San Francisco, Shame onYou!

San Francisco, I'm giving you a time out. Sit in the corner and think about what you've done. No, not that corner. The other one—the darker one. Shame on you. You've shot yourself in the foot. Out of all the cities in the U.S., I thought you could hold on to an independent bookstore. You gave me hope. You are a city of composting, bike riding, free-to-be-you-and-me do-gooders. But I was wrong. I don't like being wrong, and now I am cross. Don't give me those puppy dog eyes. You know what you did. You killed Cody's.

I thought that after I published my first book, I'd embark on a whirlwind tour, flying first-class with all expenses paid. Please, sir, pour the wine fast and loose and yes, I do believe I'll have another dessert. I imagined reading to crowded bookstores, giving Matt Lauer a hard time and signing hundreds of books and the occasional breast. Turns out, none of this is really true. I pay for my own flights, eat at Taco Bell and have yet to sign a breast. But the readings are real.

When my publicist at HarperCollins and I discussed which cities and bookstores to “do,” I immediately thought of Cody's. The Cody's on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley was where I attended my very first reading—Kurt Vonnegut. The store was packed full with dreadlocks and organic cotton ponchos. I had just moved to Berkeley and all I could think was, “Wow, there are a lot of damn hippies here,” and “Hey, this Cody's place is nice. I will spend time here.” And I did. Then they closed, leaving a gaping hole on Telegraph. I imagined thousands of books being kicked to the curb. They were told, “No one cares about you anymore. Scram.” Then they were given the finger.

So there I am, talking to my publicist, and she says, you can do Cody's in San Francisco, but they close three days later: “Do you still want to do it?” I say yes because Cody's is a rite of passage for a first-time author, like a literary bat-mitzvah. I can say, “Hello, world, I've read at Cody's. I am a real author.” Now I can do the things that real authors do, like stare at a blank computer screen and send my calls to voice mail. Cry, maybe.

Being one of Cody's last readers in San Francisco last week was a sad honor. I expected to find empty shelves and a shameless effort to squeeze every penny from a dying store: BLOW OUT SALE! EVERYTHING MUST GO! BUY ONE, GET 10 FREE! There was no sale, and a stack of my books sat on a table near the entrance, next to a table of Kurt Vonnegut's books. Still, a sadness hung in the shelves. The stock was lean, as if Cody's had lost weight from a battle with some terminal illness. The books were spread out on the shelves and turned to their sides to take up more space, much like using the Courier font to stretch a five-page term paper into 10. There were books, though, and authors were scheduled to read until the last day. Cody's was holding on until the very last minute. “We may be closing,” they announced, “but we're going out with dignity.”

San Francisco, you've done a bad thing. I can't tell whether you've stopped reading altogether or if you've been shopping at the big stores, forgetting the independents that stock the Russians and all the Jonathans, along with a few literary journals and postcards by local artists. Just like the hills and the fog and the Golden Gate, independence defines San Francisco. But now Cody's in San Francisco is dead. You killed it. As punishment, you should ride your bike to the Fourth Street Berkeley store and apologize. Then buy something. Read something. And no, you have to sit in that corner a little longer. I'm still cross.