First Contact

I sat in front of a cardboard box of $3.99 pillows, feeling not at all guilty that my table and sign blocked ready access to the sleep accessories. It was an odd place to be selling and signing books, but I appreciated the opportunity presented by the National Authors in Grocery Stores program. Shoppers clearly were not expecting a novelist when they took the alternate entrance to their favorite grocery store, like finding a gold-painted street performer in front of the plumbing section at their home-improvement store.

I was stationed behind the two-by-four-foot table I was asked to supply, a “Meet the Author” banner to my left and a welcoming look on my face. I half-smiled, eager but not too eager, hoping to connect with the strangers arriving with one thing on their minds – buying things they needed, which did not include a book from some guy sitting in front of a huge photo of himself.

The trick, I learned soon enough, was eye contact, and making it in a way that wasn’t creepy. If I detected them looking in my general direction, I’d perform a natural act (scratching my chin or smoothing my hair) that would slowly direct my gaze toward theirs. If they looked away, so did I. If eyes met, I’d wait a beat for a greeting, letting me know they were OK with a brief interaction. Otherwise I would nod and smile, cursing them for not buying a book. (If you believed I did that, you don’t know me at all.)

Then there were those magic moments when our eyes met, and I saw the glow of a potential transaction. They approached and asked me if I’d written the books on the table, and I ignored the stupidity of the question and said yes. I described the plot as they picked up the tome, and we both knew they’d gone too far to not buy a book. Nineteen times out of twenty, the sale was made. The twentieth time was the mom with four kids in tow, all within Dead Jed’s target audience. She mentioned how her kids were avid readers, and I wondered if she would buy one to share or a book for each of them. I briefly described the hilarious plot and positive messaging, at which point she slapped the book onto the table and said, “Zombies aren’t allowed in our house.” She twisted the throttle on her scooter and crawled away.

I didn’t take it personally, as with the roughly 90 percent of the people who walked by with nary a glance my way. I focused on the wonderful people I met and the homes in which Dead Jed now takes up valuable shelf space.