Posthuman Blues

One of my biggest flaws is my desire to be approachable and accommodating to strangers. The trouble, simply, is that I'm not discerning enough, and the Crashing Bores of the world universally see this as a select opportunity to take advantage. I'm burdened by this naively Mr. Roger-ish view that because I perceive myself as fundamentally decent, everyone else must be, too. I want to be liked. And I pay dearly for it.

This was pounded home a couple months back when I was signing books at Borders. It was a weeknight and the turnout was far from outrageous, but I found myself signing more copies than I'd expected and basically enjoying myself. Enter two Crashing Bores: a young married couple with this inexplicable -- and in hindsight, totally spurious -- interest in Martian archaeology. They nodded over my book, commending my intelligence. That should have been the tip-off; strangers don't go around attempting to boost someone's ego unless there's something in it for them. In this case, all I could offer was a signed copy of a book they'd never heard of which, to my surprise, they actually purchased.

But not before dropping veiled references to a lucrative "work from home" scheme they thought would be up my alley.

"What's involved?" I asked, politely skeptical.

"It's basically e-commerce," the male Bore replied.

"What's your email address?"

The Bore conceded that he didn't have one. Strange for someone supposedly making big money in e-commerce, I thought, but since he and his wife were talking Mars and making to buy my book, I let it pass and let the husband hand me a very unimpressive business card with the original address in Lawrence, Kansas scribbled out and the new one scrawled in its place. Finally they departed and I resumed my evening.

A few days later I get a message on my answering machine. It's the male Bore wanting to discuss his business and requesting a call back. I groaned and promptly deleted it.

Then one morning the phone splinters my sleep. I answered groggily, defenses in limbic shambles. It's the Crashing Bore again, wanting to meet me at the Borders where he bought my book.

"Can you explain what, exactly, this is . . . ?"

The Bore informed me that it was "mostly visual" in nature and that it "wouldn't make sense" over the phone. Half-asleep, I didn't summon the will-power to question this absurdity. Instead, I agreed to meet him and his wife to hear out whatever they had in mind -- furious at myself but placated by the thought of strolling the aisles at Borders after they'd finished their spiel.

I met them as planned. The spiel was indeed "mostly visual," consisting of the male Bore drawing crudely annotated diagrams in a spiral notebook. I smiled over my coffee and said "no." He persisted. So did his disturbingly Stepford-like wife, who I abruptly felt like kicking forcibly in the shins. Again, I politely declined to no avail.

The husband, with a tepid show of good cheer, handed me a CD and color leaflet. I looked at it briefly: lots of condescending stock imagery of guys 'n' gals conducting "business" in the privacy of nicely furnished living rooms. Lying, I said that I would be happy to peruse it and contact him if interested. No good; the leaflet and CD, it seemed, were quite valuable materials that needed to be returned as soon as possible -- preferably that very Saturday when a local work-from-home/e-commerce convention was to take place. Bing!

Then the guy tries to leave in a hurry, letting me know that he wants his materials returned and that he'll see me Saturday. I finally had to virtually shove the fucking brochure into his hands: "Take it now, please; this isn't for me and I'm not going to able to return it."

The two of them stalked off, visibly discomfited, and I watched them conversing from the cafe as they walked rapidly to their car.

Then I looked at books.