I can feel the sun burning my face. Dave Eggers is signing books and I’m waiting. I’m tired and my skin is burning and I’m listening to the two young women behind me talking about Dave Eggers.

 

—He’s (I can hear her counting in her head) 40. That’s not bad.
—That’s not bad.
—That’s not bad.
—That’s not bad.
—Oh. He’s married.
—Oh.
—And has a kid. Two kids.
—How old?
—Um, five. And two. Or one. One of those.
—That’s not bad.
—No, that’s not bad.

I’m exhausted. And hot. And sweaty. And I’m not sure what’s up with my hair, but I know it’s not flattering. I’m holding my planner in front of my face hoping to minimize the skin damage. I look like a jackass.

Today shouldn’t have happened like this. Being my father’s son, I came so prepared, writing down all the addresses, bus routes needed to reach those addresses, hours of operation, and costs to get into every place I wanted to visit on this trip, then plotted them out on multiple Google Map print-outs. Five of them.

After riding Amtrak all night, jumping onto a Metro train, jumping off, waiting for a bus, getting onto a bus, getting off a bus too early, getting back on the bus, and jumping off again, wandering up and down Fairfax, passing my hostel twice, leaving my bags in a storage closet (check-in wasn’t for another couple hours), I forgot my sunscreen in one of my bags at the hostel and jumped back onto a bus. Jumped off. Jumped onto another bus. Walked up Westwood. Jumped onto the festival shuttle. Jumped off again and was immediately overwhelmed by the crowd. There are people everywhere. Over 130,000, according to the LA Times. I’m weaving through the crowd in a slight panic, trying to figure out where the library is. I need to print out my panel tickets since I left those in Flagstaff.

Done. I rush out now trying to find the building for the first panel: a teen fiction thing with Pseudonymous Bosch. I like his name. Or fake name, I should say. His pseudonym. Nom de plume. Pen name. I get there early. I stand in line. I get the beginnings of a sunburn.

In the middle of the panel, featuring big-name authors who have written wildly popular teen fiction and whose names I can’t remember right now, I realize I need to leave now or I’ll miss out on Dave Eggers’ session. So I leave right in the middle. Like a jerk. And I’m tall so everyone notices. It may or may not have been on C-Span, who were covering the festival and filmed every session. I’ll have to do some internet research and find out.

Now I’m racing across the UCLA campus, dodging the crowds. Baby strollers, a Great Dane, skateboarders. I’m consulting my festival map, conveniently stapled into my planner. The buildings for the panels I’m attending are highlighted in bright pink. I’m lost. I think this is the building, but this is the Anderson Business Building, not Korn Convocation Hall. Alright, I do another frantic lap around the festival grounds and end up in front of the same building. This time I notice little streams of people flowing through a courtyard toward the back of the building and then up a flight of stairs. I follow. Korn Convocation Hall. I’m in time and find a seat after a few minutes of waiting in line.

Dave Eggers sits in his car and steals internet twice a day from a carpet store, once on the way to work and once on the way home. The editor of McSweeney’s is an internet pirate. And he’s very charming and, I have to admit, pretty handsome. He’s forty, but that’s not bad. That’s not bad. And he’s married and has two kids. And he runs McSweeney’s, which publishes a very cool, uniquely bound and packaged literary journal of sorts every three months. Plus, his books can be pretty good. I like Dave Eggers.

Dave Eggers is done and I rush out again to see if I can get Pseudonymous Bosch to sign my books. I’m dodging crowds again. I make it to the signing area and everyone is gone except Mr. Bosch and another author. I run up and tell him I’m aware I’m late and I’m really sorry but will he please sign my books? Pseudonymous Bosch does not like me. I’m not a kid. He thinks I’m a book dealer. And I’m late. He signs my books, glaring at me between each one. He signs my books HARD. The pen almost pushes through the paper on the last book, leaving an indent in the next few pages. I’m okay with that.

Now I’m trying to find the signing area for Dave Eggers. I do a couple laps again, making my way through the food tent area. Whole cobs of corn with husks still attached are whisking past my face. I end up at a booth selling Eggers’ books and up chatting with the McSweeney’s flunkies for five or ten minutes before asking when Dave Eggers is going to show up and sign his books. I’m informed he is signing books right now, at another booth, right over there. Oh. And now I’m rushing off again and I can see the line and it’s long and I can feel my face burning and I’m hot. And I’m holding a book against my face to block the sun and I can hear two young women talking about Dave Eggers.

I get my books signed. Dave Eggers draws a little beasty for me in my fur-covered copy of "The Wild Things." I’m happy.