out, and told me my request would have to go through channels.
TWELVE
By the second week in July, five weeks after its publication, Deep Background had managed to sell enough copies to warrant a modest second printing.
Although it was barely a blip on the BookScan radar screen, it would have been a great excuse to celebrate with Ismael. I even entertained fantasies of getting him drunk on champagne and having my way with him. The problem was he was roughly twenty-six hundred miles away in Washington. He’d been called out of town again, this time to help organize a new effort to get an immigration amnesty bill before Congress as early as possible in the next presidential term. He knew such legislation would face stiff opposition from Americans who appreciated the benefits of slave labor from across the border as long as the workers didn’t ask for too much, like decent health care and education for their children. He wasn’t sure when he’d be back. We’d never even managed to meet for dinner before he left.
My book turned up briefly on the Los Angeles Times bestseller list, peaking at number three, for which Judith Zeitler deserved most of the credit. She’d set up readings at key bookstores around Southern California that were thought to be on the Times survey, a routine ploy by savvy publicists and authors that could make a modest seller look more successful than it really was. I could now claim to be a “best-selling” author, though only regional in scope. Southern California was a big book market, to be sure, but the truth was that if an author sold a mere few hundred copies at the right bookstores in a brief enough time span, his or her book could jump on a regional list and warrant the bestseller label. One notorious author, a game show producer with buckets of money, had even run around to key bookstores buying up armloads of his own poorly reviewed love story. The strategy had worked and, ever since, his publicity materials had referred to him as a best-selling novelist.
I was more clear-eyed about my own success, or lack of it. Deep Background hadn’t shown up on any of the major national bestseller lists, and hadn’t sold anywhere near the number of copies needed if I was to earn back my advance. That made it one of thousands of books released around the same time that barely caused a ripple at the cash register, let alone in the public’s consciousness. With only a few promotional events remaining, my memoir’s shelf life was quickly running out, like a fish flopping on the dock and gasping its last breaths.
“We’ve got to get you on Jerry Rivers Live, ” Zeitler said, during a quick phone call as she raced around town, escorting her new client to readings and interviews. “Trust me, Benjamin, I haven’t given up. I want that booking!”
“If anyone can get me on Jerry Rivers Live, ” I said, “it’s you, Judith.”
* * *
Ismael called in mid-July to tell me he was coming home, and my heart soared at the news.
While he’d been gone, I’d stayed busy painting my apartment and refinishing the hardwood floor, something I hadn’t done in the eighteen years I’d lived there. Maurice found new curtains to replace the faded ones, and I’d purchased my first full set of dinnerware, after eating for years off a mix of thrift store bargains. On the day Ismael was to arrive home, I took delivery of a new queen-sized mattress and box frame, anticipating the moment when we’d make love for the first time.
The deliverymen were departing as the postal carrier arrived with the day’s mail. Following our new routine, I waited while Fred shuffled from the house to retrieve the items from the mailbox and dispense them accordingly. He handed me the latest issue of the Lambda Book Report , a bill from my credit card company, and a plain postcard.
It had been weeks since I’d received a piece of hate mail and when I saw the card I felt myself clench up, despite my vow to not let the
TWELVE
By the second week in July, five weeks after its publication, Deep Background had managed to sell enough copies to warrant a modest second printing.
Although it was barely a blip on the BookScan radar screen, it would have been a great excuse to celebrate with Ismael. I even entertained fantasies of getting him drunk on champagne and having my way with him. The problem was he was roughly twenty-six hundred miles away in Washington. He’d been called out of town again, this time to help organize a new effort to get an immigration amnesty bill before Congress as early as possible in the next presidential term. He knew such legislation would face stiff opposition from Americans who appreciated the benefits of slave labor from across the border as long as the workers didn’t ask for too much, like decent health care and education for their children. He wasn’t sure when he’d be back. We’d never even managed to meet for dinner before he left.
My book turned up briefly on the Los Angeles Times bestseller list, peaking at number three, for which Judith Zeitler deserved most of the credit. She’d set up readings at key bookstores around Southern California that were thought to be on the Times survey, a routine ploy by savvy publicists and authors that could make a modest seller look more successful than it really was. I could now claim to be a “best-selling” author, though only regional in scope. Southern California was a big book market, to be sure, but the truth was that if an author sold a mere few hundred copies at the right bookstores in a brief enough time span, his or her book could jump on a regional list and warrant the bestseller label. One notorious author, a game show producer with buckets of money, had even run around to key bookstores buying up armloads of his own poorly reviewed love story. The strategy had worked and, ever since, his publicity materials had referred to him as a best-selling novelist.
I was more clear-eyed about my own success, or lack of it. Deep Background hadn’t shown up on any of the major national bestseller lists, and hadn’t sold anywhere near the number of copies needed if I was to earn back my advance. That made it one of thousands of books released around the same time that barely caused a ripple at the cash register, let alone in the public’s consciousness. With only a few promotional events remaining, my memoir’s shelf life was quickly running out, like a fish flopping on the dock and gasping its last breaths.
“We’ve got to get you on Jerry Rivers Live, ” Zeitler said, during a quick phone call as she raced around town, escorting her new client to readings and interviews. “Trust me, Benjamin, I haven’t given up. I want that booking!”
“If anyone can get me on Jerry Rivers Live, ” I said, “it’s you, Judith.”
* * *
Ismael called in mid-July to tell me he was coming home, and my heart soared at the news.
While he’d been gone, I’d stayed busy painting my apartment and refinishing the hardwood floor, something I hadn’t done in the eighteen years I’d lived there. Maurice found new curtains to replace the faded ones, and I’d purchased my first full set of dinnerware, after eating for years off a mix of thrift store bargains. On the day Ismael was to arrive home, I took delivery of a new queen-sized mattress and box frame, anticipating the moment when we’d make love for the first time.
The deliverymen were departing as the postal carrier arrived with the day’s mail. Following our new routine, I waited while Fred shuffled from the house to retrieve the items from the mailbox and dispense them accordingly. He handed me the latest issue of the Lambda Book Report , a bill from my credit card company, and a plain postcard.
It had been weeks since I’d received a piece of hate mail and when I saw the card I felt myself clench up, despite my vow to not let the
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