Even Manson might look good to lonely book signer

Pity the man who looks like Charles Manson. Because no matter if he’s a perfectly sane accountant with 2.5 children, a wife and a home in the suburbs, ’most everyone will snap to judgment that he’s an insane maniac with murder on his mind.

Although perhaps the thing about Manson that set him apart was the maniacal glint in his eye, the glint translated into the suggestion of the evil of which he was capable.

Thus was my thinking at my very first book signing, just about a year ago. I was already apprehensive about the event, feeling an enormous sense of pressure to perform well, to sell enough books to justify the efforts the booksellers had gone to on my behalf.

So when I ended up at a bookstore that was in a decidedly sketchy part of Tampa, Fla., I was a little dismayed. Nary a happy housewife meandered into the store for the first 15 minutes of my signing. That’s who I was on the lookout for: a wife, a mom, the type of person who would “get” the humor behind a book titled “Sleeping with Ward Cleaver.”

Now, I’d heard warnings from authors about book signings. Prepare yourself for everyone coming up to you, looking enthusiastic and ready to purchase your book, only to instead ask directions to the nearest bathroom. Expect people to come up to your table just to grab a handful of the free candy you’ve got on display. And plan on plenty of nut jobs, the ones who show up at your table with no intention of leaving, prepared to regale you with endless tales of their public transportation experiences or alien kidnapping, all the while helping themselves to half your candy stash.

So when the Charles Manson look-alike ventured into the store about 30 seconds after I’d sat down at my signing table, I wasn’t surprised. It was fate, I knew it. As soon as our eyes met, I immediately averted my gaze. After all, who wants to encourage a mass murderer over your way? But the eye contact had been made, and I knew, I just knew, sooner or later Charlie boy would wend his way over to my table.

Now I should mention that, yes, this guy had the grizzled, unwashed look of Charles Manson. He had that creepy glint of madness in his eyes. He also was lugging a small watermelon be-neath his armpit. Don’t ask me why.

Charlie didn’t come immediately to my table. But within 10 minutes he’d made his way back to my lone desk. He looked at me.

He looked at my candy. He looked at me. He looked at my candy. He then proceeded to pick up a copy of my novel from the pyramid of them stacked in front of me, and feigned interest.

Now, the cover has a campy 1960s-style green, pink and aqua theme that triggers the tune from “I Dream of Jeannie” whenever I look at it, what with a Judy Jetson look-alike perched atop the bed, her striped pink hair pulled up in a pineapple flip atop her head. I’m realistic about this: It’s not quite the cover that normally lures thirtysomething men.

So I was onto Charlie. I knew he wanted something from me, and it wasn’t a 300-page novel about a disgruntled housewife.
In vain, I tried to make small talk with the man. But Charlie didn’t talk. It was like being in the presence of Sherry and Lambchop, or a ventriloquist from “The Ed Sullivan Show.”

Instead, Charlie plunked his watermelon onto my miniscule tabletop, picked up my signing pen (his dirt-encrusted fingers did sort of bum me out, since I knew I’d be soon touching that very pen myself), flipped over one of my business cards, and began to draw.

The first thing Charlie drew for me looked suspiciously like a puerile attempt at a set of naked breasts. I forced a weak attempt at a smile, unwilling to ask what he was drawing. A one-man game of Pictionary, it was. Mercifully, he finished the drawing off with what I soon realized was a mouth and eyebrows, and it dawned on me that he’d drawn a rudimentary smiley face.

I was hoping Charlie was done at this point. I thanked him for his lovely illustration. But he continued. His hands trembling, palsy-like, he then drew a Keith Haring-like stick figure that had a hint of Mr. Bill to it. And topped off his masterpiece with an illegible signature.

For all I know, I am now in possession of a work of art by a famed artist who took a wrong turn in life. Who knew fame and fortune and now wanders aimlessly, unwashed, with a watermelon tucked beneath his arm.

Grateful to send him on his merry way, I offered him some kisses (the Hershey’s kind, thank you), which satisfied his need. Beaming with gratitude, he wandered off, peeling the silver wrapping and discarding it in his wake.

And leaving me well aware that I’d experienced one of my first rites of passage as an author. Armed and ready for the next one to come along.
Excuse me, miss, can you tell me where the bathroom is?

Jenny Gardiner is a writer and commentator who lives in Albemarle County.