Angel Investor 1
Autograph Seeker
Voice generated using Abogen TTS voices by Koniwa, licensed under CC BY 3.
Voice generated using Abogen TTS voices by SIWIS, licensed under CC BY 4.0
Bob made up his mind to stick with college as long as there was enough money to pay his bills, put food on his table, and cover tuition. He did not expect an angel investor to show up in his life, especially after he had written a story for the college newspaper.
His contributions to the newspaper were the only worthwhile things about the whole college experience. All he really wanted was access to the college’s library so he could read all the history books he needed for his stories; the school had the best collection in the state. It also had a first‑rate bookstore, but he could not always afford to buy books. He hoped the library would stock what he wanted. If they did not, he would check the bookstore, leaf through something that looked promising, and try to catch any fragments he could transmute into story gold.
Most of the articles in the college newspaper were banal, about campus life, but Bob had written a satire of what he saw among those who went to the school to party rather than to study. He did not expect them to actually print his story. Either they were so stupid that they did not know they were being insulted, or they had a better sense of humor than he thought.
Some of the partygoers were here because of their parents more than their actual desire to learn anything useful, and this was their way of rebelling. He supposed he could have some sympathy for that. The discipline of having to write assignments and attend classes on a strict schedule grated on his nerves. He enjoyed making up essays on his favorite topics, anthropology and history, because he got useful feedback from his instructors. His desire to take English courses would have seemed useless to someone who did not want to be a writer, but he found the study of sagas and poetry interesting.
He knew that his chances of making a living from it were small, but he had always found the Celtic bards with their stories and poems intriguing. In its own way, his chosen field of study was just as impractical as coming to college to do nothing but party. At most, he could use a poem or create a song to insert inside one of his pulp‑fiction stories to create a setting. He could not just tell a straight saga or poem and expect to make a living. He wondered if being at this college was a waste of money. Would it be better to earn money through his stories, or was college a way to avoid a demanding job like the soda‑clerk position he had before he came to college?
At least his father was willing to let him get training for something else. But he had been using school to delay having a nine‑to‑five job and to see if he could learn anything for his writing, which was his real goal.
When Bob went to torture himself by visiting the book volumes he could not afford, a young man appeared. “I prefer your pulp fiction, of course,” he said, holding a copy of the college newspaper as well as Bob’s latest pulp piece, “but I would like to have a complete collection of your work. So could you sign this college newspaper that has your satire in it too? I will give you five dollars each for it.”
The young man seemed too young to be in the bookstore. Then again, high‑school students were allowed to tour the campus before deciding whether to attend. Maybe the boy was one of them? Anyone who thought the bookstore was the highlight of a university tour had the potential to be a first‑rate scholar or at least someone interested in more than keg parties.
The featured story in the pulp magazine was under Bob’s pen name. How could this young man know who he was? He never used his real name. But the young man had a pen in one hand and the magazine and newsletter in the other. He held them out to Bob.
“Could you sign these for me?”
Bob controlled a start, hiding his confusion and embarrassment at the sight of one of his stories in such a lurid magazine. It was not that he was ashamed of pulp fiction in general; it was those covers of half‑naked women. But maybe that was just a vestige of his modern‑day scruples. At times like this, he wished he came from a more primitive age. Why did he have to be as bashful as a boy going to Sunday school over those covers, when his stories were not antiseptic?
“You are the one who wrote this,” the boy said, pointing to the story title on the cover. “I would like to get your autograph.”
Bob frowned. “How do you know that?” Most people he knew treated pulp fiction as a guilty pleasure, whether they wrote it or read it. The fact that this boy knew his identity and cared enough to approach him was a mystery he could not help but be curious about. The words belted out of him before he could stop himself. If he had thought about it, he would have played dumb.
“You wrote the story. This is one of your pen names,” the boy said. “I am a fan. And I would like your autograph.”
Bob was about to dismiss him, but then the boy took out two five‑dollar bills.
Bob’s mouth dropped open in shock as he realized he was about to get ten dollars for signing two pieces. “Is this a joke?” he said, wondering if this was an elaborate prank set up by the jocks he had heckled.
“Nope.” The boy held out the two fresh, genuine five‑dollar bills. “I want your signature on both.” Either this kid was dedicated to playing a trick on him, or else he really was a fan.
“People usually pay for the autographs of people they are fans of, where I come from. Inflation has gone up, but this is the market rate for your autograph in this area,” he added. “I would rather give the money to you than some dealer. I want you to have it, not some middleman.”
Which Bob had to admit was the most persuasive argument he had ever heard.
“They charge five dollars a pop for my autograph?” he said. “And I see none of it?”
The boy nodded yes. Bob took the money, the magazine and newsletter, and the pen and signed his name.
