When last we left our hero, aka me, I had just been cornered at a Christmas party, by a person I’m sure was very nice, and asked to help him turn his self-published book into a Hollywood blockbuster via my friends who work in California, occasionally in motion pictures.

That’s the set-up, more or less.

I reluctantly agreed to read his Great American novel, and he enthusiastically agreed we should keep in touch. Our business concluded, he floated back into the party proper, and I slunk away before someone else could brow beat me into transforming them into a Backstreet Boy or something.

It was like he beat me up and took my lunch money—and I left before I could even try the crab dip. The world is a cruel place.

When I got home, I set his book on the shelf in the bathroom—a lot of reading gets done in there—and cued up some old episodes of Deadwood to relax me. There’s something about that show’s particular take on old West violence and treachery that I find soothing.

And no, you didn’t accidentally read over the part where I started to read his book. I didn’t yet, okay.

Mind your Ps and Qs.

It took a couple weeks to get around to starting the book actually. A couple weeks of it glaring at me accusatorially—who knew a book would have such a big vocabulary.

“All right!” I yelled the Saturday between Christmas and New Year’s, just to stop it from scowling at me every time I used the facilities. “Shut up already! I’ll read you. I’ll read you.”

I started with the back-cover blurb, that little quasi-synopsis designed to get you to buy the book. Or in this case, to get me to open it. It read okay, a few too many adjectives but nothing I hadn’t seen before on other books. On some other books I’ve enjoyed.

Encouraged by my adventures with the cover, I closed my eyes and flipped to the first page … only to discover the book was written upside down. Okay, that part’s not true. I was standing on my head. All right, that’s not true either. The reason I’m dancing around the point here is that when I did crack the thing open, it was everything I was afraid of.

It was bad. Not good. Worse than the time I burped really loud during a moment of silence at a wake. Worse than wet socks on a long walk that stink so bad when you finally get home you have to take them off on the porch. And leave them there as a crime and salesperson deterrent.

I started checking caller ID and letting everything roll over to voice mail. I didn’t answer the door. Stopped showing up for my day job. Anything not to have to tell this guy that I read his book, and no, I didn’t think it would ever be a movie even if I married Steven Spielberg.

It was just not going to happen.

Now all I had to do was figure out a way to break the news to Ralph.

Or move, change my name, and get plastic surgery.

Decisions, decisions…