Reading for the Maritime Writers' Workshop - Or Not

OK, so there I was a 7:30 AM (AM!) on Saturday morning on a patch of grass across the street from the Boise Farmer's Market with a blue blanket displaying book marks, Maritime Writers' Workshop brochures and posters, and a big glass jar filled with pennies. The jar had a sign about me paying people a penny it they'd just listen to a few lines of my reading from my books. I even had a beach chair.

Unfortunately, I didn't have any coffee. Or a coat. And the promised warm day didn't start till sometime in the afternoon.

The idea was ... I would sit there and read from my books and people would come over and listen and take some of the promotional material and maybe even spread the word about the workshop.

But classes were over at both universities (which meant the town's population was down to 300 and none of them were at the market). It was lonely and cold. I asked a sleepy squirrel if he'd be interested in a story but he just scowled at me and said: "All I want's the nuts, asshole. Stick your story where the sun don't shine."

Damn squirrels.

A few people walked by and saw me and quickly turned away, hiding their faces and looking like the last thing on earth they wanted was to hear a story. A woman with two boys carrying sandwiches approached me with big smiles and asked what I was doing. Before I had a chance to answer, they mugged me and stole most of the pennies. Passersby watched and nodded agreement.

But I hunkered in and stayed where I was, ready to read. As soon as anybody came close enough to where I was sitting. Finally, a man walked by with his daughter. They were carrying bratwursts in buns and pop. I asked if they'd like to hear a story while they ate. "Go to hell," said the daughter. Her father kicked the jar over and the remaining pennies sank into the grass and disappeared.

It was getting close to ten. More people were starting to show up. I said to hell with it and started reading. But I couldn't read. I was frozen. I was shivering. My fingers were stiff. My voice was breaking. And everyone at the market was turning backs on me. Here's the proof:

So I packed it in and went straight to the Second Cup Coffee Shop and drank coffee till I dropped. I'm still there. On the floor. Under a table.

But I'll be back at the market next Saturday, weather permitting. This time at 10 AM when it's warmer. And I'll have a thermos of coffee and many many weapons. And then I'll take to the street corners. And when they take the hut off the fountain by the green with the three ladies, I'll be there reading my latest short story: Ladies of the Fountain. It's a dirty story. Don't miss it.