I am readying myself at this writing for my outing to the signing.
An image of The Book House has been obtained, thanks to Google Street View. Hick has been doped up to that fine line between coughing up his left lung and driving under the medfluence. The Pony is back from his smart tournament. I've painted up my lips and rolled and curled my tinted hair. Wait a minute! That's Ruby, pre- taking her love to town. I haven't done that. But I am, you know, contemplating going out somewhere.
Now for the issue of how to pass the time during the drive. I am not a good passenger. I'm sure that comes as a shock to those of you who've read my scathing reviews of OPD. Other People's Driving. Hick, in his weakened state, would be no match for my side-seat driving commands. So I must distract myself from his sweaving, and leave that business to a man and his GPS.
The Pony will be of no help. He's low-maintenance. A book, a Kindle, a laptop, a phone game...any or all will be his focus. I daresay we could drive from Backroads to Hawaii in a tricked-out Duck (the amphibious vehicle, not the fowl), and The Pony would not bother to raise his head for an appearance off the starboard bow of a mission of mermaids.
I could use the time to read one of the many books that are stacked and waiting in various Pisa-towering piles, turning slowly to dust as I breeze past them every day. But the removal of a single book might Jenga the stack. I could nap. But then I wouldn't know if Hick succumbed to his lung-sparing elixir and started sleep-driving like Clark Griswold piloting the Family Truckster. I could take my special little notebook, three of which the boys and Hick gave me for Mother's Day, and only one of which I now retain possession, and jot down notes for hilarious and riveting blog posts. Or at least for blog posts. But then I would have to find some way to hide it upon my person while out of the Tahoe and inside The Book House. Because if Hick is inside the car without me, he will be all up in that.
One boundary that Hick does not understand is privacy. Never mind that he would not read a national bestseller if I wrote one. If I left a notebook carelessly in his line of sight, he would examine that journal with a fine-toothed comb. In Hick's mind, I am some dastardly dame who might as well change her name to Harriet Plotter. A schemer, I am, intent on overthrowing Hick's oligarchy, composed of he, himself, and him. Sending out feelers for an eventual abscondence with a Fabio-coiffed viscount of indeterminate nationality. Or a tubby, bespectacled French model that I met on the internet. Bonjour.
So...I will most likely stare straight ahead, fingernails gouging my palms, while I endure the death-defying drive at the hands of Hick. Chauffeur Extraordinaire.
Did I mention that I am stoked for this foray into civilization? And re-thinking that 44 oz. Diet Coke that I picked up at 9:00 a.m.