Page 7 of Roses for Rosie

Chapter 4

Adam

I slide into my Mercedes Benz Roaster early the next morning not quite ready to endure my trip to Jamesville. At least the drive through the country roads will be fun, I think as I rev the engine and peel out of my driveway, feeling the car’s engine jump to life at my command. I take the corners fast and the hills even faster. I love this car so much.

The miles pass quickly as I race through the valleys, avoiding the little towns along the way. I wish I was driving in the other direction, toward New York City, rather than into the backwaters of New England, but Jan was clear. These ridiculous readings are part of the deal and there is no getting out of them.

Before I know it, I am in Jamesville. I pull into a parking space on Main Street. If this is the epicenter of this godforsaken town, the situation is even worse than I remembered. I sigh and close my eyes. As soon as this prep meeting is over, I’m out of here.

I open the door of the car and step out onto the sidewalk. The parking meter is flashing red so I grab my debit card out of my wallet and step up to it. But it is straight out of the 1960s. It doesn’t even take cards. Who carries cash anymore?

A closer look reveals that parking on Main Street costs a whopping twenty-five cents an hour. A quarter wouldn’t buy me a minute of parking time in the city. Demand dictates prices though and nobody in their right mind would want to spend a minute longer than they had to in this town. A quick glance around reveals plenty of empty spaces.

I fish a grimy old quarter out of the recesses of my glove box and feed it into the meter, ready to get the lay of the land. The coffee shop I see across the street is calling my name. The adrenaline of the drive kept me awake on the way here, but this sleepy town is making me feel drowsy. I could use a hit of caffeine to keep me going.

I barely need to glance left and right before crossing the street. The only traffic is an old lady walking her little yappy dog and a young mom pushing a stroller. The coffee shop door opens silently when I push it revealing several empty tables and a bored looking barista.

“One vente mocha latte with oat milk,” I order.

“Oat milk?” she asks, cracking her gum. “What’s that?”

I look at her, wondering if she is joking. Her expression is as blank as the check my publisher better be writing me for doing this. It’s clear that she has really never heard of oat milk. Rolling my eyes at her ignorance, I sink to a new low. “Fine, almond milk then.”

She nods her head in the direction of a cooler filled with dairy. No almond milk or even soy milk anywhere. I haven’t had a drink made with swill squeezed from the nether regions of an actual animal in ages. Do these people not realize how absolutely disgusting this is? Haven’t they heard what dairy does to the human digestive tract?

“Just a coffee, black,” I grumble.

A moment later she hands me a Styrofoam cup filled with coffee. I shake my head as I contemplate the thousands of years that cup will sit in a landfill. A man has to do what a man has to do though, and this man needs caffeine. Someone else can save the earth today.

I look for a place to tap my debit card and don’t see a card reader. I can’t remember the last time I had to hand my card over to anyone, but I extend it to the barista. She gives me another blank stare like she has never seen a credit card before.

“Cash only,” she says.

“Are you kidding me? Can I just Venmo you?”

“Ven-who?”

“Never mind.” I dig a five dollar bill out of my wallet and push it across the counter to her. She counts out my change and I drop the few pennies into her tip jar, pocketing the rest. “What’s your wi-fi password?”

“We don’t have one. Sometimes you can snag a signal from the library next door though if you sit at that table.” She points to a tiny table wedged between the wall and a rack of homemade postcards which look like they came directly from the local kindergarten. “You need a library card to access it though.”

A library card? Hasn’t she ever heard of Kindle?

I’ll just set up a hot spot and use some data. I settle at a table near the front window and set my coffee down, digging my phone out of my pocket. I open up my Settings to turn my personal hotspot on and see my worst nightmare glaring back at me from the screen.

No internet.

I hold the phone up and then out to my right, to my left, above my head, closer to the window. No dice. I have no cell service. How do people live like this?

I drop my phone on the table and look to the ceiling, hoping for divine intervention. People watching out the window isn’t even an option. There are no people here to watch. The old lady with the dog and the young mom have both disappeared. My best chance for entertainment at this point is tumbleweed blowing down the street. I crane my neck and look around. Nope, not even tumbleweed is interested in this place.

I sip on my coffee and make notes about my upcoming book tour on my phone. At least the notes app works, I think wryly.

I need to bring a copy of the book. Of course, I have a copy on my phone, but the gravitas of reading out of a hardback book does something special for audiences that reading from a phone just can’t match.

The reading is a show after all. It’s partly about the story, but it’s mostly about the experience of being with someone famous. With someone who wrote this work of art. With someone who can see into his readers’ souls. With me.

Maintaining the larger-than-life image is part of the magic and the hard copy book makes the magic sparkle. I also need to pack my three favorite suits, the ones which I had my tailor custom fit to me when the advance from my first book came in.

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