SAD ROBOT: an autobiography of my unfortunate existence

35. AUTHOR

35. AUTHOR

After dropping Hiram off at the station, Milo did not go straight back home like he said he would. Taking a little detour, he headed to the downtown district and, more specifically, to the convention center of which he could not remember its name but knew exactly where it was anyway. There was a bit of a convention going on there; sellers and dealers of many such all-but-obsolete items - comic books, memorabilia of long forgotten movies and video games, and, most importantly, books.

There were only a handful of authors left in the country who actually make money on books these days, a majority of these sales coming from events like these, the last dying gasps of a book industry nearing the end of its life support system. And one of these authors would be there in the city at this years event. A hero among mere men, savior of the written word, an actual in-the-flesh Author.

This is Miloʼs definition of the person with the title of "Author": A mystical being whom writes stories in his Story Cave and releases them out into the world with cheers of gratitude from his multitudes of followers whom praise and glorify every ounce of word vomit he spews out no matter its actual quality, for we are privileged to even have someone of his/her talent and artistry to save us from illiteracy with their literary masterpieces, for without them our culture would be bare and exhausted of rational, intellectual thought.

Visiting his parents by this point was completely at the furthest rear point of his brain upon focusing on the fact that B.A. Lockwood, author extraordinaire, would be in his presence. Looking back, Milo could barely remember the drive from the station to the event center, because he was already crossing the parking lot on foot to the large glassfront doors where there were signs announcing all the names of the people who had anything to do with these dying art forms whom would be here and IN PERSON, as if there were any other way to be here.

As soon he bought his pass and went inside the convention center, Milo immediately searched out B.A. Lockwoodʼs booth where he was set up selling all of his books, which was now an almost obscenely long backlist of titles. The man was prolific to an unrivaled extent.

The lineup, luckily for him but not so luckily for Mr. Lockwood, was short. After waiting roughly a half-hour for his one minute meet with his favorite author - whom is a very, very busy man so would you kindly make it snappy, his manager standing next to his booth would say - standing amongst a line of fellow human beings whom, like himself, were perpetually stuck in stages of nostalgia regarding works of fiction and the physical paper novel that is all but extinct save for the instances like this where once a year people could go out, make mass purchases, and single-handedly keep alive the joy of holding a physical book at least until the next convention where one prays that sales donʼt go under the designated profit line, sending the already barely surviving printers hanging an ʻout-of-businessʼ sign on their doors and rushing to the banks to declare bankruptcy.

To Milo, it was reassuring to know there were others like him, however small in number, even though they only tended to crawl out of their hidey-holes to convene at the once-a-year Book, Comic, and Memorabilia Convention, it was still nice to know that he is not alone in the unfailing faith to the art of literature and graphic novels of old that society has not managed to snuff out entirely just yet. They were the strong, the proud, and the few; who were somehow immune to societyʼs seemingly necessary law of attaining subpar I.Q. levels and the loss of oneʼs own ability to procure any type of intellectual and independent thought.

Being here felt almost forbidden, like he was taking part in illegal trading and trafficking of prohibited goods and services. Slinging crystal meth seemed like a less frowned upon activity than buying and selling reading material that encouraged and promoted such obscene things as knowledge, imagination, and the nurturing of ideas and opinions.

The place itself was not particularly large but was suitable enough to hold all of the booths of various works and the few hundred people that had traveled from near and far to attend the event, meet the artists, and take home several items that will, most likely sooner rather than later, become entirely impossible to attain. The pitiful attendance also left the building feeling rather empty, as if a small-town rock band more suited to playing local bars tried to headline an arena but were stumped to find out that bigger venues did not automatically create increased attendance.

Finally, after a few other oddly dressed boys and girls of various ages, whom were probably much older than what their clothing implied, Milo was standing in front of Mr. B.A. Lockwood. The guy in front of him had just left with his armful of signed novels, holding his camera that probably contained a photo of him grinning wildly standing beside Lockwood.

Milo sauntered up to Mr. Lockwoodʼs booth. He sits on the other side of it appearing somewhat tired and bored by the whole thing.

He looks at Milo. "Yes?" he said. No greeting or anything, just a short one word question as if Milo must now explain to him why he feel that he should be awarded the privilege of taking up an entire minute of his day.

Milo tries to stammer a response but is not sure if what comes out is entirely coherent. He wants to tell him how amazing each of his books are, how much of an inspiration his stories, how much of an inspiration he is to Milo as a writer, blah blah blah, etcetera, etcetera.

"Thank you, son," he says, so Milo must have formed some kind of a complete sentence that got understood. Lockwood appeared as a rather kind older man, greying hair, small beard, round face. He also looked like he didnʼt exercise much due to his sedentary occupation.

Milo hadnʼt thought of bringing all of his novels that he owned for the man to sign so he just bought his newest book, even though he already owned it and had read it three times, and had him sign it with a personalized response. As he pulled out a black marker and flipped the book open to an inside page to put his signature, Milo blabbed on about wanting to become a writer just like him and that reading his works inspired him to try harder and not give up, and he already canʼt remember what the rest of what he said was. It was all kind of a blur even five seconds later.

"Son," Lockwood used that word again, "if this were fifty, heck even thirty, years ago Iʼd say go for it. Donʼt give up till you damn well accomplish what youʼre after. But this is today. I always hate offering false encouragement to the younger generation."

"What do you mean?" Milo asked.

"Son, the worst thing you could probably tell your parents is that you plan to go into the arts."

His pessimism was flooring. He wanted to cover his ears and yell no, no, no! Not true!

"Listen, thereʼs five of us authors left who actually sell books. Thereʼs no room for others. Nobody wants others. When the last of us die out, this art form is gonna go with us."

"But, thereʼll be others - "

"No, son, I donʼt think there will. Nobody buys books anymore. The very, very small amount of people who somehow do, can only read so many books, and they trust those authors that they know. The stories from those they know they can still count on to retain whatever dignity of literature is left."

"But what if -" 

"Son, the worldʼs gone to shit in a hand-basket." 

Lockwood finishes signing his name with a false flourish and hands it back to Milo, wishing him a good day. 

It was a strange experience. Milo left feeling more deflated than he might have ever felt before. He had went to go see an idol whom he admired only to find that he had even less of a positive outlook on the world than Milo did.

He drove home in a stupor and on his walk to the apartment from the street he opened up B.A. Lockwoodʼs book and read what he had wrote on the inside page.

 Dear Neil, thanks for reading! Best Wishes! B.A. Lockwood

He didnʼt even get his name right.

Inside his apartment he threw the book into the trash where it landed with a thump.