MARCH 14, 2024 – (Cont.) When I emerged into the public space of the bookstore, I was flabbergasted. In implementing my marketing efforts for the signing event, I’d given no thought to crowd limitations imposed by the Minneapolis fire code. The entire downtown workforce seemed to have turned out. If half of them bought a copy of Severance Package, my wife and I could start shopping for a new house, or at least we could replace our aging Chrysler mini-van with a new Chrysler mini-van.
As I squeezed through the sea of sardines—greeting friends and acquaintances among them—my mind raced along the timeline of vocational memories. With levitational effect compressed recollections carried me to what felt like the pinnacle of my career . . . Or was it the summit of my assorted extra-curricular activities, which, in retrospect had chronically diverted me from “my career”?
The narrow space at the front of the crowd had the size and feel of the batter’s box in Yankee Stadium. My expectant fans cheered as if I were batting clean-up in a playoff game against the Bosox. For my 15 minutes of fame I’d swing for the fences.
With the aid of my cartoon exhibits, I told “the story of the story”[1]: The inspiration behind my book[2]; the “easy part” (writing based on my experiences as a corporate soldier—a case of art imitating life); the “hard part” (trying to get the novel published . . . after completing the book and then getting fired—a case of life imitating art); and “bringing the book to life.” After introducing that final chapter of “l’histoire de l’histoire,” I turned the show over to Bill Orth and his players. With theatrical flair dramatis personae—judges and lawyers in real life—brought several book scenes to the stage. The actors and their director were rewarded with extended applause.
Before the book-buying rush began, I iced the marketing cake.
“Keep in mind,” I told my audience, “that Father’s Day is right around the corner. Surely everyone here knows someone who is a dad. What better gift could you find for that father than a Severance Package? And here and now is where you can acquire a personalized autographed copy—make that copies for all the dads you know!”
I had more up my marketing sleeve. “Better than that, however,” I continued, “is this: Efforts are now underway to produce a movie based on the book.” In fact, without knowing a thing about filmmaking except that I enjoyed watching films, I’d spent considerable time “imagining” a movie version of Severance Package. Detailed visualization, actually, had played a critical role in my writing.
“Next to the purchasing table over there,” I said, pointing to the table staffed by a store employee and weighed down with stacks of books, “are several sign-up sheets. “If you buy two copies, you can sign up to be included in crowd scenes in the film. Buy three books and you’ll be considered for an individual cameo appearance. Four copies will qualify you for the lottery for a minor speaking role. Purchase five copies and audition and you might even be in the running for a larger role—and listing among the credits.”
To my astonishment—and that of volunteers who supervised the sign-up sheets—people snatched up multiple copies and stood in a second line to sign up for the chance to be included in Severance Package: The movie.
The best part, however, occurred when I was subsequently seated at the table, signing my name away. The queue snaked around the rows of bookshelves. Eventually reaching the table was Jeff’s Minneapolis-based assistant.
“Jeff’s back in Maryland,” she said, “but he asked me to buy him two copies.” Her ironic smile prompted my own.
I couldn’t resist. Above my signature I inscribed, “Jeff – I hope you enjoy your Severance Package!”
The event lasted twice as long as the 45 minutes that the store manager had allotted. After the crowd dispersed, she was giddy with excitement. “Congratulations!” she said. “This was by far the biggest signing event this store has ever seen—and I suspect, ever will see.” (Cont.)
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
[1] Several of my cartoons:
[2] About 18 months before the event, I’d attended a book signing by Minnesota writer and humorist Bill Holm at that same downtown Barnes & Noble store. Bill was a good friend of my sister and brother-in-law, himself “a Minnesota writer and humorist.” I’d met Bill over dinner at Jenny and Garrison’s house years before. In the minutes before the start of his event, I searched and found him in the poetry section—Santa’s look-a-like, except he was wearing a thick Icelandic wool sweater instead of a red outfit. I introduced myself (at first he didn’t recognize me but when I mentioned the dinner he seemed to have a vague memory of it). We chatted a bit before he said, “Hey, let’s go outside so I can have a smoke before my event starts.” Shivering (it was December) while Bill smoked, I told him I wanted to try my hand at writing a novel but wasn’t sure what to do for a story. (In retrospect I realize how stupid that statement must’ve sounded—as dumb my saying, “I really want to tell you a story . . . except I have no idea what it is.”) Bill looked me up and down (I was wearing one of my 20-game winner suits, since I had a meeting scheduled with the FDIC examiners at 1:30 that afternoon). He then said, “You work in an office, don’t you? . . . Write about the office. No one since Kafka’s written about the office!” He was correct. How many English majors worked at a bank? I thought. Answer: very few. Accordingly, millions of bank employees had no literary champion, no voice, no one to tell their “story.” From that encounter with Bill Holm sprang the inspiration for Severance Package.
