About the Author

It did get one prediction right, though.

“Aha!” you say. “I’ll check it out from the library!”

You grab your keys, get in your car, and head off to the library. Unfortunately, it’s rush hour. Also, there’s a new poorly-planned construction zone and there’s been a crash. A bad one, apparently. There’s a helicopter and everything. 

You’re stuck between the concrete barriers for three hours. It takes another forty-five minutes through stop-and-go traffic to reach the library. You could have driven to–what’s his name? Whatever his name is, it probably would have been quicker to drive to his house and just ask him what’s in the book.

There were also some, er, "issues" with the emergency response.

At last you reach the library. There aren’t many cars in the lot. “I hope all the copies of–” you check your phone. “Dark Horizon: Crossing the Void by David ‘Dave’ Snellen haven’t been checked out.”

You pull the handle and–

CLUNK!

You try the other door.

CLUNK!

You look at the hours on the door.

8:00 AM - 6:00 PM

You look at your phone. 

6:05

“Damnit!” you cry to the cloudless sky. The sun peeks through a tree, mocking you. 

"Don't you understand the word 'closed'?" -- The Sun

You ponder again while pacing up and down the sidewalk, your hands rubbing your head as if you're trying to warm up your brain. You must read the “About the Author” section of this book. You simply have to! You decide to bite the bullet and buy it. There’s plenty of time to get to Best Books To Buy. You pull into the parking lot filled with optimism and anticipation.

I hope they haven’t sold out! you think as you dash across the parking lot. You burst through the doors–turning sideways because they aren’t automatically opening fast enough for you–and nearly topple an elderly couple. 

You inconsiderate asshole! Watch where you're going!

You apologize profusely, set aside your life’s ambition to read the back of–what was the book called? Dark Something? Whatever it is, you’ll get it. Today is definitely going to work out. You’ll be feasting on the “About the Author” section while scarfing down pizza and binging Letterkenny.

“Again, I’m so sorry,” you say while walking them to their car.

“Oh,” the old man says. “Nevermind that. I’ve done the same in my day. Of course, we didn’t have automatic doors at the time. Why, one time I shoved a door open so hard, I knocked a guy’s teeth clean out of his head! Can you believe it?”

He tells you his name is Gerald.

“It’s German,” he says. “It means ‘rule of the spear’. Can you believe it?”

"Settle in, sonny. I have a story to tell ya."

You nod and try to calculate the distance–and thus time–it will take to get to their car.

“Say, do you remember Gerald Laird? The baseball player?”

“Er, no,” you say.

“Well, as I was sayin’, I got his autograph. Back when he played for the Diamondbacks, you see. Saw him down at spring training. I got his autograph, but all I had on me was a dollar bill. Here…” he digs into his pocket, opens his wallet and pulls out a one dollar bill.

“See there? Gerald Laird. I carry it everywhere. And look here. He put a ‘B’ and an ‘R’ on the back.” Gerald descends into a gasping laugh that causes you to reach for your phone, certain you’ll have to dial 911.

This image is not AI generated. I actually spent this, so maybe you'll see my boner.

“Anyways, as I was sayin’, we like to park far away from the door,” Gerald says. “It gives us some exercise. I sure need it.”

You finally make it to their car at the furthest point of the parking lot. A late-model Cadillac with a concave bend in the front bumper, as if they’d bumped a tree. Otherwise, the blue car looked immaculate.

“This is my wife, Agnes,” he gestures to the old lady. “It comes from Greek and it means ‘holy’. Boy howdy, did those Greeks get it wrong! Can you believe we’ve been married forty-five years?”

“Sixty-five!” Agnes snaps. “Honestly, Gerald. Our anniversary was just yesterday!” She walks around the car and gets in the passenger door. She reaches across to the driver side and starts the Caddy long enough to roll down the windows.

Lord Almighty, you think. They’re way older than I thought.

That's a lot of candles.

“Sorry,” he says to you. “As I was sayin’, we’ve been married a long time, believe it or not.”

“I believe it,” you say while looking over your shoulder. “I should really–”

“We have six children. Can you believe it?” he says, cutting you off. “Let’s see, there’s Barbara,” he counts them off on his fingers, “Linda, James, Michael, Gerald Junior–he was actually the first one–David, and Patty.”

“Sharon!” Agnes snaps from the passenger seat. She’s clearly ready to go. So are you. Any of these people coming out of Best Books To Buy may be carrying the last copy of Spark Horizon!

“Right, right. It’s Sharon. I don’t know why I called her Patty. 

“Anyway, Gerald Junior. Well, he joined the Army. Served in Vietnam. I tried to tell him war ain’t a big adventure, but he wouldn’t listen. He went and volunteered. Can you believe it?”

“Er,” you stammer. “Yeah, okay. I believe it.”

You mean it's not the Vulcan Science Academy?

(Also not AI. These are two kids in Bến Tre to whom I taught the Vulcan salute. Two of about two hundred. There are entire villages in Vietnam that think this is how Americans greet each other.)

“You see this scar? He pulls his shirt up over his belly button, revealing a vicious wound . “I got that when Nazi flak came flying through my B-17. Hurt like hell. Of course, we didn’t have medics up there. Fortunately, we didn’t crash from that.”

“Well, that’s good, at least.” You regret saying something so stupid in response. Your mind just can’t get off Daniel Snellen’s book.

“No, no,” he shakes his head. “We crashed because we got shot down by a fighter plane.”

“You don’t say.” You kick yourself again and decide you should at least pay half attention.

“Those machine gun rounds, oh my they’re big. Cut my buddy right in half. I was the only one who survived. Only one of ten men. Can you believe it?”

You’re stunned. This guy was a real war hero. A very annoying hero, but a hero nonetheless.

I typed "Annoying Hero" into the epiCRealism model on civitai.com and got this. Doesn't look like Gerald...or does it?

“So there I was, deep behind the Danube–”

“The Rhine!” Agnes yells from the car. “For heaven’s sake!”

“Ah, yes. The Rhine. Anyway, as I was sayin’, there I was, all alone, bleeding like a man who just had flak blown through his belly, and then was in a plane crash. I was the only one who survived that. Can you believe it?”

“Yes, I can.”

“So anyway, there I was. Blood all over the place. Fortunately this beautiful French girl finds me. She happens to be a nurse, can you believe it?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer that yes, you do indeed believe it. He just keeps going.

“Well, she patches me up, best she can, you know. She gets me to a hospital. We fall in love and have passionate, carnal–”

“Gerald! Honestly!”

He whispers to you conspiratorially, “She doesn’t like me talking about the real war. The one with good ‘ole Dorothy–”

Pictured: A hot nurse from World War II.

“GERALD!”

He looks at you and chuckles. “Ah, to be young again. So anyway, as I was sayin’, Gerald Junior joined the Army and went off to Vietnam…”

Not really paying attention, you nod, gasp, and stroke your chin at what seems like appropriate places during the story.

“So anyway, as I was sayin’. We came up here to get the latest issue of Vogue. We love it. Great rag. We come up here every month just to buy it. Can you believe it?”

For the first time in this long, winding conversation, you really can’t believe it.

"Wait. What?"

Setting aside the fact that they’re buying Vogue, of all magazines, you say, “Why not just get a subscription?”

Agnes leans over and shouts out the driver-side window. “We don’t use the mail!” She points a gnarled, accusing finger at you. “No one should!”

“Can you believe it?” Gerald says to you.

“Er, no. I can’t believe it,” you say.

“It’s not safe. Not since those anthrax attacks. Do you remember that?”

“Sure.”

“As I was sayin’, the lizard people aren’t gonna stop there. They found those scales in the envelopes. Can you believe it? They won’t tell you that in the mainstream media!”

"We're in Crazy Town, Gerald!"

You glance at your naked wrist. You're not wearing a watch, though. Hell, you don’t even own a watch. It’s just a subconscious action that means, “I wish I were anywhere but here. Can I go now?” 

No one decided that. We didn’t have a "Get Me Outta Here Convention". We all just started looking at our wrists, I suspect around the time watches were invented. Probably not before that, unless we’ve always glanced at our wrists to say “I really want to leave”, and that’s why we wear watches on our wrists instead of around our necks like Flavor Flav.

Or we could do both.

Anyway, as I was sayin’...

“Well–” you cut Gerald off, finally breaking his story. He’d started on the second child, Linda, who he’s pretty sure isn’t his. “I really should get in there. I’m looking for a new book. I think it’s really good.”

“Oh, really? What’s it called?”

“Stark Horizon,” you say.

“Hmmm….”, he says. “Sounds like it should have a subtitle.”

“It does.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Er, I don’t remember.”

He harrumphs. “Some book. Must not be any good if you can’t even remember the title. You should get a copy of Vogue. Always great.”

He snaps his fingers in triumph. “You can come over and borrow ours next week!”

“Good God, Gerald!” Agnes yells, clearly fed up. “Let’s go! We’re going to miss our shows!”

"Oh! I love this episode!"

“Alright, Mother,” he calls back. He turns to you. “As I was sayin’, get the magazine. The book sounds silly.”

He shuffles to the car and you start toward the store. You overhear him say, “Sorry Aggie. That young person would just not stop talking.”

“Millennials!” she huffs as the car door closes.

Looking around the lot, you see only three cars, all parked next to light poles. The moths swirling around the humming lights are a bad sign.

You run to the door. You run faster than you ever have in your life. You wish you’d worn your Flash shirt because you’d be inspired to run even faster.

You slow down, anticipating the doors to open.

KA-THUNK! 

They don’t open, and you fall flat on your ass. You rub your nose, sit up, and look at the hours posted on the door:

8:00 AM - 10:00 PM

You look at your phone.

10:05

“Goddamnit, Gerald!” you scream at the moon. It also mocks you.

The moon is a real asshole.

You cry all the way home. You go through the Dairy Queen drive-thru to get a large Blizzard. You’re too dejected to watch Letterkenny. You decide to watch Walking Dead. Their lives are in worse shape than yours. Barely.

You toss and turn most of the night. In the brief periods of sleep you do get, you dream of Drew Snelling, the famous author. You can’t wait to read his life story in the “About the Author” section. He’s probably so handsome that George Clooney looks like Bozo the Clown in comparison.

Pictured: America's Heartthrob

You leap out of bed promptly at six o’clock. You slept in your clothes to save time. 

I wonder if “o’clock” is short for “of the clock”?

There’s no time to look it up. Not even time to say, “Hey, Google.” There's only time to grab a mini-box of cereal and a can of…beer? You throw the beer over your shoulder and grab a Mountain Dew.

You toss the cereal into your mouth straight from the box while driving to the bookstore. You get there at 7:06.

“Yes!” you yell. “First in line!” 

First!

You cup your hands over your eyes and look through the glass doors. You glance at your phone to remind yourself what the book looks like. You look back inside but don’t see the book on display. You hope it hasn’t sold out.

You realize you’ve forgotten your wallet! You sprint back to the car, even faster than last night. You toss everything out. McDonald’s wrappers, half-eaten cheddar biscuits, a Blockbuster receipt you bought on eBay…everything! After a couple minutes, your brain catches up and tells you that you’ve already thrown your wallet out of the car.

You look around the parking lot. The employees look at you from the open door, some of them obviously recording you with their phones. You look at your phone. Ten-til-eight. They might let you in early, since you’re such a superfan!

You pace through the debris around your car, swinging your face back and forth like a pendulum. There it is! Under your umbrella!

At least the car itself is shiny. And empty.

You grab the wallet and run–even faster than the previous two times–back to the store. It’s one minute past eight.

You crash through the door and run straight into a pimply teenage employee.

“Where’s the science fiction section?!” you yell, clutching your hair. “Tell me, man! Out with it!”

“Uh, er…” he stammers. “To the right, all the way to the back.”

You run to the back of the store, knocking over a standee of Stephen King. 

Jerk, you think. That hack could only dream of writing a book as good as…whatever it’s called.

You check your phone. Through your sweat, you see the last name starts with an ‘S’. Could be a ‘5’ because you forgot your glasses. You wipe the sweat from your face and squint at the screen. Nope. Definitely an ‘S’.

But definitely not that 'S'.

You suddenly realize you’ve forgotten to put on deodorant. Maybe it’s someone else who’s stinking up the place? You look around the store. The only other people are two employees at the front counter. Mr. Pimple and Ms. Brunette you decide they’re called.

You turn back to the bookshelf and scan through the ‘S’ names. Smith, Smith, Snodgrass…No Snellen!

You run to the front of the store, accidentally knocking over a bust of William Shakespeare that had won the annual Best Bust competition at the local community college.

Kiss my iambic pentameter!

You lean on the counter, out of breath, sweating, and really, really ripe. Ms. Brunette looks at you, her brows furrowed.

“Can I help you?” She seems more annoyed than concerned. Mr. Pimple stands nearby, holding his phone and watching the scene. 

“I’m looking..” you say, gasping for air. “For a new book.”

“We have lots of new books,” she says, waving her arm around the store.

“No,” you say between breaths. “A specific book.”

"I do not get paid enough for this bullshit."

She sighs and places her hands on the keyboard. “What’s the author’s name?”

You check your phone again. “Snellen.”

She types and bites at her lip. “I’m not seeing anything by a Snelling.”

“No, Snellen.”

“Sbellin?”

“No,” you say, trying to compose yourself. Ms. Brunette looks at Mr. Pimple and waves her hand in front of her nose. He snickers.

“Snellen,” you say again. “S-N-E-L-L-E-N.”

She types as you talk. “Hmmm. I’m not seeing a Smellin either.”

You hang your head. Will your misery ever end? Will you ever get to read the “About the Author” section in that book you’re looking for?

“No. ‘N’.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s an ‘N’ on the end. E-N.”

“An ‘M’?”

“An “N’ as in Nancy.”

“My apologies,” she says and types it in. “Sorry. I’m not seeing anything by a Nancy Snellem.”

Mr. Pimple turns around and unsuccessfully tries to hide the fact that he’s laughing.

Mr. Pimple's poker face.

You look at your phone again. “David Snellen. There is an ‘N’ at the end of his name.”

“My apologies,” she says. She types, backspaces, hits enter a couple times, and finally says, “No. No David Snellen. No Dave Snellen. No Snellens at all.”

Your head falls to the counter and you weep. You weep uncontrollably. You weep and stink and all your stuff is scattered across the parking lot. And now you realize you’ve only put on one sock and forgot your underwear.

Ms. Brunette’s voice softens. “It’s okay. Let me see your phone and I’ll type in the ISBN.”

She types it in and says, “I’m sorry. We don’t carry that title.”

You look up from the counter, snot trailing from your nose and a puddle of tears marking where your face used to be. “You don’t?”

“No. I’m sorry. Could I interest you in a bookmark? They’re two for one.”

“No, thank–” you look at the rack of bookmarks. “Actually, I’ll take those two.”

Ms. Brunette grabs the Garfield and Star Trek bookmarks you point at.

"Look into my eyes. You're getting sleeeeeeepy...You love bookmarks. You'll buy them aaaallllll."

“Do you…” you say between sniffs and tears, “know who does carry that book?”

“Let me check. While I do that, could I interest you in our Best Book Buyers Club? You get two new releases a month for free, along with three bookmarks of your choice. Here’s a pamphlet for you to look over.”

You can’t read it because your eyes are coated with tears and sweat. You don’t have your glasses, anyway. The glasses! They’re probably somewhere in the parking lot. Or they’ve been picked up by a raven and are part of a really cool nest. You let out more sobs.

“I found out who sells the book. There’s only one place.”

“What is it?” you say in the most pitiful voice you’ve ever heard. 

If a kitten could say “Where’s my mommy?” it wouldn’t be as pitiful as what you just said.

"Little help here. Anyone? Hello? Anyone?"

“Amazon,” she says as she hands you the phone. “I added it to your cart for you. It sounds good. The author is quite handsome, too.”

“Amazon,” you mutter. “Thank you.”

Concern spreads across her face. “Is there anyone we can call for you?”

“No, no. Sorry to trouble you.”

You walk to your car. You stand in the middle of your possessions and, miracle of miracles, find your glasses. You get in your car and leave the rest of your crap for the ravens and hobos.

Found 'em!

You look at your Amazon cart. Thankfully there’s free next-day delivery with your Prime subscription. You can skip church and read the “About the Author” section about Dylan Snellen in Dark Verizon: Embossing the Void. You can read it all day, over and over again.

But your finger stops just above the phone. “A Kindle credit for Friday delivery? Huh. That’s a pretty good deal!”

**tap**

What the fuck is Tockobled? I don't care! Order it!

The takeaway message here is you should avoid all this and just go ahead and buy the book. 

Unbeknownst to Ms. Brunette, there are two places to buy the book. 

Amazon: https://bit.ly/AmazonDH

Etsy: https://schneltormedia.etsy.com

Why pay shipping from Etsy when you could get it free from Amazon? Why, for that matter, would you pay AT ALL if you could read it on Amazon Kindle or whatever it's called?

Well, if you've read this far, you may be interested in the fact that orders from Etsy will be autographed and numbered. Does that sound awesome? Does that sound worth an extra five bucks for shipping? 

Yes it does!

But for the love of all the gods and goddesses, don't be like the person in this story. Or do. Honestly, that would be kinda cool: run around town, slam into a library door, talk to old people and destroy a statue of William Shakespeare. 

Go for it. Who am I to judge?