My eyes are tired, my teeth need brushing, my ankles need elevating and, I feel the need to talk. Maybe the passengers sitting around me, who I’ve taken as kindred spirits, don’t care. But they don't go away either. But then again, they're trapped. I just need to talk. I’ve become a talker. One of the lonely ones.
Luckily, I made a friend--the reader of the anarcho-syndicalism book-- who didn't flee, even outside the confines of the bus. We wandered around the mall together, looking for readers for me, looking for a cup of coffee for him. Success was had in both pursuits.
And, even better, I was just a few short hours from my aunt and uncle's house in Virginia. Relatives, by definition, have to be, or have to pretend to be, at least relatively interested in what you have to say.
Not only did they listen to me, they attempted to fix my computer problems and made me green vegetables and homemade pizza. After dinner I asked if we should we go to Barnes and Nobles to find readers. My aunt suggested that we relax at home and go to the bookstore the next day. At first I didn't know what to think. What? Relax at home? Abandon my mission for a whole evening?
But, after an hour of sitting on the sofa in their dim living room with a Basset staring into my eyes, I was convinced that staying home was a really good thing.
I left their house refreshed, happy, and eager to explore the densely populated North East, where I felt confident and easy about having tons of opportunities to interact with readers.