Only 250 copies of the elaborately folded volume of postcards—a kind of Choose Your Own Adventure for adults—were pressed and they go for $50 each. “It could have been three times more expensive,” Aaron Petrovich,the publisher, explained, adding, “We didn’t want to be too exclusive.”
Even Olivia, a visiting Brit in a green pea coat, wasn’t buying. “I’d buy the book if the pound wasn’t rubbish right now,” she said, handing me a Rothman. I told her it was still cheaper for visitors than natives. “You get free alcohol at these things over here, it’s amazing!” she said happily. “Here take some fags— I mean cigarettes—for later.”
Back inside, the man of the hour—sporting stubble, a boxy jacket and yellow tie—was gladhanding. “Yeah, we’ll do lunch,” Greenman told a partygoer with a slap on the back. Hey, Ben, doesn’t this focus on design highlight that fiction is in a world of trouble? “There’s some amazing stuff going on with cell phone fiction in Japan,” he answered. Right, thanks.
A preppy girl in a red dress stood by the door holding a box of postcards. Up-and-coming essayist Laura Wilkinson works in marketing for the book’s publisher. “Most of my friends only care about beer,” she said. “Look, Ben’s checking on me to make sure that I don’t give away any secrets,” she joked as Greenman circled around us. Had she managed to score one of the ornate tomes for herself? “I would, but I don’t think I can afford it.”
