Jim Kokoris

It is late January, cold and dark, and my agent, Lynn, calls me in my office to tell me depressing news: My novel, The Rich Part of Life, has been turned down by a publisher who had, up until that point, expressed serious interest. It is the latest near-miss in a series of no-thank-yous. Lynn tries to sound upbeat when she tells me this, but nothing she says lifts my spirits. My book is doomed. After the call, I stare for almost an hour at a blank wall, trying to trace past sins, draw some conclusions on why I am being punished like this. Then my wife calls to remind me that I promised to meet her and the boys at Chuck E. Cheese's, where a large mouse will serve us our dinner. We get a discount because it's Monday, she says. But we better hurry, because it's going to be packed.

It is one month later. I am sitting on the floor of our family room trying to do a puzzle with my youngest son, Andrew. Anne, my wife, is in the shower, and my two older sons are upstairs, I'm sure, breaking something. The phone rings and it is Lynn again, telling me that a publisher has just made an offer for my book. I put the phone down, tell Anne this, and then we start screaming. Andrew starts crying. He is scared: why are mom and dad screaming? Is someone hurt? Mikey and Johnny come downstairs and, without missing a beat, start whooping it up, running around, throwing things up in the air, tackling each other, breaking things. Finally, we are all quiet and we all look at each other.

"Why are we all yelling?" Mikey asks. He is breathing hard.

"Yeah," Johnny asks. "What's going on?"

It is one month later. A local newspaper has just run a flattering column on me, so flattering that I have decided it should someday be read at my funeral. To celebrate, Anne and I go out to dinner. I bring the column with me and commit it to memory while drinking more wine than I should. Afterward, we decide to go to a large bookstore to check on my book. When I get there, I tell the young man with a punk hairstyle behind the counter my name and get no reaction. I consider running out to the car to get the column, but instead simply say, The Rich Part of Life.

"Oh, yeah, sure," he says. He starts to rearrange some books behind the counter. After a few moments he looks up and, realizing I'm still there, says, "Oh, yeah, sure," again.

" I'm an author. How is my book doing?" I ask.

"Oh, it's a book, " he says. "Oh, let's see then. Sure." He types something on his keyboard. I lean on the counter in a way that suggests confidence, waiting for expected and familiar good news.

"We haven't sold any copies."

I push away from the counter and stand up. "Really?"

"Nope. Oh, wait," he peers into the computer. "Oh."

"What?"

"Oh. We had one returned."

I flinch. I have constructed many, potential scenarios of my life as a novelist, none of which involved having books I've written returned. "What do you mean, returned? You mean someone brought it back? You mean, like a shirt? Was it the wrong size?"

The man looks at me. "Sorry," he says.

"They can do that?"

"Oh, yeah, sure."

"Why did they return it? Did they give a reason?"

"No, he just kind of handed it to me."

"He? So it was a man who did this thing?"

"Yeah. Or a woman. I don't remember." Then, for some reason, he says, "It was Tuesday."

I take a deep breath, trying to imagine who could do such a thing -- on a Tuesday, no less -- wondering if I know the person. I rapidly begin reviewing my list of suspects. A cousin I've long suspected of having attention deficit disorder. An old college roommate, who I think is very jealous. A shiftless stranger, who, after receiving the book by a well-meaning aunt, decided instead to exchange it for cash and then cheap whiskey. I am glad Anne is over in the children's section and out of earshot. She should be spared this, at all costs. I need her to be strong so I can cry on her shoulder all the way home. I fight the urge to run to my car; I desperately need to read that newspaper column again, or at least be near it.

I look at the man's name badge. "Can I ask you something here, Dave? Does this happen a lot, Dave? Do people return books a lot?"

Dave bites his lower lip. I notice for the first time that he has green hair, streaked orange. His head, I think, looks like a scoop of sherbet. "Not really. I mean, it could. " Then he says, "In, like, theory."

"But it doesn't."

Dave shakes his head. He looks sad, which makes me feel sadder. "Not here," he says. "But I've only worked here, like, two years."

It is two weeks later. I am sitting in my living room alone late at night. The house is quiet and still, full of whispers and the breathing of my sleeping children. Outside I hear our neighbor's windchimes, hear a car come and go down our street. I have my book open on my lap. I close it, open it again. Hold it in one hand, then the other. I stand up and put it on our bookshelf, then rearrange things, placing it between two other books. I look at it from five feet away, then 10 feet, from one angle, then the next. It is late and I am tired, but I can't help myself. I keep staring at it. My book, I think, walking back toward the bookcase for yet another close look. My novel.

Jim Kokoris always wanted to be a writer -- though not necessarily a novelist. He always thought he would end up writing sit-coms. Because his business takes him on the road three or four times a month, he wrote The Rich Part of Life in 33 U.S. states: primarily in hotels, airports and most of all on United Airlines. He lives with his family in Illinois.

Author photo by Elan Photography.