BC (before COVID), I found myself in Reno as a presenter at their annual Literary Crawl event. On the way back to my hotel room, I shared an elevator with an older gentleman who looked like Father Time if Father Time chewed tobacco.
“Whatcha got there?” he growled as the door clanked shut.
“This? A book I wrote. Vegas ghost story.”
I nodded. “Ten bucks.”
He whipped a greasy bill out of his duct-taped wallet and I signed my last remaining copy just in time for the door to open.
I thanked him and we shook hands — you could do that in those days — and he disappeared down the hall.
The whole transaction lasted maybe twenty-five seconds. A real elevator pitch.