One Little Elephant

Once in there is no escape from the queue, short of vaulting over a barrier of display tables. My heart sinks as the fan line goes sluggish just as I come abreast Author One.

She's a lovely person: bright, vivacious, generous. But I'm on a budget. I've promised myself I'll only spend $20 at this signing. To ensure it I've only brought $20. That means two books tops. There are four authors signing.

Author One and I make awkward chit-chat while I politely eye her offerings and she arranges and rearranges her erotic romances. It quickly becomes embarrassingly clear I'm not going to buy. She glances past me to the next person in line - repeatedly. We are thinking in stereo: Please let the line move on. Now.

I wonder if she thinks I disapprove of erotic romance and that is my reason for not buying. It isn't. It's about only having come to the store with $20. But that said, I do share my home with voracious teenage readers.

I'd been scolded not long ago by a friend who noticed a handful of way hot romances mixed in with the year's other big-sellers on the bookshelf in my office. It didn't matter, she warned, if I was reading them as market research; having them in the house guaranteed my teens would read them. Did I allow my teens to go to sexually explicit movies?

Er, no.

Then why, my friend demanded, would I expose them to sexually explicit books?

Point taken. I'm against censoring adults' reading materials, but my personal tastes run more in the PG category. So protecting my teens was a real and handy excuse that let me off the 'market research' hook for reading the steamies. I'd driven away from the donation center without a backward glance and gone home - content - to my newly roomy bookshelf.

Finally the queue moved forward. I smiled at Author Two. Her new release , comfortably PG-13, was the reason I'd come to the bookstore today. I snagged a copy and she signed it for me. We chatted. The line moved forward again.

I had enough money remaining to buy one more book and though the signing table had been set up for four authors, I noted with relief that the last chair was empty. My money would take me to end of the table without any additional akwardness.

Author Three was offering both blazing hot and milder fare. I chose a mild one. As she signed it a chorus of scolding jubilation rippled through the crowd.  Young, beautiful, genuinely kind-hearted, and terrifically talented, Author Four was a crowd favorite. She slid into the last seat at the signing table while her entourage set up a snacks table at the end of the line and the crowd sweetly scolded her. She'd just had major surgery. She shouldn't be there. But the crowd was glad she was.

They flocked around the food, laughing and talking, blocking the queue from moving. I stood trapped in front of Author Four with no money left to spend.

We made awkward conversation about her health and her work. I felt a nightmare-ish sense of deja vu as she arranged and rearranged her display of ultra-steamy books, glancing past me repeatedly to the next person in line. People around me began to frown. I could almost hear them thinking: Who's the complete casserole who won't buy from this beloved author who has valiantly risen from her sick bed to be here?

Mercifully, the huddle at the refreshment table finally cleared enough for me to squeeze past the barrier of display tables. I shot out of the queue and past the refreshment table, paid for my books and slunk out of the store.

Note to self: never leave your credit card at home.

Something that's helping me write today: an unusual bout of insomnia.