He was a bookseller. Doing what he did to eke out a living, which was go through boxes of used books.
He had developed a feel for it. A psychic connection that told him when a book had some resale value.
Whenever his hand hesitated on a book he would look down at it.
This one was different.
He remembered something, something. Seeing the author on one of those old talk shows when they used to actually search for something new to show the public.
The guy was interesting, in a mild, tinfoil hat kind of way. Different.
A quick check revealed the paperback was worth $25. Unusual for a cheap self-help book.
The bookseller did some more research. The book was out of print. The author dead.
But his widow was still alive. Still interested in keeping her man’s legacy going.
Yes, she would be interested in republishing the book.
A deal was arranged.
The bookseller became a publisher. And the book enjoyed a resurgence, finding a new generation of interesting, mildly tinfoil hat fans.
The widow appreciated the effort. And the monthly checks that paid her mortgage.
The bookseller figured that off-beat find was worth $10,000 by the end of the contract, that eventually included half a dozen of the deceased author’s other titles.
The money was nice, of course – but mostly because there was some old-fashioned hustle involved.
“Found money almost has no value,” the bookseller said. “You get it, you spend it. Anybody can do it and you’re not any smarter when you’re done.
“Finding an opportunity, though? And turning that into money? At the end of the day that was worth more than the ten thousand.”
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