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“What’s the last thing you read that made you want to run out to the bookstore and get another book right away?” I start asking people, stepping right in front of them “Are you a reader? Did you use to be a reader? Do you wish you felt like reading more? Is the problem you, or is it the books you’re reading? What if I gave you something to read that had the power to make you forget everything else in the world, even your cell phone and your lousy children, and just curl up in some forgotten part of the house where no one can find you? Would you enjoy that? Well, then come over here and take a look at our table, because this story is going to blow your mind …”

The thing about selling, of course, is that most people don’t need this much persuading. For instance, if they’ve come to a book fair, it’s a pretty good bet that they’re going to buy some books. You just need to give them a reason to overcome their inhibitions. So as surprising as it sounds, this lame shtick actually works. People stop, they visit our booth, they pick up actual copies of the magazine, and then out of pity for the poor fool standing there sweating and shouting like a lunatic, they buy subscriptions—some of them, anyway. Enough.

“Free back issues with a one-year subscription—take your pick of a collector’s edition featuring Hemingway or Faulkner. I also have V. S. Naipaul, the Trinidadian Troublemaker, in his American debut.”

“You sound like a carnival barker,” Brigid whispers. “But don’t stop, it’s working!”

“Get your half-baked goo-covered cinnamon buns with any large serving of Toni Morrison,” I almost shout. “Don DeLillo comes with a side of bread sticks.” It occurs to me that for all my entrepreneurial adventures over the last half year, I haven’t really sold anything—not actively, at least. That’s because at a deli you don’t really try to sell people things; instead, you act as if you want to kill them, throw their shit in a bag and glare at them until they leave the store. But selling is the logical next step, and it’s also one of those unexpected intersections between George Plimpton and the store, like the amateur ethos. With things like book fairs, George is always trying to get the staff to embrace the job of selling rather than coast on the expectation that something intrinsically noble like “literature” will succeed on its own. He cajoles us to get out there and hustle, while showing by example that even the self-sell can be liberating, rather than a defilement of one’s modesty, because in order to do it you simply can’t take yourself too seriously.

By the end of the day Brigid and I have sold well over fifty subscriptions, far more than we expected. Having barely broken even with our expenses, we’re hardly what you would call a raging success. But as the crowds dissipate and a giant black thunderhead builds behind the Sears Tower, we sit there for a little while and bask in the warmth of the late afternoon.

“Let’s count the money,” Brigid says eagerly, taking out a fat, greasy wad of bills from an envelope she’s been carrying in her back pocket. Then we repack our boxes of back issues—which for once seem noticeably lighter than they had been on our way to the fair—and jump in a rental car before the clouds explode in an epic downpour.

ABOUT TWO WEEKS later I go into the Review, where things seem to be falling apart. Given the normal dishevelment of the office it’s hard to tell, of course, but the stacks of unopened mail seem to have reached a new height, the sink seems fuller than ever of dirty dishes and I dare not check the answering machine for fear of the angry messages it contains. Our fall issue is even more behind than usual—the printer’s deadline is a few weeks away and we have no idea what the contents are going to be—and the office is completely empty while the staff is on summer vacation.

Completely empty, that is, except for George, who is sequestered upstairs, starting on a new book, a memoir, le grand report. That is, if he can get started.