A regular customer, close to my age, he and his wife, they talk for hours. Still. I can't speak to the quality of the conversation, but clearly it suits them, nice to see familiarity hasn't bored them and they're still in love.
We chat, they're both bright, we know R*** from the liquor store, R*** who only took the job so he could read his books, a dozen on the go at a time. He has a shelf behind him for books customers bring him to read, his own mini-lending library...He's his own story, and when I have it I'll share.
Anyways, it turns out he's an artist/author, so I order a copy of his book and he brings it down to the restaurant to give to me. Thick-ish, self published through the Friesen Press, a better edition than the book Nanu sold me years ago, the photocopy- and stapled together 10 page opus about mushrooms and kayaking the island. So for $20 not too bad. He's written a damnable dedication in it to me, which means I can't pawn it off having read it to the bookstore, and I would feel guilty taking it in but god-damn he didn't write it for me and the dedication - well, it ruins the resale...
So, in keeping with my anonymity I can't name him, or the book, lest I be outed as a cynic or creative as well, but it's based on his years as an indie film director in So-Cal, illustrated with his computer clip art (He's an artist, the same few images recycled throughout the book) - weird characters, poems, the narration of events in the film. It's a peculiar thing. I am going to be hard pressed when I speak to him next to ask how this all came about...