A Second Edition of Old Crow?

Mark was sitting outside the grocery store hawking newspapers so I pulled the car over and walked over to purchase one. He saw me and said hello in the manner Barney Rubble typically greeted Fred Flintstone. I paid him a sawbuck for the paper.

Next to him rested his worldly possessions and coffee-table book titled Ancient Mediterranean Civilizations. It was a highly atypical choice for Mark. In fact, in the two-and-a-half years I'd know Mark, it was only the second nonfiction book I'd ever seen him reading. It occurred to me that over the years, I had seen dozens of homeless men and women reading books and all of them had been novels, ranging from The Count of Monte Christo to Zane Grey to The Hunger Games trilogy.

To quote Spock, that was logical. Why not fly away to a fictional somewhere else, anywhere else, than the reality of being homeless in America, whatever that reality is to homeless people? As I have come to learn in my interactions and encounters with them, that reality varies to the extreme.

As I talked to Mark about the contents of this week's newspaper, it occurred to me that Ancient Mediterranean Civilizations was the largest thing Mark owned, even larger than his backpack.

Jacob appeared and clandestinely handed Mark a pint of Jim Beam's Eight Star whiskey, a rotgut swill if there ever was one. Jacob asked if I had some copies of The Old Crow Book Club on me. I did, in the car. Mark said he needed more copies, too.

I never thought I'd ever meet anyone who gigged my books harder than me. Well, here they were in front of me, two homeless men born and raised in Oregon, and nipping Eight Star to boot.

Jacob asked me whether I was going to release a second edition. I said I didn't know, probably not unless a generous benefactor emerged to assist me with the expense.

“Matt,” said Jacob. “I really want there to be a second edition because I want to show you and readers that we were worth your attention and caring.”

I said nothing. I almost started crying. I saw Mark nodding his head.

“There's got to be a better ending,” said Jacob, “than us just fucking around and drinking and not trying to get better.”

“Or dying,” I said.

“Yeah, that too.”

A pause ensued.

Jacob's words hit me even harder. Here was a character in the book, a fine young man, who wanted me to write a sequel so he could prove he was worthy of my attention and effort.

And most of all, he told me, “To prove it to you, Matt.”

“No,” I said. “to yourself.”

Jacob nodded his head.