attend. I walked her across Central Park to her studio apartment and tottered back to my room.

            When I was here the first time, I ran around the city until my feet were blistered, taking in as many events as possible, exploring the world that is New York. Now I have to focus. Apartment, job, in that order. Heading into Manhattan, I picked up one of the free newspapers from a metal stand next to the subway entrance. I was familiar with what it had to offer: news, gossip, event calendars, and classified ads. The one that caught my eye was half an inch square. A tiny picture of a furnished room, with the promise of a low weekly rent, a hundred and fifty dollars. I was on the phone as soon as I got off the train.

[dancombsauthor]

The Middle, cont'd...

            We decided on meeting for coffee. I got to the Starbucks a little early, waded through a sizable crowd, grabbed a sandwich, and waited. And waited. Just as I was about to leave - pushing my food around the plate, pretending I was enjoying myself - a woman with short, strawberry-blond hair walked in. I’d gotten a glimpse of her picture on her recently-closed-art-gallery website.

            “Hello,” I said over the din of patrons who simply had to get their caffeine fix for the afternoon. “Are you Sharon?”

            Her face lit up, “Hi! You’re Dan, right? Of course you are. Who else would be calling my name? Sorry I’m late; my bosses got to talking about a Warhol they loaned and when it was supposed to come back.”

            It was 2:45. “Do you want anything?”

            “I do, but we should just go,” she said. “We have to meet another collector at the Whitney at three. You’ll like her. Paula.”

            So much for the Museum of Modern Art.

[dancombsauthor]

The Middle, cont'd...

            I usually didn’t make an effort to establish contact with anyone in a city I was moving to. Packing up and just going was a great way to heighten the adrenaline rush. But this address change was different. My apprehensions about what I was doing were pushing my heart rate into the red zone as it was. The thought of having at least a few people I could rely on for companionship or help, should I need it, brought my pulse back down to a manageable level.

            To: Sharon

            Subject: New York move

            James said he’d mentioned my name and that you would be expecting my e-mail. I’m headed for New York City and am trying to make some creative contacts. I’ll be arriving on March 31st. Maybe we could meet for lunch on April 1st or 2nd or brunch on Sunday the 3rd?

                        Take care,

                        Dan

            To: Dan

            Subject: re: New York move

            Sorry I took so long to reply. Any friend of James is someone I look forward to meeting. I don’t typically take a lunch during the week but April Fool’s is my favorite holiday so could perhaps make an exception or was hoping to check out the George Condo show at the New Museum or the Abstract Expressionist show at the MoMa on Saturday as they both end soon. Would love company and coffee if you have interest in either. I have class Saturday at 11am but could meet early afternoon around 2ish. Let me know what works for you.

                        Safe travels and a seamless move,

                        Sharon.

            To: Sharon

            Subject: re: New York move

            Saturday around 2ish sounds good. I’ll give you a call, say, 1:30 so we can sync up and find each other in the MOMA area.

                        Talk to you later!

                        Dan.

[dancombsauthor]

The Middle, cont'd...

            Off to a hostel in what they call Bushwick, a subsection of Brooklyn. Nice place. I paid the top rate to get a room all to myself. No way was I going to share a space with who knows how many people. Bathroom and shower down the hall, big kitchen, common room. I grabbed a book from a small “library” near the kitchen door and stretched out on my bed. The trip had been long enough to have gotten a decent night’s rest, but I couldn’t sleep. Too nervous. Reading until I got drowsy, curling up for a nap, one thought passed through my mind before nodding off: I made it.

            When this move was still in the planning stages I’d e-mailed everyone I thought might know somebody in New York. One of the responses was from James, the co-owner of a gallery in San Francisco where I’d made a few dollars buying and selling art. He had a longtime friend, Sharon, who he said would probably be interested in hanging out. So I got in touch with her.

[dancombsauthor]

The Middle

            “Hi,” I said. “Mind if I join you?”

            The tall, well-dressed fellow looked over the top of his glasses and said, “Not a bit.”

            I hadn’t seen him on the bus. He had to have been on it because ours was the only one in the loading/unloading area when I got off. We were both hanging out at a tiny restaurant in the station. I was waiting for the sun to come up; another thirty minutes ought to do it. Taking a seat across from him, I sipped my bottled ice tea. He tore open a packet of sugar and dumped it into his coffee.

            “I haven’t been here for awhile,” I said.

            He slowly stirred his drink. “This is my second day this week.”

            “You work here?”

            “When they call me.” He shifted a garment bag from one seat at the small table to another. “I still have to get out to Flushing. I don’t have to be on set until nine, but this bus is the only one that gets to the city in time to make my connection.”

            “Movie, huh.”

            “Yeah.” He sounded tired. “I come in from Philly when the money’s good. They say to bring three looks, I bring four. They say nine, I’m there at eight. Gotta make an impression.”

            I stuck out my hand. “I’m Dan.”

            “Jonas.”

            “I was out in California writing a movie last summer,” I said. “Philadelphia seems like a long commute.”

            “It’s so much cheaper to live there, you wouldn’t believe it.”

            “I’m going to live here.” I opened my pack and pulled out a stocking cap. “Came in from Michigan.”

            “What do you know,” he said, “I’ve got a cousin in Detroit.”

            I said, “Lansing.”

            “You gonna write movies here?” he asked.

            “I don’t think so,” I answered. “I thought maybe some theater.”

            “I did a bit of that,” he said. “And some standup, but that got to be a losing proposition; too many comics, the pay went way down.”

            “Good luck,” I said, hefting my backpack.

            “You, too.”