Saving Daylight

SAVING DAYLIGHT

By J. Andrew Taylor

The room was empty.  My first book signing and not one single person showed up.  How humiliating. I knew that scheduling the signing for eight A.M. was daring, but it was a Sunday. Didn’t most people do leisurely things like visit bookstores on Sundays? I felt the heat of someone’s eyes on me and turned around.  Mr. Paige, the owner of the bookstore, shot a disappointed glare at me over his bifocals.  I shrugged an apologetic reply.  He shook his head and returned to his newspaper.  I had promised him that, should he allow me to host a signing, the event would surely bring in potential customers; epic fail.

Back when I was a new father, I had suffered my first and (up till now) only panic attack.  At the time, I thought that I was having a coronary and was glad that it was at least happening in a hospital.  This time, standing there in “Page by Paige Books and Periodicals”, my heart raged and pounded like some hideous monster trying to escape from my inner child’s bedroom closet.  The curious thing about panic attacks is that they are full of opposite extremes.  I felt cold and clammy, yet I was sweating copiously.  I felt like lying down, yet my heart was hammering a hole through my chest as if I had just run a mile.  My mind was muddled, yet I was completely aware of every detail of my anxiety.  Suddenly, I felt my soul melt from the heat of my shame and I gave up.

Crestfallen, I walked out the door and into the clear spring day.  Almost instinctively, I went across the street to the coffee shop.  I ordered my usual Chi Tea latte and found that overstuffed blue chair that, even though hundreds of people “borrowed” it when I wasn’t there, I still considered mine.  I finished my latte and gazed at the dregs at the bottom of the cup; trying to mimic a hippie tea reader named Ocean I had known in college.  As I stared at the random and haphazard shapes at the bottom of my cup, it was as if the universe was telling me just that: “Your life is a random and haphazard clump of debris at the bottom of the overpriced teacup of life.”  I ordered another.

As I sat there busily NOT reading the daily newspaper, I looked over at the next table at a young woman.  She was furiously typing on a laptop.  Her fingers were not only speedily zipping across the keyboard, but they were also hammering down on them as if punishing them for not moving fast enough.

I suddenly realized that it was in this same coffee shop that I had spent nearly a year, furiously typing out the very book that I was supposed to be signing across the street. I swallowed hard as a molten lump of irony lodged itself in my throat.  There was a part of me that wanted to go over to her and say, “Do yourself a favor, give it up and just get addicted to Farmville on Facebook or something.”  I didn’t say it of course, but I wanted to. I’m serious.

            The girl caught me looking at her and forced me to break the ice. “Business or pleasure?” (Damn! What a dweeb I am!)

            She stared at me in that “deer in the headlights” kind of way.  “Excuse me?”

            “Your keyboard is smoking.  I was just wondering if you were writing because you had to or because you wanted to.”

            She looked up to a space somewhere between her and the ceiling and considered her thoughts for a moment.  “I guess you could say that I have to because I want to.  Or that I want to because I have to.”

            “Now I’m confused.”

            “You know….Sometimes, as a writer, I wonder if I WANT to write because I MUST or that I MUST write because I want to.  It’s a “chicken or the egg thing” Ya know?”

            I knew exactly what she meant.  “Only a real writer would understand that.”

            “A real writer?  I wish.  Sometimes I feel like a preschooler doing the equivalent of finger painting with a keyboard.  You know; something that your mom might hang on the fridge, but not something anyone would want to spend money on.”

            (OUCH!)

            “Finger painting with a keyboard?  Nice visual. Maybe you do have the knack. Maybe you are a real writer.”

            She stared at me with an expression as blank as that first page of a new writing project.  “Oh.  I don’t know.  Maybe someday.”

            “Maybe someday what?” I urged.

            “Maybe someday I’ll write the “Great American Novel”, get published and have a book signing and make lots of cash.” She laughed.

            “A book signing, Huh?” I asked hoping she didn’t notice my voice cracking.

            “Why not?  That’s what writers do isn’t it?  I mean…That’s what I’m doing here.”

            My brain locked up. “You’re here to sign books?”

            “No, silly.  I’m waiting for a book signing by one of my favorite authors to start at the bookstore across the street.”

She made a gesture with her head toward the window.  My eyes instinctively followed.  To my amazement, I saw a queue of people lined up in front of the bookstore.  Could it be?  The young woman was packing up her things and preparing to leave.  Drunk with hope, I followed her out the door and over to the bookstore.  As we approached the front door, a round of applause arose from the line of people.  All of them were looking in my direction.  I waved at them timidly.

As I entered, I saw Mr. Paige.  He was beaming a huge smile as he led me to the table we’d set up earlier.  “I didn’t think that you were coming back.”

“I almost didn’t.” I replied as I took my seat. “I don’t understand, Mr. Paige.  Where did all these people come from?”

He pointed at the clock on the far wall.  “Daylight Savings time.”

I shrugged.

Mr. Paige laughed.  “Everyone was an hour late.”

We both laughed this time as I set to work greeting and signing MY book.  After about half an hour, my hand started to cramp; but I didn’t care.  The pain was exquisite.  I set my pen down a moment and looked up at the next customer.  It was the girl from the coffee shop.

“That was a mean trick.” She cheerfully scolded.

“It wasn’t a trick.” I replied.  “I just wanted some tea.”

“Sure you did.  Man, if I had only known that it was you.”

I remembered the conversation we’d had across the street and her enthusiasm. “Ok. I admit it.”

She looked shocked. “That you were just messing with me earlier.”

“No.” I said, signing my name to her copy.  “I was there checking out my future competition.”

She smiled. “Do you really think so?”

“Just keep typing as fast and furious as you were before and you’ll be signing a book for me soon enough.”

“Thank you.” She giggled and hopped away.

“And remember!” I shouted after her. “Just don’t schedule your book signing on Daylight Savings Sunday!”