My booth at Living Green
Rene’, Jack and I drive I-35 in my Pacifica loaded with books and the trappings of book selling. It’s Friday night after work and we’re headed to the Twin Cities to stay with the Schostags, Rene’s sister and brother-in-law and their two kids. Free lodging. Good company. Maybe a meal or two: The elegant life of a semi-famous novelist. The weather is clear and cool. We stop for a bite to eat at a little ma and pa in Barnum. It’s nearly nine-thirty at night when we pull into the Schostags.
Saturday morning. 5:00am comes early. I’m a bit behind the eight ball because I haven’t set up my booth in the Education Building at the Minnesota State Fairgrounds in St. Paul. It’s been a long two weeks at my “real” job: Back-to-back jury trials. First a complex civil case and now an ugly intrafamilial criminal matter involving allegations between brothers. I’m wore out; done in. But I get up from the couch I’m sleeping on and wander upstairs to take a shower. Restorative hot water cascades over my tired bones. A quick stop at McDonald’s for an egg McMuffin, coffee, and a small O.J. and I’m on the road to St. Paul. It’s nearly an hour drive from Lakeville, where we’re staying, to the fairgrounds. But there’s no traffic. The sun is rising. Life is good.
The event I’m headed to, the Living Green Expo, is a big deal: Minnesota’s largest environmental fair. There are hundreds of booths, both commercial vendors who promote their “green” products and services; and conservation organizations, like Defenders of Wildlife and the Audubon Society. I find my building, park my car, and hustle inside. There’s no one around. The cold, cavernous space is crammed with booths and exhibits. I find my spot, B-25 (sounds like a bingo call), grab an empty, low slung wooden dolly, and unload the Pacifica in one trip. The first order of business is putting up my Cloquet River Press sign and the posters of three of my books; Mr. Environment (the reason I am here), Pigs, and Suomalaiset. I climb a metal step stool I brought with, ball of twine and knife in hand, and go to work. After an hour of hustle, the booth is up and ready for business.
Traffic is slow but steady. I chat with my neighbors on either side between customers. To my right, there are two ladies who own a construction/design company specializing in green buildings. They buy one copy of every book I have for sale. To my left, there are a husband and wife couple selling prefabricated wall and roof panels. They buy three or four books from me as well. I’m lucky. Both sets of neighbors share my politics and my view of the world. Of course, this is an environmental expo: I didn’t expect Dick Cheney to show up here.
I grab some wood-fired pizza for lunch, pizza made from scratch just outside the doors to the Education building by a vendor with a portable pizza oven. The food is excellent: better than many pizzas I’ve had in pizzarias. During slack times, I read a novel my son Chris bought me for Christmas, Wake Up, Sir! (a review should be up tomorrow on this site) and talk to my neighbors. As I struggle to hand sell my books to the folks walking by, I come to a stark realization:
All the folks who stop and tell me what a great guy my Uncle Willard was, all the environmental types that urged me to write his story, not a single one of them has bought a copy of his biography.
It’s the gospel truth: I have probably ten people who stop, look at the book, and claim to be FOW (Friends of Willard) who either knew him, knew of him, or worked with him on environmental matters. Not a one of them opens their wallet and buys a book. Not a one!
Still, I entice enough non-FOWs into my clutches so that I sell a few copies of this and that, and, by the end of the day, my back sore from standing on concrete, my knees and hips aching, it’s been worthwhile.
Saturday night my brother-in-law Allen grills burgers and dogs the old fashioned way: over charcoal. The adults and my niece Claire settle in to watch Winter’s Bone, one of then ten nominees for “Best Picture” this year. My eyes are heavy as the spooky, well-crafted indie flick fades to black, and the Schostags head up to bed, leaving the two couches to Rene’ and I.
Sunday morning. The sky is gray and threatening.
I wonder if rain will make attendance better or worse?
I haven’t a clue. This is only my second year doing this expo. Last year all the vendors were in one building on the fairgrounds, in the grandstand. This year, we’re scattered between four smaller buildings with outdoor activities spread throughout the venue. I heard some vendors in my building (not my immediate neighbors) grousing about the new set-up. I really don’t have a dog in this fight: My sales are modest but acceptable. About what I did last year in the grandstand, give or take. I’m not getting rich, selling books to the Greens. But then, I didn’t expect to.
The day starts slowly but by the time Rene’, her sister Colleen, and Jack and his cousin Alex show up, I’ve made my goal in terms of sales. I’ve finished the novel I was reading, made a few new friends, had some return customers stroke my ego, and stayed warm and dry in the exhibition hall despite the rain pouring down outside. My question is answered: The rain neither helped nor hurt. The traffic was about as I had expected.
Quarter to four. I remove signage and pull cartons and bins out from under my table. By four o’clock, my display and stock are packed away. I haul heavy boxes and plastic bins out to the Pacifica on the adjacent street. In my mind, I calculate sales: Mr. Environment was the best seller of the show by a book or two.
It’s gonna take a long time to empty that storage building, I think as I drive my sister-in-law and her son to their car through drizzle. 2,000 books, one at a time is gonna take a long, long time.
Peace.
Mark
