I thinned out a few books and CDs today and hauled them away to sell.
Aside from clinically examining the CDs and putting them into little stacks, the guy at the CD store made no motions to indicate that I was present. He rejected a few (I’ve misplaced them at some point) and paid out slightly less than they should’ve gone for.
I have a nodding acquaintance with the bookstore employee. She’s a cartoonist. I went off and skimmed Graham Greene’s autobiography while she went through my books.
When she was done, she came up and said, “Did you know you’ve got some really good books?”
“Do you mean they have some value?”
“No, you have some interesting books. The book of Paul Auster’s poems looks interesting. Poetry’s not my thing, but I’m going to have to check that out.” Then she asked, “Are you a cartoonist?”
We’ve had this conversation before. There were a few comics among my sendoffs and because comics are so marginalized, cartoonists assume that anyone who reads comics must also make them. “No.”
She looked at me like I was withholding some information. “I mean I used to draw and I’ve done a few pages.” But the answer is really no.