The Hold Out / Boy, Blue

Sunday night

Dream 1: The Hold Out

I'd written a software manual which I'd had published in paperback. A distributor had made an offer to me to warehouse and sell the title for me, and was sending a representative over to the bookstore where I worked to talk about it. The man from the distribution company showed up, and I was wary from the start. He looked a little too much like Ron Jeremy for comfort. He proffered a contract, which stipulated that I'd get $2 for every copy sold. (The books would retail for $7 apiece.) I stood there wondering if I should sign, or hold out for more. The rep left the premises while I thought it over. I wasn't sure what to do, so I turned to my brother Jimmie, who was also in the store. He had previously self-published a book penned by our dad. I said, "Should I sign this?" He shook his head. I decided to turn down the offer and hold out for a slightly higher percentage. At that moment one of our employees, an older man with an Italian or South American accent, walked out of a room in the back, and onto the sales floor. He said, "I'm glad that's over. I didn't want to talk about the money." I held up the book and looked at it, and tried to be positive. I said, "I think it's pretty good. It's useful."

Dream 2: Boy, Blue

I'd been put in charge of implementing a new database that would track every item in every antique shop in the country. I sat at my desk, overwhelmed, thinking about the millions of crappy prints of Gainsborough's "Blue Boy" that I'd have to log into the system.

*****

Dream 1: The Hold Out

Jimmie really did self-publish a book that my dad wrote about public speaking, and he designed the layout and the cover, too. He did a beautiful job. This dream combines that book and a manual that I recently received after finishing a refresher course in Excel.

Dream 2: Boy, Blue

I like Gainsborough's painting just fine; this dream pokes fun at the prints of the painting that I always see while I'm out antiquing. Every shop has at least one, and usually more than that. Someone must have decided in the 1920s or '30s that no American home was complete without one.