Yes, I know this was cheesy, and yes, I know I’m supposed to be exclusively supportive of my local independent bookseller, but screw it–the book was just out the day before and I headed to the Barnes and Noble down the street to see if I could find it.

Here was my plan: I would walk in and look for it; if I didn’t immediately spot it on the shelf, I would head to customer service and make an innocent title inquiry; if said inquiry yielded no joy for Am I a Jew?, I would inquire as to why, given the dramatic demand for the work, it wasn’t to be found in the store; at no time would it be necessary to mention that I was the author of the work–what for?

The book was not stocked at the Barnes and Noble, but when I launched into my routine at the desk, the manager interrupted me, pointed to several large stacks of the book, and said “We were just getting it out. You want one?”

Rather than buying them all, I told them who I was, and several minutes later found myself signing them for sale. At one point, the manager told me I could stop signing if I got tired.

I told her, “I haven’t been doing this nearly long enough to get tired of it.”