A Red Ink Kind of Day

A short story that highlights the perils of being overly enthusiastic and passionate about the written word…

by: Daniel Crépault

Glenn wrapped his messenger bag in a bear hug and joined the line of fans snaking around the outside of the bookstore. The queue inched forward to the sound of muttered conversation. The July sun, already blazing high overhead, sent shimmers of heat radiating from the blacktop. Above the store entrance, a banner fluttered in the sweltering breeze, “Book Signing with Owen McGinnis. TODAY ONLY!”

A woman wearing an enormous sunhat joined the queue, holding a book. Glenn squinted at it and saw that it was one of Mr. McGinnis’s newer books in the Drake Monaghan Investigates series.

“Is this the lineup for the book signing?”

“Indeed, it is.”

“I’m Lilith, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Lilith. I’m Glenn. What’s that you’ve got there?” he said, pointing to the book the newcomer held.

“Oh, it’s his new one. I hadn’t read anything by him before, but he’s quite good.”

Glenn raised an eyebrow. “Good? He’s brilliant.”

Lilith nodded and gazed around at the growing line.

“I beg your pardon,” Glenn said, taking a deep breath, “but that’s not at all the right one to start with.”

“Pardon?”

“That book. It’s not that Mr. McGinnis’s newer work is inferior to his earlier novels — far from it. If anything, his craft has only improved with age,” Glenn said, chuckling. “But to truly understand and appreciate the current state of his art, interspersed as it is with nuanced references to past adventures, one must start reading at the beginning.”

“Oh,” Lilith said, tilting her head, “Um, thanks for letting me know.”

“You’re welcome.” Turning back toward the store entrance, Glenn clutched the bag containing his treasured copy of McGinnis’s debut novel. It was a pristine first edition, free of dog ears or coffee stains. He felt sure that it would be valuable one day, not that he would ever part with it, of course. Its value was to increase, too, with the addition of Owen McGinnis’s unique signature, with all its flowing loops and bold flourishes. A warmth spread through his chest, and he felt a giddy benevolence toward the world that not even Lilith’s obvious lack of genuine fan pedigree could diminish.

Glenn shook his head at the growing lineup of fans and sighed. He couldn’t imagine how taxing a day of signing books for these vulgarians must be for Mr. McGinnis. He stole another glance at Lilith, asking himself how such a literary parvenu could appreciate the book she cradled in her too-large hands. Seeing Glenn looking at her, Lilith flashed a broad smile and seemed on the verge of saying something. Glenn’s face took on a blotchy crimson hue, and he looked away. With twitching hands, he pulled his book from the messenger bag, opened it to a random page, and began reading. Lilith’s face registered surprise. But she kept smiling and addressed the elderly gentleman standing behind her in the queue, politely saying good morning to him while turning her back to Glenn.

Time disappeared as Glenn stood and read, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, savouring each shuddering plot twist and character revelation. A blast of cold air from a vent above broke the spell, and Glenn looked up from the book, realizing that the shuffling queue had borne him into the store and within sight of the famed author. On either side of McGinnis were bookshelves decorated with red, white, and blue ribbons. Further ahead, the line of fans passed underneath a balloon archway. Glenn’s stomach tightened as he imagined Mr. McGinnis, with all his gentility and smiling dignity, surrounded by these garish decorations. His face flushed hot as he thought of the vile bookstore owner — a stooped, malodorous wretch, no doubt — who thought so little of his illustrious guest as to festoon his store with the dregs of some Dollar General’s discount Fourth of July bin. He closed his eyes and forced himself to inhale deep and slow like his therapist had taught him.

His heart raced as he pictured himself talking with Owen McGinnis, sharing a joke and eliciting raucous laughter, and perhaps even an invitation to play squash or go for a drink. He looked up and saw that he was passing through the arch of balloons, white and bulbous like children’s teeth. Glenn stepped forward, pinning his arms to his sides, hoping no one would see the damp circles growing there.

Owen McGinnis looked over, eyes the colour of robin eggs and with a beatific smile that seemed to invite Glenn into some secret.

“Hello!”

Glenn had heard McGinnis’s voice in recorded interviews, but hearing it now so close thrilled him. It had the rich baritone warmth and slight warble that reminded him of his grandfather, a remarkable man who had always been able to explain things to Glenn in a way that made sense.

“Hello, Mr. McGinnis. It’s an honor to meet you, finally.”

“Do you have a book you’d like me to sign?”

“What? Oh, yes!”

Glenn heard a ripping sound as he pulled it forcefully from his bag. He looked down and saw the long jagged tear in the dust jacket. He pulled it off, stuffed it back into his bag, and swung it over his shoulder, elbowing Lilith. She groaned, and he muttered an apology before turning back to Owen McGinnis and placing his now-naked book in the man’s outstretched hand.

“Who should I make it out to?”

“Glenn,” he said, voice cracking like a fifth-grader. “It’s spelled G-L-E-N-N.”

McGinnis signed it with a flourish of Sharpie and extended the book toward Glenn. The entire movement took only a second, maybe two. Glenn’s stomach churned as he realized the audience was ending. He placed his hand on the book, grazing McGinnis’ fingers for a fraction of a second. The startled author withdrew the hand, brow furrowed but still smiling.

“Thank you for coming.”

“I really, really adored the book.”

McGinnis kept smiling and nodded his head. “Thank you.”

“I thought it was masterful how you used the scene where the Baby Doll Killer tortures Constable Benedetto as a means of critiquing the mindlessness of consumer culture.”

“Um, thanks.”

“It showed how we are all slowly being tortured by the hypocrisy of corporations that only care about their bottom line.”

McGinnis’s smile faded, and his face took on a pinched expression. He started to fidget with the Sharpie and glanced backward to a large, bearded man wearing a “Security” t-shirt. Glenn’s chest tightened. People don’t look for security guards when things are going well. That was another lesson Dr. McIntyre had taught him during what had turned out to be their last session.

“And I love how you imbue so much of yourself into the characters. It’s so deeply personal, so richly authentic. I felt like I could see into your brain when I read it.” He laughed a little too loudly, and McGinnis winced.

“I just want you to know, Mr. McGinnis, that you are loved and appreciated, sir.” He placed his hand atop McGinnis’s on the table and nodded. McGinnis recoiled as if burned and stood up from the table, sending the chair screeching across the floor tiles. He recovered himself and walked over to the security guard, whispered something in his ear, and pointed. The security guard turned to look at Glenn and walked over to the table.

“Sorry, folks,” he said, addressing the line of people behind Glenn. “We’ll just be a few more minutes. Mr. McGinnis needs to take a quick break.” A moan of disappointment escaped from the lineup of fans.

“Time to go,” the security guard said, looking at Glenn and pointing toward the entrance. The guard hiked up his pants as if he expected trouble and placed his enormous hand on Glenn’s shoulder. Glenn saw Owen McGinnis push through a door marked “Staff Only,” and his eyes welled with tears. He must have offended the man somehow, though he wasn’t sure how or why. Probably, it had something to do with personal boundaries. That was another thing Dr. McIntyre had been quite insistent on. But Glenn couldn’t very well leave things as they were. He’d made a mess, and grandfather had always said that messes had to be cleaned up by those who made them. What was needed here, Glenn felt sure, was a gallant apology.

He turned as if to follow the security guard toward the entrance, then dashed after the author, pursued by sounds of alarm from the crowd behind him. He reached the door and pushed it open. McGinnis sat at a table stacked with boxes. Seeing Glenn, he dropped the soda he was drinking and sputtered, eyes widening. Glenn rushed toward him and fell to his knees.

“My dear Mr. McGinnis, if I have done anything to offend you, I beg your sincere pardon…” But his words were drowned out by the shouts of alarm from the author, which had been building in volume and intensity as Glenn approached.

“Sir, there’s no reason to be alarmed,” Glenn said, smiling broadly and showing as many teeth as possible. He’d read somewhere that this put people at ease. Far from being calmed by the gesture, McGinnis scrambled back and his chair tipped. Glenn came around the overturned table to where McGinnis was moaning, blood oozing from a small cut on his brow.

“Stop! Let go of him!”

Glenn turned to see the security guard rushing toward him. The guard reached out, but Glenn circled the table, out of reach, and ran back through the store doors. Hands grabbed at him, pulled at his clothing, and angry voices yelled for him to stop. Glenn fought free from their grasp and kept running. He didn’t see Lilith’s outstretched foot and fell. Hands reached for him again, pinning him down on the dirty wooden floor.

The two police officers who arrived soon after sat Glenn in a cruiser that smelled of stale coffee while they gathered witness statements. While he waited, Glenn replayed in his mind all that had happened that day, starting with the long lineup and the events leading to his arrest. He closed his eyes, reimagining each memory as he wished it had been, removing each painful misstep and embarrassing blunder like an author slashing through a manuscript in red ink. He smiled as he imagined the heartfelt conversation that he and McGinnis should have had. Indeed, the one they really had shared.

Hours later, sitting in a holding cell, he felt tired but content. A policeman had explained that Glenn would be free to go as soon as his paperwork was ready and that Owen McGinnis had declined to press charges. As the minutes ticked by, Glenn waited in the constant clamor and sweat stench of the cellblock, wondering what the officer had meant about McGinnis pressing charges. Another policeman, this one an older man in a suit, came with the paperwork. Glenn smiled and shook his head when the officer read aloud the order prohibiting him from being within 500 meters of Owen McGinnis. He tried in vain to explain the mistake, to describe the pleasant chat he and Mr. McGinnis had shared, but the officer waved him away.

Glenn emerged from the police station into the cool night air and walked back to the bookstore. As he trudged on, he looked ahead at the passing vehicles and darkened storefronts and wondered how far 500 meters was. He slid into the driver’s seat of his car, opened his bag, and reached for his book. Something fell out and he fumbled for it in the dark around his ankles. He held the torn dust jacket up to the overhead light. Memories of the catastrophic day began surfacing in his mind, like driftwood bobbing on an ocean current, defying his best efforts to keep them down. He cradled his copy of The Devil’s Apprentice, now personally dedicated to him. Lifting the book to his nose, he inhaled its sharp, musty odor. Glenn opened the front cover and read, “To Greg, glad you enjoyed the book. Owen McGinnis.”

He exhaled and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Several minutes passed, though he didn’t know how many, before he opened his eyes again and sat up, feeling tired. Today had been a bad day, and Glenn could feel the dark weight of it pulling him down toward the floorboard. He tried to imagine what his grandfather would say to him in this moment, what words he would use now so things made sense. So many confusing things had happened today, and he needed to process them with his therapist if she would only return his phone calls.

Glenn let out a slow breath, like Dr. McIntyre had taught him, and watched as condensation bloomed on the windshield. After a few more minutes passed and all was quiet, save for the low rumble of passing cars, he pulled out his phone. He dialed the numbers learned by heart. The phone rang and, to his surprise, the answer came on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Dr. McIntyre? It’s Glenn, please don’t hang up. It happened again.”

Daniel Crépault is a criminologist, addiction treatment provider, and emerging short fiction writer. He lives in Ottawa, Canada, with his wife and two beautiful children.