The writer sat down at the plastic table. A line of middle-aged women accessorized with chunky, faux-gold jewelry stood chatting while they waited for him to take out his pen.
Their single file line turned amoeba, conversations ranging from appliances to recipes and where to get the lowest price on gas. Hands touched arms in familiar, nurturing gestures. The air was filled with Folgers brewing and a potpourri of heavy-handed perfume applications.
The banner overhead read: Welcome Dirth Damascus in bold black letters, and Viva Fidel underneath in red. Confusing, I admit. It wasn’t even the book’s title. Regardless, the committee came up with it, agreed on it and had it printed.
Mr. Coffee, still alive after all these years, calmly percolated as I set out styrofoam coffee cups on a separate table in the corner. I was embarrassed our budget wouldn’t allow, at least, for a tablecloth to cover its worn surface, and had volunteered to bring my own. Alas, partisan politics vetoed even this vapid notion of mine.
I made sure to hover all over the author’s personal space, standing to his right, once the task of setting up cups, napkins, creamers and sugar was complete.
“Marge, would you mind bringing me a little bit of water? Thanks, so much,” he commanded.
This writer’s appeal to our book group befuddled me. And, him. Dirth and I had exchanged pleasantries prior to the signing.
“It’s an unusual segment I’ve reached, if that’s what you’re asking. Not who I intended to strike out and meld, per say” he told me as he panned the crowd. I grilled him with questions such as “Did you write the book for the suburban white warrior? Do you think they’ll do what you say?” I had a way with direct communication that earned me the coveted position of host and emcee for our events.
At last the line was moving. The first book he signed was dedicated to Valentino.
“Such an interesting name. Husband? Lover? “ He winked into a face caked with tawny makeup, demarcated at the jowl with a white line. He stared and perhaps wondered if she chose the radical look, or it her.
“No, dear. It’s my dog.” She grabbed her edition and sashayed back into the crowd. Dirth’s eyes settled on her backside where visible ridges of cellulite showed through cream colored trousers. I heard him sigh.
He maintained a Howdy Doody countenance throughout the trite exchanges that followed, maybe the effect of a mood stabilizer? Some of the women, blushing when they placed their book on the table in front of him, spewed accolades in hushed monotones. “I read this book for four days straight, I only put it down…” and it was here where I heard Dirth whisper to himself “…to blow my husband.” The lady, still spontaneously combusting, chirped about her favorite character, drowning out his obscenity. The snippets the women related to him were reminiscent of book reports we had written in the fourth grade.
“Okay, June, keep the line moving! We’ve got a whole group behind you. Dirth’s got to conserve his energy,” I prodded them along.
When Annie Floxen reached the table, I took her book, opened it and put it under Dirth’s left hand. “Hi there, who are we dedicating it to?” he said.
Annie Floxen spelled her name aloud, “A-N-N-I-E. And, please, one question; Who would you say influenced your writing style, most of all?”
“What a nice question, Miss A-N-N-I-E. I’ll tell you. It was Miguel de Unamuno. Philospher. Lusophile. Among other things. Do you know about him. Positivsm? Or this?” He broke into verse….
On these dreary afternoons,
when the hours delay in slipping away
and are leaving behind traces of tedium,
the sole cure, sorrowful star!
in seeing oneself cast out
is to take refuge in the abyss of memories
which never were.
He appeared to be glowing, lit from within. But, then, Dirth stopped short. Annie Floxen’s face had crumpled up and spit tears sideways. “She’s defied gravity with that trick,” he mumbled ventriloquist-style, looking up at me. She grabbed her book and fled.
“Menopause, Dirth. Don’t you worry.” I patted his shoulder. He sighed again; the sounds increasing in heaviness as the line neared its end.
I noticed a group gathering around Annie Floxen and Mr. Coffee, throwing down the black broth like tequila shots. “Dirth, the hair on the back of my neck has risen. That group over by the coffee pot is arming an insurgency. I recognize the signs, they’re practicing maneuvers now.”
Dirth was shaking out that left hand of his, relaxing overtaxed muscles, an interlude before the next patron, when the cry of the bugle rang. He shot up from his chair and flung his right arm to attention. I had read he was an army brat, and, boy did it show. It was in his bio on the back cover of one of his earlier novels “Andalusian Jungle,” a baffling title and, dare I say, book. I was in the minority. He used that one to claw his way into a publishing deal that’s lasted all these years.
Floxen and squad broke from their huddle into two straight lines, facial expressions washed away. This was going to be a full frontal assault, fueled by Mr. Coffee.
“Dirth, at ease. They’re marching against you, not with you. I wouldn’t salute.” I had to slap him back to a logical position.
They overcame the table in a flash, enveloping both of us. Annie Floxen, still emotionally derailed, chose not to lead the attack. It was instead, surprise, surprise, Ginny Owens. The bitch had been ROTC and never let any of us forget it.
“Mr. Dirth Damascus,” she started, “we are highly offended by your snot-ball attitude on our turf; by your perma-smile, which we know is fake, judging by the headshot on the back cover of your books. Do you hear me, Mr. Damascus? We wanna know what the hell kind of crappy juju you put on our Annie Floxen. We want to know who it is that has influenced your writing. Plain English!” Her army voice rang through the rafters.
Dirth turned to me, the light back on. Beaming, he said, “Okay. I’ll give you the most honest answer a writer can give. I will tell you women what I’ve always wanted to tell the morning news shows, the intrepid magazine journalists, every last American, and any foreigners reading my work in translation. It’s none other than Sponge Bob SquarePants. Okay? That makes you all feel good? You can sleep better tonight? Y’all will still be reading my Tweets? Am I off the hook here?” He winked at the brigade.
The mob fell back. Stunned to silence. This was a shock to their systems. A zany, yellow cartoon sponge they all laughed at, and with. It filled their souls. Then, Ginny started it; an obnoxiously slow clap. It gained momentum as each of them fell in. By the time it was at its apex, the robust clamor and joy in the room fed Mr. Coffee’s flight: straight off the table, shells fragmenting all over the floor.