Damn Pink Book

I left early enough. I want to be at the Writer’s Center at least thirty minutes before my reading. Traffic's moving slowly. I might be late. I got the feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m always late no matter how hard I try. I couldn’t see what was up ahead of me so I didn't know what was holding up the traffic. 

The car in front of me turns and I can see there's a fire truck parked on the side of the road. The fireman is opening a fire hydrant. About 100 kids are standing on the street waiting to get to be sprinkled from the fire hydrant. It looked like fun, and as I passed the kids, they all stop turn looked waved at me, and give me a thumbs-up. 

Hang on, it's 35° outside I have a coat, hat, and gloves on. The kids are all in their bathing suits. Where are their parents?

The traffic begins to move again, and I noticed the couple in the car in front of me are making out. I mean really making out I don't know how he's able to drive while they're doing that. I need to get around them. I slide it up on the right side but just as I'm about to pass their car the woman turns looks at me waves and gives me a thumbs up. 

I finally arrived at the venue, now I'm going to be fifteen minutes late instead of thirty minutes early. There are no parking spaces. The place is packed. We share this location with the Opera House, but we don't usually schedule our events at the same time. I have to go about two blocks over from the venue to park my car and walk back. Now I'm really late. It’s standing room only. There must be something else going on here. There's no way this many people would show up for my book reading. I see the president he waves at me like he's relieved that I finally showed up. Then he gives me a thumbs up. He points to one of the fabric chairs in the back of the room, the one’s reserved for guests. Tonight, I get to sit in one of them.

The chairs had been set up in rows on either side of an aisle. A podium sits in front of them with a microphone. The room was nice, cozy not like a large auditorium with a stage. It was designed to make the speaker feel at ease. The audience was made up of regulars eager to hear the success story from another writer, hopeful that their turn to announce their published works would be next. Some of my friends had shown up, not writers but excited to hear me read from my book.

I sat in the back of the room my book in my lap waiting to be introduced. I was happy but nervous. I always have those jitters, the scary thoughts. What if they don’t like it? What if they laugh? What if I read it wrong, stumble, or mispronounce my own words? Taking the advice of a good friend and writer, I printed out the pages I would read, in a very large print instead of trying to see the small words in the book. I had copies of my book, with me so everyone could see the professional photography my brother-in-law had done to enhance my first poetry book. Photographs of scooters, scooter art, and my family all riding scooters were on every page of the book. I was proud of the poetry, the photography, and the way the book was laid out.

I watched as our organization’s president made his way to the podium and asked everyone to quiet down and take a seat. “Who has something they want to share this month? An accomplishment, a start, a finish, come on tell us what you're working on.” He asked everyone.

I loved this part of the meeting supporting one another, feeling good about writing even if we didn’t have that best seller yet.

“I wrote for an hour every day this week.” A woman stood and announced to the group. A few oohs and ahhs came from the audience along with a few “not me’s”. 

Another woman asked if anyone would agree to be a beta reader for her new book. She passed around a signup sheet. 

A man in the back raised his hand and asked if anyone knew a good editor who wouldn’t charge him an arm and a leg. We all wanted that. 

Finally, it was my turn to be introduced, he pointed at me in the back of the room. Told the group how proud he was of me. He told them of all the triumphs, my new book coming out in the fall, the short story contest I had just won, and finally about the poetry book I would be reading from tonight. I started to get up… but Adam Fererra walked past me winked and gave me a thumbs-up.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce, Adam Ferrara.” Said the president. “American actor and comedian known for his role as Chief "Needles" Nelson on the FX series Rescue Me. He played NYPD Sgt. Frank Verelli opposite Edie Falco on the Showtime series Nurse Jackie. He also played Detective Tommy Manetti on the television series, The Job. Most recently he was a co-host on the U.S. version of Top Gear. He has graciously agreed to read from our author’s book tonight. 

Apparently, he had been invited to come to the meeting and read from my book for me. The audience stood up and cheered.

He stepped up to the podium, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He waved at them and motioned for them to sit down. He had a thick book in his hand with a large pink flower on the cover. He held it up for the audience to see. Again, they all cheered. “I am honored to be here tonight to read from this wonderful poetry book, Pink Flowers.” He laid the book on the podium and began to flip through the pages. 

Wait that’s not my book. I looked around the room was there another author here who was also being introduced, I was next. If that is the case, then why was my book introduced first? 

He began to read, “because the world is round, it turns me on, because the world is round, because the wind is high, it blows my mind, because the wind is high, love is old, love is new, love is all, love is you.”

“Ohh, this is beautiful right, right?” He says to the audience. They begin to cheer again. He read more, “because the sky is blue, it makes me cry because the sky is blue. This author is incredible.” He shouted to the audience. It could see people with tears in their eyes.

“Let’s give her another round of applause.” They all stood turned and looked at me smiling and cheering.

Wait, that’s not my book, that’s a Beatles song. I looked over at the stack of books on the signing table. It was very thick and had a pink cover. My book was about twenty-five pages, and it had a Vespa photo on the front of it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood up. I looked around the room was someone putting me on. Is this a joke?

“How about some more people what do you say?” they all cheered, and he flipped through the book for another poem. 

“Stop,” I shouted that’s not my book. Those are the lyrics to a Beatles song.” Everyone stared at me wide-eyed like there was something wrong with me, not them. 

“Who cares.” Said Ferrera, this is beautiful stuff, you should take credit for it.”

“No, my book’s called Old Scooter Poetry, not Pink Flower.” I held my book over my head. 

The audience moaned. “Who wants to hear about broken-down scooters.” Said Ferrera. People began to shake their heads. ‘Let’s read from this book.” He said shaking his head at the audience. They agreed and sat back down for him to continue to read. 

I scanned the room for the president, but he had disappeared along with the rest of the board. So, my book wasn’t good enough and they swapped it for this one. How embarrassing. I slid on my coat and got ready to walk out of the building. When someone grabbed me sat me down at the book table and handed me a pen. He was still reading.

“Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be, whisper words of wisdom, let it be.”  The audience jumped to their feet and surrounded the table, slapping me on the back, calling me Poet Lauriat, a few of them still wiping tears out of their eyes. I couldn’t get out of the room, they were picking up books and shoving them at me to sign. Finally, I gave up and began to sign that damn pink book. 

“Nice job kiddo,” Fererra said as he walked out of the building, winking at me again and giving me a thumbs up.

Suddenly, someone was shaking me. My husband loomed over me his face close to mine. “Wake up, he shouted, you’re having a nightmare.”

I was so relieved to be in my room, in my bed. It was just a dream. “Hey, honey,” I said breathlessly still half in and out of sleep.

“Yes.” He said climbing under the cover on his side of the bed.

“Make sure when they print my book it’s not pink. OK?”

“OK.” He moaned as we settled back to sleep.