An airport story


Stopped at the newsstand near my boarding gate at the San Diego Airport to pick up a newspaper. They didn’t have any copies of Killer Instinct on sale (or none left, maybe?), but they had some copies of Company Man in paperback. I saw a guy reach for a copy, pull it down and look at it. I tapped him on the shoulder and said, “I’ll sign that for you if you want – I wrote it.”

He stared at me. “What do you mean, you’re Joseph . . .Finder?” (As usual, he pronounced it wrong. I wonder how long it took before people learned how to pronounce “Crichton.”)

I said, “Right.”

He said, “No way. I don’t believe you.”

I said, “Really, I am.”

“You’re telling me you’re Joseph Finder? I don’t believe it.”

I pulled out my driver’s license.

“Oh, my God,” he said. “You really are Joseph Finder.” He started telling people around him. One by one, people started grabbing copies off the shelf and asking me to sign their books too, until they were all gone.

“Now you’ve actually got to buy the book,” I said. “Don’t put it back or anything.”