Bought The Bone Clocks. Tried to hard to connect with the bookstore lady over it. Look, I’ve got my fake face on but then you go and work in a store where all the written recommendations for books I know I agree with, and all the ones for those I don’t know I trust enough to want to buy the books in question, and then you go and want to actually talk to me about the book I’m buying–yeah, sure, I’ll tell you how it’s the last of his I haven’t read, how I meant to wait until it came out cheap in paperback but how it’s made with that fancy paper, the type so crisp on it that, I love, and–
And then your eyes glaze over because you’re just trying to make a buck here, just trying to keep up a schmuckity-schmuck small-town indie bookstore vibe, and I regret saying a word to you other than my name to build toward this crazy-high threshold past which one earns a measly $15 discount, because I let my guard down in your damn store and you shafted me with your totally not-caring.
Still though the book’s great. I felt a little sheepish, carrying it around the store; he came here once and spoke and I was enthralled and it’s embarrassing to respect a flesh-and-blood person so much; it’s like seeing the comics you respect after shows–they smell it on you, the too-much-respect, and it creeps them out, as it should. Not that the guy’s in town now but still, having seen him and even exchanged a word or two (a signing), there’s still the sense like he might catch a whiff of it, wherever the hell he is, and be a little put off. Like he might, in short, be like the bookstore lady when I started warming to my topic and then slammed on the brakes because I realized she didn’t give two shits. Adulthood is nothing more than being able to end such conversations with a renewed fake smile instead of a glare or an eyeroll. That is literally it.