Independents

Clive saw himself as an independent but it drove him crazy when authors would stop in the store.
Like this guy.
Yes...I just wanted to drop off my latest novel.
Clive was swamped. He had to get the new books out of the boxes and onto the shelves and he really wanted a cigarette out back before lunch.
Uh...fine. You can give it to us on consignment...let me get you that form.
The man who was a good twenty five years older than Clive frowned.
Wait a minute. I'm not some self published newbie.
Clive breathed loudly and pushed up his Ray Bans.
Look...we get people in here all day long saying they are not self published and dropping off their books and you know what, they are. Otherwise I would be unpacking their books from those boxes marked Random House.
The man turned red.
Why you snot nosed fucker.
Ok that's it. I appreciate it if you leave now Clive barked pointing to the door.
The man glared at him.
I got more for one fucking book than you make in a whole year.
Sure you did and I'm Barack Obama... now get the fuck out of here before I call the cops.
The man flipped him off.
Eat shit
Then he left. Clive watched him go out . He really really hated indies. They drove him crazy. He saw the book as Gerald his manger walked out.
I heard some yelling.
Yeah another loser wantabe author dropping off his book. And this one got hostile. He must have been about a hundred.
Gerald picked up the book and raised his eyebrows.
Shit. E.L. Leonard...this is the book he dropped off?
Clive blinked
Yeah I guess.
Gerald who was about forty stared at him.
He won the fucking National Book Award like ten years ago. I think he hit the list a few times and had a boatload of books coming out at one time.
Oh...then I guess he wasn't lying Clive murmured, shrugging.
Gerald shook  his head.
I wondered what had happened to him.
Clive flipped his hair up.
Obviously nothing...can you cover while I get a smoke?

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