Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself (17 page)

[Shirley MacLaine came through Minneapolis on reading tour. Ron Wood.]

E
SCORT:
He signed
everything
. People’s coats, their arms, legs. Peter O’Toole …

Peter O’ Toole came for a book tour?

Is he still alive?

E
SCORT:
He did a trilogy, I’m not sure what’s happened to the trilogy. He was on book tour, and he was
wonderful
. He was absolutely wonderful.

I would
think
so.

E
SCORT:
He looked like he had been ridden hard and put away wet. But, boy, was he, he was
great
. We went under a bridge coming over here, he wanted to go see Saint Paul …

… and screaming bobby soxers. (To me) Are you prepared to give me a butt?

Oh yeah. Of course
.

[We’ve arrived, and step outside the car.

David is talking about readings for
Broom of the System
and
Signifying Rappers
, a book he did about hip-hop music.]

And I’d never before gotten an advance for a book in the form of a gift certificate for
Sears
.

[We stand outside the Hungry Mind; it’s so snowy, white, and lamp-lit that it feels like the soundstage for a movie. Open on a university bookstore in the Northwest, starring someone spunky. So pretty I wouldn’t accept it in a movie.

I creep forward, look through window for Dave—who isn’t willing
to, but wants the data—doing reconnaissance work. How big and impatient is the crowd?]

There’s no empty seats anywhere except for right up front
.

Anybody look
dangerous
?

Mm-mm. No
.

E
SCORT:
Minnesotans are nice. Friendly. Don’t worry.

[She’s mistaken his stage nervousness for actual lack of confidence, which slightly irritates him; for the remainder of the trip, she’ll keep reassuring David the reading went well. She’ll say, “I’ve heard a lot of readings. Believe me, you were fine.” She doesn’t realize he has a kind of perfect confidence. She’ll do this when she isn’t spending her behind-wheel time reminiscing about Peter O’Toole or how charming John Updike was, which bugs David.]

It looks like a sit-down version of the Nordstrom’s catalog inside … All that heavy, puffy clothing, boots and mittens
.

Yeah. [He power-ups my joke.] It’s better than that. They sorta look like they’re waitin’ on the moon. This is great: I’ll sweep in exactly at eight …

[Break]

[We’re inside a kind of reader’s green room at the Hungry Mind, talking with the woman who oversees the readings. David asks for a drink, to foil dry mouth. Then asks, even better:]

Do you have any artificial spit?

[Everyone laughs.]

No, it’s called Zero-Lube. It’s an actual pharmaceutical product.

Really? Artificial saliva?

Yeah, but it’s
way
better. Mark Leyner used to write catalog copy for the Zero-Lube company. It’s way better than water, because it
lubricates
. You don’t get that
clicky
sound.

R
EADING
L
ADY:
I’ll remember that.

I’m becoming a grizzled veteran at this. Next tour I bring a case.

R
EADING
L
ADY:
What would you like to drink?

Water. No ice.

R
EADING
L
ADY:
Oh. OK.

Because then I will crunch the ice
in
the microphone.

[We head back outside for another cigarette.]

[Staring at audience]
Didn’t Hal’s dad make a movie like this?
[From
Infinite Jest
]

Called
The Joke
, yeah. What we need is an enormous screen projecting this back out.

[Shakes his head, smiles.]

You’ve gotta understand, this is about as sexy as the tour gets.

[Our shoes and boots make a sound on the snow like hands rubbing or scrunching over balloons.]

R
EADING
L
ADY:
Is this going to be in the article?

You bet. But not your asking
.

Are we going in? Oh wait
—[I’ve lost my scarf; it’s a shadowy puddle on the snow.]

[Inside, David goes off to do “Job one,” which means “Finding the loo.” The Reading Lady says, “Go through the back.” Curious, excited, student-y heads turn as he crosses to the bathroom. The Reading Lady escorts him as far as the washroom door.]

I can take it from here.

[Break]

[Here someone picks up a book of mine from the reading table, opens it, drops it back down.]

[Break]

[Dave, before the reading, looks up, chews a nail, verifies there won’t be a Q and A, asks something about the crowd, tests to make sure his water is “not sparkling.”]

(To himself, looking over the room) This is the swan song, this is the finale. [It’s his last event for
Infinite Jest
.]

R
EADING
L
ADY:
How do you want me to introduce you?

The ones, the gang, the ones around here for the performance? Please tell them, a good stiff monotone—I can provide that.

R
EADING
L
ADY:
They’re not looking for Al Franken. Who’s great. He was out here, he
killed
last week.

Do you want us just to come in from the back, or …?

R
EADING
L
ADY:
It depends. Some people don’t mind making an entrance. And some people are very uncomfortable with that.

That sounds like me.

R
EADING
L
ADY:
Whatever you’re most comfortable with.

You don’t want me to do that, because that would involve my not being here.

[Everyone does a
Yikes
laugh.]

E
SCORT:
(Helpfully) He means, going back to the hotel.

What do I do while you’re introducing me?

R
EADING
L
ADY:
You would just have to sort of stand.

And I kind of look at the floor? It’s not going to be one of these hideous, ten-minute long …

R
EADING
L
ADY:
Oh, no, no. Everything I do is short.

[And he starts to read. He’s careful. As he begins, he sounds too breathy to himself on the speakers.]

Does this sound all right? Am I like fellating the microphone? Am I the appropriate distance?

[He reads; he’s a finger licker; wets a fingertip while turning the pages.

As a performance, the whole thing is astonishing: the drive to Chicago, the plane to Minneapolis, the hotel, the car from the hotel—all this transportation expertise marshaled, just so he could
arrive in this room and share some sentences he’d worked up in this basic, private, lovely way.

And then, when the reading is over, and David’s about to leave, the reading woman looks at him and pulls a fast one.]

R
EADING
L
ADY:
I’m sure if you have any questions, David wouldn’t mind answering them.

F
IRST
Q
UESTION:
How do you get your ideas?

[It’s not an easy process. People want to talk. They’re thrilled when they get to the table: blushing, excited. David draws a smiley face next to each signature. One woman looks at hers with a frown. She’s not sure what it is; she believes he’s drawn a computer.]

It’s a smiley face. If you want, I could put Wite-Out over it. It’s your book.

[Someone pulls out a copy of
Broom of the System
.]

Oh no. This old thing.

[After the signature, he does a birthday-candle blow over the ink, to dry it.]

Little, Brown taught me that.

[Some readers attempt a second of Match-Wits-with-David at the signing point, dropping an insight, trying to compress something of who they personally are and what they feel about him and the book into a few seconds. It’s strange, and it’s why writing celebrities are different from tennis or movie celebrities. Writing is communication, which people do on and off all day; writing is the professionalized version of what they’re up to all the time. Fans at tennis matches sometimes show up in the stands wearing wristbands and tennis shirts—and for these few seconds at the signing, they’re stepping onto the court with David.

That desire, in those blushing seconds, to make a mark, to be as attractive a mental human package as the evening’s attraction.

One flustered, excited, embarrassed reader in the queue reaches the front and David. A tall guy: goatee, vest, jeans, a huge, white-man’s Afro.]

G
UY:
Are you glowing? Unbelievable. The
City Pages
. That’s our local newspaper. Alternate news. Goddamn beautiful, man. Where to next? You cover some
incredible
material.

[Dave signs.] Thanks. I’ve been to like ten cities.

G
UY:
No, I meant, uh, bookwise. You know? What’s playing on your heart song?

If you talk about it, then you don’t do it.

G
UY:
True. Very True. But is there something, that you’ve
zeroed in
on, for the next project? Or are you contemplating—

[This is painful. Shy, flustered; the guy trying to be expansive, intimate, cool, making human contact. He doesn’t realize you
can’t
, the moment’s not designed for that.]

Yeah. I mean, I finished that like almost two years ago, so. This is—there’s
this lag, we’re always on to other stuff by the time this stuff comes out.

G
UY:
Ever write poetry?

No. (Clipped, nervous)

G
UY:
Thank you very much.

Thank you. [A woman plunks down
Infinite Jest
.] Hello. (Glares at me)
Yes?

Oh, no no …

[About working with photographers] I was hoping that someone would call me “babe,” you know? And someone would say something like, “Work with me, people!”

[The
City Pages
guy said he told someone about the book, that he could do a greater service to fiction, if he left off writing entirely and just copied out versions of
Infinite Jest
longhand, which he could then pass out to his friends. What a strange thing for David to hear. He has an odd expression telling us the story.

It’s very icy in the car. We’re smoking out the sides, windows cracked, cold air leaking in. David calls it “our hypothermia smoking tour of the Midwest.”]

[Prebreakfast broadcasts are a luxury for him; he doesn’t own a TV] This morning, a simultaneous broadcast of
Falcon Crest, Magnum PI
, and
Charlie’s Angels:
an orgy of crap.

[The escort, who doesn’t seem to approve of what David’s wearing—jeans and turtleneck, his long hair up in a bun—is cooing over John Updike. He wore tweed, a tie, etc.

This morning’s taping to be locally broadcast in five states as part of
All Things Considered
.]

My ambition is to not embarrass myself—which, if you know me, is a pretty serious ambition.

E
SCORT:
Believe me, you’ll be fine. If you loosen up.

The great thing about not owning a TV, is that, when you
do
have access to one, you can kind of plunge in. An orgy of spectation. Last night I watched the Golf Channel. Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus. Old footage, rigid haircuts.

[We smoke outside. David’s hair is still wet from the shower; it steams in the cold air.]

NPR G
UY:
We’re gonna record digitally. I hope that’s OK.

D
AVE:
So only yes and no answers?

[A small, brilliant joke. I write it down.]

[David sees me writing. Turns to me.]

If you do a really mean job, I have twenty years to get you back.

[They end up doing a lot of on-air talk about how drugs get named.]

I’m a hard-core aspirin man from way back. Bayer under the tongue, which is the way my parents taught me.

[Dave talks about using acupressure for headaches: clamp down on meat between thumb and forefinger. As usual, he does a table-turn, as the interviewer continues to ask about drug names. He smiles.]

You’re revealing a lot about yourself. You’re very interested in pharmacology. I can get you a
PDR
guide.

[The drugs, actually, sound like characters in Tolkien: Talwin, Seldane, Paxil, Haldol. The names of orcs and elves.]

A
S WE LEAVE
, NPR G
UY:
You’re not in town on the twenty-first, are you? We’re having a snowman burning. It’s a Minneapolis tradition. The firemen really like fire.

The problem with these radio guys is they have such beautiful voices, you just want to listen to the voices, and not what they’re askin’ you.

[Escort, a little hurt, mentions writers who’ve been rude to her. David commiserates, apologizes on their behalf.]

It’s hard when you’re traveling. I want to be rude and snappish to people who can’t hurt me. What I do is go home and be rude to my dogs.

[At the hotel, he immediately flips on the TV.
Starsky and Hutch
. I step into his nice neat hotel bathroom. When I return, TBS or whatever is promo-ing
Charlie’s Angels
, coming up next.]

Again?
We’d all rush home after football practice for this.

[The episode is “The Sammy Davis Jr. Kidnap Caper,” with Sammy Davis in a double role: himself and a street hustler. The first scene, he’s arguing with his accountant. “Didn’t I ask you never to talk about taxes during
meal time?”
Sammy asks on the screen.]