Biggest Fan

I sat alone in the back row of a group of chairs assembled at Sunshine Booksellers – South Location – on Marco Island for a reading and book signing featuring my favorite novelist, who profoundly influenced my journey to becoming a writer. On the chair next to me was the latest book written by the featured artist, arguably the heir to John D. MacDonald, and two of my more popular short stories written under the byline, Adventures of the Saltwater Cowboy. I wasn’t vying for more time, but more appropriately, an uninterrupted amount, as I had some things I wanted to say. First, I’m not the same person I was at the last book signing I attended many years ago. The big difference - I wasn’t a published writer then.

Sitting at a fold-out table against the far wall, he looked more like a football coach or baseball skipper (coach) than a New York Times Bestselling novelist. I noticed the mono-filament line tied around his glasses as a makeshift lanyard and realized he could even pass for a fishing guide.

I approached the table as the last fan walked away, grinning and admiring the personal note. Then, with an outstretched hand, I flashed my best movie-star smile and reintroduced myself: “Jed Edwards.” I saw a glimmer of recollection in his eyes and hoped it was from all the book signings, not the copyright infringement notice.

It’s not as bad as it sounds. In 2014 my stepbrother, Scott McLeod (R.I.P.), asked me to write a piece on the state of skateboarding from the viewpoint of an “aged skater” for his online magazine, Deprived Society. The theme manifested immediately, as a few weeks prior, my viewpoint was crystal clear as I was jettisoned from my skateboard by the force of a main tendon rupture – the Achilles.

The fact that the after-school teacher had been skating with my son and I could have contributed to the possibility that I may have been pushing my limits. Therefore, I ignored the tightness in my heel as I came around for the next run. I wanted to make sure I had enough speed going into the carve, and I gave two more full pushes. Then, “BANG!” some soccer mom on a crotch rocket sped up behind me and slammed me in the back of the legs with a two-by-four – at least, that’s what it felt like. Before becoming intimately familiar with the pavement of the parking lot of my son’s elementary school, I registered that sound, like the “crack” from a 22-long rifle as my Achilles tendon snapping.

With parents still picking kids up in the car line, I laid in the gutter with my head resting on the curb, my left foot flat on the surface, and my right leg crossed over my knee to support my wrecked and dangling foot. I don’t remember the pain as much as I do the trauma; more like a violent car crash than a sports injury. However, the humiliation as every mini-van, S.U.V., and alternate fuel truckster rode slowly by, asking if I needed assistance, would live in infamy in my brain. I didn’t need an ambulance or an E.R. visit. I knew what had happened the moment I felt the tendon break and heard the sickening “pop” in my head. There was nothing anyone but a surgeon could do for me. Since it was Friday afternoon, I was on my own until Monday. If not for my legendary reflexes during critical times, as chronicled in many of my short stories, I would have assuredly suffered more significant injury from that wipeout, which had to have been spectacular. 

“Na,” I waved them off, “I’m good, just catching my breath…. Happens all the time.” The embarrassment faded when I realized that a gnarly wipeout resulting in a grisly injury must have made a hell of an impression on the after-school teacher. I lifted my head from the curb and looked around, but she was gone.

Remember, people, this was 2010 – I no longer have the option of skateboarding with child caregivers.

Back to the skateboard piece. Like many of my stories, I didn’t know the title until well into the writing process. Then, “bang,” there it was. My perception of the event in relation to the world, six feet (one fathom) off the ground in flight, drew me to a reference from my favorite author’s flagship series. Because the title had nothing to do with the content, the thought of it being problematic never occurred to me.

The piece ended up being more than a short story. It was an ode to the sport in the 80s when skateboarding was still a crime, when skaters accessed terrain by any means necessary, which, in some instances, could be defined as trespassing. The bonds formed by a group of skaters pushing each other’s physical and mental limits in the face of danger and personal injury while sometimes skirting the boundaries of the law are unmatched in competitive sports. The competition was within ourselves, not each other.

Tragically, Scott passed away before publishing the issue that would have featured my piece. When the shock of losing my brother subsided somewhat, I realized how proud I was of the story and posted it on my Facebook page, hoping somebody might read it.

Not long after, I received a “seriously fonted”direct message notifying me of a copyright infringement. I perused the notice enough to realize it was legitimate. A lot to take in, I leaned over and placed my head in my hands. I called a friend, trusted proofreader, and fellow fan of The Author and told him the news.

“Man… that’s awesome.”

“I know, right?” I couldn’t believe it. He’d read my story and cared enough to call me out.

“What are you gonna do?”

I thought for a moment. “I’ll change the name of the story, then craft a carefully written apology… problem solved.” So, that’s what I did.

Sometime later, I received his response, and my spirits drifted away like ash from a burned-out campfire. Only after consulting with his people did he understand. He said he didn’t have a problem with it and that I could keep the name for my story. Dang… my heart sank. He didn’t read it. I felt like beating up on myself like Chris Farley – idiot. I wanted to respond with, “Are you sure you don’t want me to change it?” But I didn’t, instead thanking him for his generosity.

Back in the present… I laid the two stories on the table in front of him, gambling with my pride that he hadn’t made the connection. Finally, I said earnestly, “I’d like you to know that I hadn’t written a sentence until I started reading your work.”

He donned the reading glasses hanging from his neck and perused my short stories for  seemingly long enough to get a feel for my “voice.” When finished, he took his glasses off, looked at me, and said, “And now you’re published.”

I repeated his words to him, “And now I’m published.” I held my head a little higher and added proudly, “The Coastal Breeze News AND the Everglades City Mullet Rapper.”

I showed him some interesting mementos from over the years, including an article published eons ago after a book signing at the old Sunshine Booksellers location and a picture of six author signed novels I dug out of an apartment fire in Las Colinas, Texas, in 2010. They’re warped and stained from the smoke and water from the fire hoses – maybe even a little mildewed.

I looked at him and said, “When people say they’re your biggest fan, they’re not your biggest fan.” The implication needed no explanation. Then he did something he didn’t have to do; ask me to sign my stories to him, and he would put them in his office.

We talked about the 10,000 Islands and marine violations (mine, not his, as chronicled in more than one Adventure of the Saltwater Cowboy). Never once did he appear put out or disinterested. On the contrary, he gave me the impression that he could have carried on. However, I gracefully bowed out on a high note and bid my farewell. A second too long and the experience would have been sullied. Hopefully, this was his introduction to Jon Edward Edwards. That pain-in-the-ass copyright infringer was “Jed,” anyway.

On the way out, I announced to the staff loud enough for anyone in the room to hear. “Y’all be looking for the latest Adventures of the Saltwater Cowboy. Comes out in the Breeze tomorrow.”  I walked to my truck more confident than ever with the swagger of an up-and-comer.

I’ll leave the story title anonymous with everything else out of respect (and further legal complications). Those who know me know. Besides, it will be that much cooler should he tell the story.