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o’clock for a seven o’clock reading, Q&A, and signing at Hue-Man Bookstore. The store was located at the corner of Frederick Douglass Boulevard and 124th Street, right under the Magic Johnson/Sony Theaters.
    “One more event for the night,” Shareef told himself while looking in the mirror. “But this is the big one.”
    He brushed his teeth, gargled mouthwash, and before he grabbed his briefcase to head down to the limo, he remembered to call his grandparents.
    “Hey, it’s me, Grandma.”
    Wilma got excited over the phone. “Hey, Shareef, how’s your busy tour day gon’ so far?”
    He answered, “You know, same-o same-o. If something happens differently, I’ll tell you all about it. But are you sure you guys don’t want to come out tonight?”
    “No, we don’t want to be around you with all them crazy people tonight,” his grandmother responded. “We’d rather do breakfast with you in the morning, where we can enjoy our famous grandson alone.
    “What time do you need to leave for New Jersey tomorrow?” she asked him.
    “My first event is in Newark at noon. So I need to leave by eleven to get there on time.”
    His grandmother said, “That’s perfect. We can do breakfast with you tomorrow morning at nine. And it shouldn’t take us two hours to eat.”
    “Okay, so we’ll do that then,” he agreed. “Where’s Grandpop?”
    “Over here stinking up the bathroom,” his grandmother answered loud enough for her husband to overhear her.
    “Mine don’t smell no worse than yours,” Charles yelled out with a muffled echo from behind the closed bathroom door.
    Shareef shook his head against the phone and chuckled. Real life was stranger than fiction, but it didn’t read as well.
    His grandmother asked him, “You didn’t hear that, did you?”
    “Nah, I didn’t hear nothing,” he lied.
    “Good. So we’ll see you tomorrow morning for breakfast then. And you be safe out there tonight, Shareef. You know we love you.”
    “I love y’all, too,” he told her.
    “Have you spoken to Jennifer and your babies today?”
    He paused. “Grandma, they’re not babies anymore. Little J turned nine this summer, and Kimberly turned seven in March. You remember? You were at the birthday party.”
    “Yeah, I remember. I know how old they are. I’m not senile. But at sixty-seven years old, they’re still babies to me. Now have you made up with your wife and moved back into your house?”
    That was a much longer conversation, and it was too close to six o’clock to have it. Shareef didn’t want to talk about his relationship with his estranged wife anyway.
    “I’ll be calling them shortly,” he answered. Just probably not tonight, he told himself. He said, “Well look, Grandma, I gotta get going. My driver’s downstairs waiting for me.”
    “Okay, well, like I said, you be safe out there tonight, Shareef. And you make sure you call your family.”

    W HEN S HAREEF CLIMBED back into the limo, parked curbside at the Sheraton, all he could think about were his two kids. His grandmother had shot an arrow of guilt into his heart. But he still didn’t want to call them yet. Tour season was his time to be a man again, and even though he cherished the role of father, there were times where he needed to turn his paternal emotions off and focus on his business with grown-ups.
    Yeah, I’ll call them, right after the book signing, before they go to bed, he decided.

    W HILE S HAREEF was on his way to the Hue-Man Bookstore for his signing in Harlem, a rival author aggressively worked the street corner in front of the Magic Johnson/Sony Theaters with his own new book, The Streets Keep Calling Me. He was dressed military style with black boots, black pants, a green camouflage T-shirt, and a matching camouflage bucket hat with a draw string. He looked in his late thirties. He had a box of books on the ground, and four loose books in his hands. He worked every man, woman, and child who happened to walk by