6/22/10
112. Things Burbank Notices
Burbank notices that if none of those people where there to see Milo, then why the hell did they all have red hair?!
111. Identity Crisis
As soon as I walked into the bookstore to find ten rows filled with fans waiting to hear me read, my heart nearly stopped. Almost all of them had red hair! They were after me! I considered turning and running, but then I remembered my very own gimmick. Red hair is my protagonist’s trademark. They were dying their hair for me.
It is a little difficult doing an event in another language. You have to funnel yourself in and out of the translator’s mercy. This event in Florence was set up differently than most I’d been to. There were not books at my table, and the announcer wanted me to start with question and answer and move onto a reading at the end, which would inspire them to buy the book.
When people started asking questions, I found that I had difficulty answering them. I figured the translator wasn’t that good because often audience members referred to moments in my books that never happened or they called the characters by the wrong names. Some of them referenced my writing background, which was flawed in many ways, but so many people mentioned my six-year residency at Atlanta College, that I started to believe I actually had attended there. They all seemed to know me better than I did, and my mind hadn’t exactly been sound today what with all the stress of bugs and aliens. Perhaps I was this Atlanta man.
And then I saw the poster on the window and my shoulders slumped. I hadn’t bothered reading it because it was all in Italian, but I could make out the date and time now advertising this event. The only problem was, it wasn’t my name on the heading, and it wasn’t my book cover on the poster.
In the end, I ended up selling and signing more books than at any other event. Unfortunately, they were all robot thrillers by Marco Thom.
It is a little difficult doing an event in another language. You have to funnel yourself in and out of the translator’s mercy. This event in Florence was set up differently than most I’d been to. There were not books at my table, and the announcer wanted me to start with question and answer and move onto a reading at the end, which would inspire them to buy the book.
When people started asking questions, I found that I had difficulty answering them. I figured the translator wasn’t that good because often audience members referred to moments in my books that never happened or they called the characters by the wrong names. Some of them referenced my writing background, which was flawed in many ways, but so many people mentioned my six-year residency at Atlanta College, that I started to believe I actually had attended there. They all seemed to know me better than I did, and my mind hadn’t exactly been sound today what with all the stress of bugs and aliens. Perhaps I was this Atlanta man.
And then I saw the poster on the window and my shoulders slumped. I hadn’t bothered reading it because it was all in Italian, but I could make out the date and time now advertising this event. The only problem was, it wasn’t my name on the heading, and it wasn’t my book cover on the poster.
In the end, I ended up selling and signing more books than at any other event. Unfortunately, they were all robot thrillers by Marco Thom.
110. No clothes
We got back to the hotel to learn that Lenore had complained to the manager about the bed bugs, and they’d taken all of our bedding and clothing. They gave us new rooms on a different floor, which was nice of them, but now what was I supposed to wear?
“The clothes have to be quarantined for six weeks before they are safe to wear again,” Lenore told us. “That or burned.”
So I wear this damn green shirt for the rest of the trip, huh? That’s two weeks straight, and not two weeks of sitting at home writing at my laptop but two sweaty weeks of voyaging around. Not that I’m the only one suffering—mustn’t be selfish—as poor Burbank’s chosen a rather slimming t-shirt that will do him no good when we get to the less tropical regions of Germany and Ireland.
Burbank told me that he’d read in the news of a village somewhere in New Zealand or Australia or somewhere that completely ran out of underpants. Citywide crisis, honest! So this preacher man journeyed to the city and distributed free underpants for everyone. What I wouldn’t give for a savior like that right now.
“The clothes have to be quarantined for six weeks before they are safe to wear again,” Lenore told us. “That or burned.”
So I wear this damn green shirt for the rest of the trip, huh? That’s two weeks straight, and not two weeks of sitting at home writing at my laptop but two sweaty weeks of voyaging around. Not that I’m the only one suffering—mustn’t be selfish—as poor Burbank’s chosen a rather slimming t-shirt that will do him no good when we get to the less tropical regions of Germany and Ireland.
Burbank told me that he’d read in the news of a village somewhere in New Zealand or Australia or somewhere that completely ran out of underpants. Citywide crisis, honest! So this preacher man journeyed to the city and distributed free underpants for everyone. What I wouldn’t give for a savior like that right now.
109. In Hiding
We waited there a half hour before slinking back to the hotel. I needed a change of clothes before my event. I hated the walk back because I felt like every person in the city knew who I was and not because I’m a famous author. Do you think that there is some kind of fluid in the bug bites that works as a tracking device? Are we safe? Can the government see us? I hope so now. I’m more concerned about aliens than the government sending insects to control my body.
108. The Chase
Can you say Caption Contest anyone? I am writing this in a dark alleyway hiding behind a dumpster. The light on the Blackberry may give away our hiding spot, but I thought that my fans deserved to know what became of me should I get found out. Let me back up.
Burbank and I had gone for a night stroll around Florence making rude poses in front of ancient statues for the camera. But then—I swear to God—this man comes around the corner, hair red as a baboon’s derrière, and goes “Hey you!” Now, this is Italy, so I figured if someone knows he should be speaking English at me, there’s a good chance he knows me, probably been looking for me, and judging by his hair colour wants to make a pie out of my face.
Burbank and I took off running, and of course the guy chased us. We ran all the way over the river and got into some little public square where tourists were enjoying a night out at a range of orangely lit Italian restaurants. We couldn’t stay here. We had to get somewhere dark, out of public eye. So we darted down a dark corridor between the ATMs and the chemist and dove behind a dumpster where we now sit listening for sounds of clomping feet, but all I can hear is Burbank’s confident and steady breathing.
107. Control
The government is controlling me! I should have suspected it before. Of course they would go after someone with substantial power. Say, America’s greatest up and coming horror novelist with fans across the globe. I can influence mankind with the written word, as demonstrated in my ability to send adults to the safety of under their beds. I’m beginning to act out of the norm. Why, just an hour ago, I was hiding behind the television set in the hotel because I thought the government couldn’t see me there.
106. Bumps in the Night
For the first time in my life, I’m beginning to know what it’d be like to lose my mind. Paranoia is hell on rationality. The Florence hotel has bed bugs. I awoke to little red, itchy lumps all over my body, eaten alive overnight! The others have suffered a similar affliction.
I don’t know much about bed bugs. Do they live in clothes? In hair? Do they carry diseases?
I must look like an idiot, attacking every black fleck of fuzz on my person. I am wearing a green stripe shirt because it’s the only light-coloured clothing I brought with me. Good thing the Italians dress well. I’ll blend in. If only they were also blanketed in red spots, then I could be incognito.
The weird thing about these bites is that they don’t so much as itch as they do inflict a prick of pain every so often. I think they are triggered by stress because all will be fine and then several will go off at once. We’re lucky the government hasn’t got their hands on this technology. They could control a man like this!
I don’t know much about bed bugs. Do they live in clothes? In hair? Do they carry diseases?
I must look like an idiot, attacking every black fleck of fuzz on my person. I am wearing a green stripe shirt because it’s the only light-coloured clothing I brought with me. Good thing the Italians dress well. I’ll blend in. If only they were also blanketed in red spots, then I could be incognito.
The weird thing about these bites is that they don’t so much as itch as they do inflict a prick of pain every so often. I think they are triggered by stress because all will be fine and then several will go off at once. We’re lucky the government hasn’t got their hands on this technology. They could control a man like this!
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