Hey, Did I Ever Tell You I’m a Writer?
On casual Fridays while most of my co-workers on the office side of the factory wall eschew collared shirts for Tees emblazoned with the insignia of their favorite sports team, I pimp a shirt advertising the cover of my latest short story collection, Thrift Store Jackets published by Roadside Press and available wherever books are sold… online.
The reactions rarely waver.
“Hey, Polish Hammer, is that a picture of your book on your shirt?”
Maybe they’re not quite as familiar with the name Karl Koweski as they should be since I only answer to The Polish Hammer at work. Regardless, the words are always spoken with a certain tone of voice insinuating I just may be a self-serving jackass for daring to wear attire advocating my own literary endeavors. Again. For the fourth casual Friday in a row.
I match their bemused expressions with one of my own. “Yes, it is indeed the cover of my latest short story collection which recently topped out at 105,268 on the Amazon Hot 100 list before settling comfortably somewhere in the high two million ranking.”
“Wow! That’s hot shit. When are you going to be able to retire?”
“Around the day you get drafted to quarterback for the Alabama Crimson Tide.”
“It doesn’t work that way…”
“No, it doesn’t, does it?”
Talking to the people at work, hell, talking to anyone, anymore, anywhere about anything, it’s a constant battle to one-up the asshole you’re talking to since conversational etiquette where cleverness reigns has been normalized by a lifetime of sitcom viewing. Everyone is going to think they are smarter than the person they are talking to. Only one can be correct. Is it possible after all this time, through the course of all these conversations with various jackasses, that I have always been the one in possession of a superior intellect? How could it be any other way? Yet glaring at my conversational nemesis, I find the smugness in his doltish eyes refuses to align with my perception of my own conversational ascendancy.
And why is it so important these idiots understand that I’m a writer to such a degree that I begin every chat with “hey, did I ever tell you I’m a writer?” even with the people I’ve known for twenty years? I used to not be this way back in my twenties and thirties. Sure, I carried a notebook back then, but folks assumed I was an inveterate notetaker and I did nothing to disabuse them of this belief. Of course, I was mostly writing porn and poetry, back then, and I was ashamed to be a poet.
Why is it imperative these people realize I’m more than just a cog in some piss ant hydraulic factory on top of a mountain in rural Alabama. And does writing obsessively about my cock elevate me in some way above people who misspell half the items on their grocery list? It seems I’ve only opened myself to greater derision.
There’s a guy at work; Skylar we’ll call him since I can’t think of anything sillier than his real name. Knowing my propensity for toiling in literary obscurity, he mentioned how he read an article on social media reporting that a woman used Chat GPT to write a novel, and she’s since made millions of dollars selling her book. It’s presented generically enough, who could argue with the plausibility of such a thing. Except, perhaps, folks who realize what rarified air million-dollar writers breathe.
Skylar looked at me as though I’m the fool for attempting to write a novel using good old-fashioned alcohol and imagination.
“Millions of dollars, huh?”
“That’s what the article said.”
“Did you buy the book?” I ask
“Well, no. You know I ain’t got time to read.”
“Did you buy my book? You might have saw it advertised on my shirt.”
“No. I told you, I’m still battling dyslexia.”
“Then why should I give a shit about your opinion? About anything?”
“Why are you getting mad at me? I’m just saying you should use the tools technology has provided.”
That wasn’t even the most infuriating conversation I had that day. Jeanie, having also discovered my literary aspirations (on account of me telling her I’m a writer six times a day in an attempt to seduce her) took me aside and assured me I should really write her life story. It’d make a million dollars.
“I’d be more than willing to share some of the proceeds if you’d write it, find an agent and sell it for me,” she said. “It’s really an unbelievable story. I ever tell you my first husband cheated on me with the daytime manager of the Piggly Wiggly on Hog Jaw Road?”
“While that sounds fascinating, Jeanie, I’ve been writing so much about my own daunting struggles and improbable triumphs, I don’t know where I’d be able to find the time.”
“What, like writing columns about how your son refuses to find a job?”
“You read my column?”
“No, you just told me about it like six times.”
“Oh.”
“Think about it. If you’re serious about writing a best-seller.”
Then there’s Joe. He knows a thing or two about the literary game. His wife wrote a hundred thousand words detailing how Jesus saved her from a life of sin and debauchery. To here Joe tell it, finding a publisher for the novel (Joe called it an inspirational biography, but I posit since at least one of the main characters is entirely fictional…) was incredibly easy. And it only set Joe back sixty-five hundred dollars. Money, he believes he’ll get back as soon as the book sells ten thousand copies. So Joe naturally assumes I spent close to seven grand to get my collection published as well.
“How many copies you got to sell before you see a profit?” He asked.
“I got a copy of my book I can sell to you right now.”
“Sorry, I’m broke.”
“Well, I almost made a profit.”
“So, you’ve already hit your project goal?”
“No, goddammit, because I didn’t empty my entire fucking bank account to publish the goddam thing. I tried to warn you against vanity publishing.”
“Isn’t all publishing vanity, though?” He said that in such a way, his eyes firmly affixed to my shirt with my book proudly displayed, and it’s not even Friday, because I’ve taken to wearing my book shirt every day of the week.
“I’m curious how many copies of “Jesus Bubble, How Christ’s Love Protected Me from the Fires of Damnation” does sixty-five hundred dollars buy you?”
“Enough for me and Babygirl to share a copy. The money doesn’t cover author copies. If you knew anything about publishing, you’d realize the expense of editing, typesetting and advertisement.”
“Advertisement? I don’t see any Jesus Bubble T-shirts.”
“We’re advertising globally,” Joe said. “Not just whoever you happen to bump into between the factory and Wal-Mart.”
“Fair enough. How many copies of Jesus Bubble have you sold for thirty-five bucks a whack so far?”
“Those numbers aren’t available to me. How many copies of Thrift Store Jackets have you sold?”
“Less than Rebecca Yarros’ latest ode to dragon fucking. I can tell you that.”
Rebecca Yarros’ latest novel was released the same day as my book. Her first week sales totaling 2.7 million. Mine came in significantly less. It chapped my ass the same way the Duck Dynasty Christmas Album sold more copies than Nick Cave’s Skeleton Tree. There’s no accounting for taste I suppose.
I’m thinking about getting out of the cylinder manufacturing business. The next place I work, I think I’m going to go back to keeping my writing a dirty little secret and save myself the aggravation. Let the new people in my life wonder why I have my name on my T-shirt.
Karl Koweski is a displaced Region Rat now living in rural Alabama. He writes when his pen allows it. He’s a husband to a lovely wife and father to some fantastic kids. He collects pop culture ephemera. On most days he prefers Flash Gordon to Luke Skywalker and Neil Diamond to Elvis Presley.
THE POLISH HAMMER POETRY CORNER is a weekly column, posted each Tuesday morning.
