My story, "The Road Calls Me Dear," which has been languishing with various semi-dormant publishers for about eight years now, is finally in print! It's part of a really cool anthology of road stories, called "The Mammoth Book of Tales of the Road," which includes Kerouac, John Kessel, Steinbeck, Hunter S. Thompson and others. I just got my contributor's copy, and it's a swell doorstopper of a book.
Within a month of my taking over, the river Junque had provided me with a whole new wardrobe. I sold off anything that didn't fit, and what was left might have been tailored for me. It was pretty mismatched, coming from all over the world, bright and shiny and with designer labels. If I wanted to, and I did, I could wear a new high-fashion outfit every day. The only thing that stayed constant was the big jacket; I'd pulled it out of the river thinking it was a joke or something. But no, it was an exquisitely tailored blue sharkskin sports coat that was made for a man at least seven foot tall, and as big around as a beer keg. I had to roll up the sleeves, and the tails hung down almost to my knees, but I liked it anyway. The pockets were big.
Then it was time to open up. I dragged the sandwich board out to the river-bank and propped it up so that it faced the road: MR CORNUCOPIA'S BAZAAR OF EXQUISITE JUNQUE IS OPEN FOR BUSINESS!!! TOYS! CLOTHES! ELECTRONICS! GIMCRACK AND GEWGAW SUPPLIER TO THE STARS! BY APPOINTMENT TO HIS EXALTED MAJESTY, THE KING OF ZAÏRE! I didn't know that Zaïre had a King, but it didn't matter; I liked the sound of it.
