[Rough, Ancient, Efficiently, News, Ruin]
"Lucy, that was marvelous and so professional. I'm so impressed."
"So do you think we should do it?"
"Yes, I absolutely do. Especially now, with school out, Lis can get more hours if she wants them. If you are going to be busy turning documents into e-books. What if an author doesn’t have a digital file of their book?”
“One solution is to download a pirated version from Anna’s Archive or from Z-Library. A fan of the author’s or just a fan of that particular book may have scanned and done a proofread of a physical book. If we can’t find a pirated copy, we could buy a scanner and do it by hand. But I think we should charge the author to turn a physical book into a digital copy. The software has improved, but OCR (Optical Character Recognition) software still isn’t great, so it’s a slow, laborious job editing once the software turns the picture the scanner creates into a text file. Page numbers, headers, and footers all wind up in the text file as well. Some of the pirated copies of books haven’t been well edited, still containing page numbers and headers alternating with the book’s title on one page and the author’s name on the other. It can be quite the mess. It might take me eight hours or more. But surely any living author will have digital files, don't you think?”
“No, I don’t. The science fiction authors would be the most likely candidates to be early adopters. But writers are people of habit, and if they started out using a particular typewriter, many would never upgrade or change. Some even preferred older, less advanced typewriters. Many preferred manual over electric. Jerry Pournelle was an early adopter; I used to read his column in Byte magazine, and Douglas Adams was another—he loved his Apple computer. I think he was the first person in Britain to own a Mac, and I read that he bought his first word processing software in nineteen eighty-two. That was a very early adopter. They even sold special word processors back in the eighties. It looked just like a typewriter, except it had this tiny screen; I think it held one or maybe two lines of text. It stored the file on the small discs, but it was most likely a proprietary format. That’s why I think Obsidian is so great. Everything is in markdown, which is really just a text file. I read that Cory Doctorow used to write all of his books in a text editor because it was less distracting, and he knew that if the file was in text format, it would always be readable. So if the author doesn’t have a digital file and we charge them a hundred and twenty dollars to make them one, they'd have to sell sixty copies just to break even. That doesn’t make much sense from their point of view.”
“That’s where the fans come in, Laura. Before e-readers or reading on a phone. Fans started scanning books and turning them into text files. Once they made it online, people started collecting them. Now you have these huge shadow libraries. They often have files that fans scanned and posted to the internet, or from what I read, Laura, something called usenet. It was a lot of work, but if a fan loved a book, they’d take the time to do it right. So you give me a name who doesn’t have a digital file, and we can search for the book even if it’s not proofread; if it’s already scanned, eighty percent of the work is done.”
“Lucy, what about using AI to proofread a book? Tell it to remove headers and footers and page numbers. Remove carriage returns and end-of-lines except for at the end of a paragraph.”
“It’s worth a try, Laura. As long as it doesn’t remove chunks of the text by mistake, it would certainly speed things up. Still, the hardest part by far is the physical scanning of the book. and Google Books have these special scanners, like robots that turn the pages and scan a page, but those are the kinds of scanners we could not afford to buy. But there was a third thing I wanted to talk to you about. Our Table Top RPG Section: everything we bought in our first order completely sold out, so I have just been reordering. But if we expanded just a little, I think sales would rise, especially with a dedicated club devoted to TTRPGs—maybe one more shelf, and if it sells as fast as the initial order, one more shelf. They are expensive books, so we make a nice profit on each sale. What do you think?”
“Can Amy play tomorrow night?”
“Of course we want to expand the club; it’d be pointless to just keep the same members as the fantasy book club. Then we’d just be the fantasy book club meeting twice a week. Besides, the more players, the better the story. You can play these games solo, and it’s great fun. But aside from the random elements tossed in by Mythic, you are basically telling the story to yourself. I imagine that is what it is like writing a novel or short story. A new idea pops into your head, and random dice rolls provide the surprises. But when you play with a group, you have a lot more creativity. It’s not just you coming up with new ideas. You should try it as well; you can both learn to play together. It’s almost like being in a book; at least that is the way I think of it.”
“Sounds like fun, and yes, I’ve been meaning to mention that expanding the TTRPG section would be smart; I see we sold out of the first two restock orders. I thought once all four of you had the books you wanted, sales would just stop, but instead they have grown. Tomorrow you and Lis can start dragging up the bookcases from the basement, clean them, and maybe paint them if they need it. Then if there are any extra you don’t need for your ebook project, see if you can add one as an endcap on the fantasy section. Then you can use that for an RPG section; just don’t order any RPG books that Willow sells—we want to drive sales her way. It seems kind of lopsided so far; we have gotten large orders from her. Now it’s Fourth of July; shouldn't you be having fun?”
So I guess she decided it’d be fun finishing her new room, because that’s what she did. She went into the new eBook section of the store and started cleaning. I was going to grab my novel and read for a bit before the barbecue began, but then I decided to pivot. I went and found Lucy again.
“What TTRPG are we playing tomorrow night?”
“Vaesen, it's a Nordic historical horror game.”
“Do we have any of the books in stock?”
“No, but you can borrow mine if you’d like to read the rules and see how it’s played.”
“Yes, that would be great; it’d probably be helpful if I’m familiar with the game before we start to play.”
I thought she had it with her, but it was at her house, so I offered to drive her. But she refused; she said she didn’t want me getting a ticket for no back window on her account. So she hopped onto her mountain bike and pedaled off. So since I interrupted her cleaning, I decided that I’d clean while she was gone. It seemed only fair.
I’d just finished washing the first bookcase, and she was back, with the book. I took the book and handed her the washcloth. Feeling slightly guilty that she was going to be working on the holiday while I lounged in the reader’s nook. But I got over it fast when I opened the book. Lucy had said it was Nordic horror, but from what I read in the rule book. It’s a story set in Scandinavia during the nineteenth century. It’s also a mystery first and foremost.
Horror is my least favorite genre of story. Probably tied to my aversion to religion. Horror stories often have religious themes and symbols. Vampires and holy water, demons, hell, exorcisms, and ghosts. I find humans to be monstrous enough. When the fantasy book club had discussed The Wandering Inn, the thing that piqued my interest the most was the way that the story approached the monsters, particularly the goblins.
So I began to look forward to playing the game tomorrow night. I’d only agreed because I think that Amy will enjoy it; there aren’t many games that she doesn’t like playing. I love mysteries, and this game sounded like a Scandinavian version of Kolchak: The Night Stalker. One of my favorite TV shows of all time, so of course the network suits cancelled it after only one season.
Suddenly it sounded like a tank or garbage truck was coming down the drive. It was too early for the barbecue; besides, I hadn’t invited any armies or garbage persons to the picnic. Not that I wouldn’t invite a sanitation engineer to a picnic. But sadly I didn’t know any. They are very early risers, and I am not, so never the twain did meet. Unless they are customers and their source of employment has never come up. I make it a point not to pry into our customers' lives. It’s none of the butcher’s business that I am an Epicurean, Transcendentalist Atheist.
But I roused myself from the nook and walked out front to see who and what was disturbing my precious reading time. Lucy joined me at the front door, and we walked out into the parking lot together. A very large, very yellow school bus was headed down the driveway, turning and taking up a couple of parking spots. We were being invaded by a grammar school class on summer detention. They must be little monsters to warrant a punishment like that.
But both Lucy and I were surprised when the door swung open and Willow bounded off the bus. She was grinning wildly. She walked over and, without saying a word, gave Lucy a big hug, then, without pausing a beat, hugged me as well. The hippy is strong with this one.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you both in person, and with perfect timing as well. If you’ll give me a hand, we can install your back window, Laura.”
“I was going to bring it to the mechanic, Willow. Besides, you are on vacation and running a bookstore on your own; I’m sure you don’t get many of those. Please come and relax.”
“Nonsense, Pappy. The guy who owns the junkyard taught me how to take one out and how to install the window. He even gave me the sealer we need to use to prevent any leaks. I’m sure he’ll be in my store Monday morning expecting a full report on my assignment. He is the biggest hippy in Woodstock. He hasn’t bought anything new since the early seventies, except for his underwear. He’s always quick to point that out. Which, of course, means he wears used socks. But not too often, only in the snow. The rest of the time he is in sandals. Come on, we have to do a good job; he’ll be over to inspect that I did it correctly next weekend if you are driving to the Renaissance festival.”
Her enthusiasm was infectious, so instead of going back in to continue reading, we were boarding her bus to retrieve the back window, the gasket, and the epoxy we’d use to install the window. Lucy was in front of me but just stopped suddenly, and I rammed into her from behind.
“Wow, just wow,” Lucy said. “Did you paint this yourself, Willow?”
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“No, my dad did, the summer before he died. He was inspired by Kesey’s bus Further. It took him the whole summer. He put a sign by the register: "If you want to pay, see the man on the bus parked out front." Then he would lie on a piece of plywood supported by the seats and just paint. He knew those covers so well, he never brought the actual cover out to the bus; he just did them by memory. He had a boombox blaring "Yes” all day every day. Pretty soon townspeople would come down and sit in the bus and watch him paint. The music was so loud you couldn’t really talk. I asked him if that was why he kept the volume so loud, so he didn’t have to talk. He just smiled but never answered.”
“Willow, it’s like a better version of the Sistine Chapel ceiling and The Last Judgment. Your father was the Michelangelo of progressive rock. Those are all Yes album covers. I had all of their albums; I liked their music, but it was the Roger Dean artwork that first drew my attention to them. Lucy, have you ever heard any Yes music before?”
“Close to the Edge and Roundabout.”
I dragged out my phone and started taking pictures. Wait till Amy sees this. I texted her a picture and told her to come see the real thing in the parking lot. She was out the door a minute later. Willow gave her a big hug as she took her on a tour of the bus. While Lucy and I carried the window off the bus and out of the way and over to my car. Neither of us knew what we were supposed to do next. So we waited for Willow and Amy to finish their tour.
Willow hopped off the bus and joined us at my car, while Amy continued to view the incredible artwork. Willow told Lucy she had done a great job removing the old glass because we quickly laid the new glass into the hole and it fit perfectly. We removed the glass and put the black rubber around the edge of the window. Willow laid down a bead of epoxy. We set the window back into place, and Willow taped around the outside of the window while Lucy and I held the window firmly in place. Once it was all taped, Willow said we could let go.
“Alright, Laura, you are all set; you can’t drive it for the next twenty-four hours. But then you are good to go.”
“Thank you, Willow. I tried all the junkyards I knew of, and no one had a good window. They all had cracks, which, according to the junkyard employees I talked to, wouldn’t pass inspection.”
“Is that where the bullet lodged?”
“Yeah, it is. I wanted to extract the bullet without making any marks on it. But that required digging out a fair amount of the dash to get at it.”
“I think I have something that will work to fill that; it won’t be perfect, but it’ll be a lot better than it is now.”
She went back to her bus and opened the luggage storage area and pulled out a huge toolbox. She rummaged around for a few minutes, pulling out a tube of body filler. She glanced at the directions before speaking.
“This should work pretty well; we’ll just need to check it tomorrow and fill in any cracks that may form. Technically it says that is only for smaller holes. But if need be, a second application has always worked for me in the past.”
Thirty minutes later it looked pretty darn good to me. My car was almost as good as before it was shot at. But I’m still nowhere when it comes to catching the person who shot at me. I thanked Willow again for fixing yet another bit of my car. If she lived in Placid, I could do away with the expensive mechanic I go to now.
Then after finishing my car, she wanted a tour of the store, so she and Lucy went into the store. I’m sure Lucy wanted to point out all of her suggestions that had come to fruition. By now the writers were starting to appear. Like bears after a winter's hibernation, they wandered around the lawn in search of food. As Amy had just lit the grills, it was going to be a little while, so she chased them up to the parking lot to see the hippy bus and the wonderful artwork.
Monique was the first to arrive; as an artist herself, it wasn’t surprising that she was the first one onto the bus to have a look. She had heard of Yes but had never seen one of their album covers, so she didn’t get the references, but she knew great art when she saw it. After taking it all in, she went in search of Willow and Lucy. So she could tell Willow just how impressed she was by the quality of the artwork.
The three of them were back in the parking lot when Anais arrived carrying a bocce ball set. When she saw the bus, she said,
“Did you rent a bus to collect the escorts? That was good thinking, Laura.”
“No, that is Willow’s bus, our friend and sister store in Woodstock. But you have to step inside and see the artwork; it’s gorgeous.”
Before she could do that, Willow came over and gave her a hug before saying.
“You can use the bus. Who are the escorts you are collecting?”
“No, we can’t use your bus, Willow. None of us know how to drive it. Don’t you need a special license?”
“Well, I’ll drive it then; I have the license.”
“I can’t let you do that; it might be dangerous, Willow.”
“Now I have to go. I’m an excellent driver; come on, tell me all about it.”
So we filled her in on the escorts that were being forced to continue doing something that they had decided they no longer wanted to do.
“Laura, it will be a lot safer for you, Amy, and Anais, along with the escorts, if we take the bus. This bus is like a tank. What if whoever is forcing these girls pursues you out of Saranac? That is a long, dark road between the two towns. They might be driving big SUVs or pickup trucks. They could just come alongside, brush into you, and force you off the road. You or the escorts might get hurt; they could be forced back into service. I’ll sit on the bus and drive. You, Amy, and Anais can get off the bus to help the girls from the bar door into the bus, you guys hop back on, and you direct me to the next bar. They would need a dump truck to knock this off the road. Plus I’m stuck in the store every day at home. I don’t have a brilliant intern I can leave the store with, so I never get to help anyone. What do you say?”
I looked at Anais, and she shrugged and said, “Willow has a good point, Laura. It would take a lot to knock a bus off the road, and certainly no one is going to expect it, right?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. It’d be great if riding in the bus made everyone safer, but on the other hand, if Willow got hurt, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. Of course Amy and Anais were coming, and I’d feel terrible if either of them were hurt as well. But they are certainly old enough to make their own choice. So is Willow; she’s eighteen and has been on her own for two years, running not only a store but also a collective as well. Plus she did it all on her own. I needed Bianca to come in and fix the financial mess I had gotten us into.
“Alright, Willow, if you want to. But you have to know up front that I was shot at by whoever runs this ring. So I want you to think about it seriously; we don’t leave until nine thirty. So I don’t want you to make up your mind until nine fifteen. Fair enough?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“What about me, Laura? Can I go?”
“No, you cannot. I know it isn’t fair. You are the person that invited Willow here in the first place, and now you are being left out. But we need someone we can trust here. If we come tearing back into this parking lot and you see cars in pursuit, you’ll need to get on the phone and contact my cousin August. So he can send the cavalry. Can you do that for us?”
“I’m not stupid, you know. You are giving me an ‘important’ job so I don’t feel left out.”
“Of course you are not stupid, and maybe you are right; I was making up an unlikely scenario, but just because it is unlikely doesn't mean that it can’t happen. You are also my precious intern that affords me the ability to read when I should be working. You are also our highest-selling salesperson, and you are also in charge of two new projects. All things that you cannot do if you get hurt. If you did get hurt, it’d be two years before I got to see you again. Because your father would forbid it, as would be his right as your parent. So please don’t be angry with me, and in two years if we are in a similar situation, I promise that I’ll let you make the call.”
“I’m not angry; I’m just mad. It sounds like fun rescuing some hookers.”
“They're not hookers; they are escorts.”
"potato, potahto."
The first round of the barbecue was ready: hotdogs and vegiedogs with mustard and onions, ketchup, and chili sauce. Amy called them loaded dogs. Lis came and met Willow, who she said was ‘cool.’ Then Willow, Lucy, and Bianca got into a discussion about Lucy’s plan for a physical ebook bookstore. Willow was more interested in the living writers' out-of-print catalog.
“I’m sure some of the writers in our collective would be interested in doing something like this. It’s a no-brainer; the books are out of print, so they are not generating any revenue. Turn them into ebooks and get two dollars a sale. A sale’s a sale. Plus, if they have a large amount of books out of print, they might generate some decent money,” Willow said.
“I think three dollars is the sweet spot for fiction, but nonfiction could be priced much higher. If you wrote a bicycle repair manual, a person would likely pay five or ten dollars, expecting to recoup that money in their first repair over what it would cost to bring it to the repair shop. Just a basic bike tune-up at the shop in town is fifty dollars.”
Of course, if you have a party and invite just booksellers and authors, the topic of discussion is going to be books. But Amy wasn’t content to just have people sitting around, so she got the bocce ball set and formed a team with Anais, and then she made up the writers group. Whichever team could beat Amy and Anais would be served first when the dinner portion of the barbecue was ready. Willow and Lucy were the only team that beat Anais and Amy and thus were served first. Lis and I were last.
At nine o’clock, I went upstairs and grabbed a couple of whistles that I had leftover from my NYC days. If you saw a mugging or some other crime being committed, you were supposed to blow the whistle. I also grabbed the burner phone so I could call Annette when we had all the girls and were on our way back. Willow, Amy, and Anais were waiting for me in the parking lot. We jumped onto the bus as the last of the fireworks exploded in a grand finale.
