John Hodgman - Medallion Status: True Stories from Secret Rooms

If you read my previous book you know that I spend part of the year with my family in an unnamed coastal town in Maine. Of course the town has a name. I just kept it secret. But some of you figured it out anyway. Some of you sent me some very nice letters and postcards at my post office box there (PO Box 117, Unnamed Coastal Town, Maine, Zip Code Redacted). But none of you sent me creepy things, like boxes of moths, and none of you came to invade my home. So I cant write that book, unfortunately: the true story of you invading my home. That one would have been a huge bestseller. Now I have to write this one instead.

However, one young pair of John Hodgman fans did come to town. A nice young man and woman, plus their baby. They said they werent there precisely to see me, but they had read my book and were passing through town because of it. Its John Hodgman! they said, in that way Ive heard before when people recognize methat up-tilting mix of surprise and familiarity, as if to say: You exist! Youre not just a television ghost, but a real person, and here you are outside the library, in a fight with your wife!

My wife and I were fighting because we had just discovered that the passenger footwell of our Jeep had flooded with a hot reddish liquid. It was seeping into the footwell from unknown engine holes. (I dont know a lot about cars.) It smelled like burning tin foil and looked like blood and lymph, and I was freaking out.

Just call Libby and tell her we cant watch her children today, because we are afraid our Jeep is maybe bleeding to death, I was saying to my wife, loudly. That is very reasonable!

I was speaking with the kind of shameful sharpness that gets in my voice when I know I am powerless. If you had told me that in fact the heater core had failed and the Jeep blood was in fact engine coolant, it would have sounded equally supernatural to me, dangerous and unsolvable. I also knew my argument was futile. Our friend Libby has two little children, a boy and a girl, who are very cute. As our own children have aged, my wife has become addicted to these other children. They are among the select group of young children that she follows on Instagram. Thats what you need to know, parents who post pictures of their children on Instagram. My wife is stalking them. The Jeep could explode and she would find a way to get over to Libbys and take care of them.

Thats when the young couple approached us. They said, Its John Hodgman! and then instantly regretted it, once they saw the panic and shame on my face.

Yes, its me, I said. Im sorry.

They accepted my apology, and we chatted. I dont remember the young mans story, but the young woman apparently had created an illustration of me for an article in a newspaper that I also dont remember. Also I dont remember their names. My wife and I admired their baby, which was one of the cuter babies (not all babies are cute. Sorry, babies). They asked about the house in town where the Famous Author had lived, and I told them that it has a new owner. I happily revealed its secret location to them. As youll see in this book, there are no secrets anymore.

(If you dont know what Famous Author or house Im talking about, just read my previous book, Vacationland. There, I tricked you into buying it.)

I was glad to talk to them. I enjoy being seen and recognized. So many people go through life without being seen at all, not even by their own family, so I know what a gift it is. And frankly it doesnt happen often these days, as I am not on television that much anymore. So if the young couple are reading this, this is to say thank you. Im sorry I do not remember your names or where you published that illustration. I was pretty high on engine coolant at the time.

And if you are reading this, thank you, too. This story is not an invitation to come see me in Maine. I still prefer that you stay away. But thank you for letting me know I can trust you.

There will be no more Maine content in this book.