just been acquitted of child molestation on a technicality, and she says, “Iris says you’re working hard on your book.”
“All done. Sent it off. And it was just bought by a publisher,” I said.
“Oh,” she says. “Cool.”As if this sort of thing happened regularly in St. Paul, Minnesota.
Bob: “What sort of book is it?”
Me: “A novel.”
Sandy: “Well, I hope it’s not just about sex.”
Me: “It’s almost entirely about sex, Sandy. Except for some oak trees and two late model cars, it’s entirely about sex. Upstairs, downstairs, in the yard, in the car, under the car.”
“Oh, you’re just being stupid—” and we go to the kitchen where Iris is throwing supper together.
“They are going to publish my book,” I announce to Iris.
“Great,” she says. She kisses me. I hold on to her and whisper in her ear, “They’re giving me $75,000 for it.” She stiffens. Delight or fear—hard to tell which. “I get the check in two weeks.”
“That must be tough, writing a book,” Bob says. “God. I don’t know how you do it. Making up all that stuff.”
“I don’t make up a thing, Bob,” I say. “You’re in the book. Hair and all.” He gives me a queasy smile. But he’s not sure I’m joking. “I’ve got you in there, except I made you mulatto.” He runs this line past a focus group he keeps in his head—Gloria Steinem, Mister Rogers, Al Gore, Maya Angelou—he asks them, “Is this funny?” And they shake their heads. So it’s not funny. Sandy doesn’t think so, either. Iris is thinking about the $75,000.
Sandy is in a snit over something she heard on the news and moaning about that—some fearful injustice or other, take your pick—as Iris serves up the beans and Bob pops open a beer. We sit down to eat and the conversation drifts along the familiar lines— I don’t know how people can live in the suburbs, I honestly don‘t, it’s so sterile, I visit my sister in Eden Prairie and there’s no place to walk, no downtown, no black people—I don’t know why people send their kids to private schools, we’re losing all sense of community in this town—I don’t know what people see in television nowadays, all that violence and ogling of women —and an alarm sounds in my head: Old Liberal Talk. Get Away. Get Away. Grave Risk of Contagion. Sandy’s cold disapproving glance lands on me like a horsefly and Bob goes on complaining about the dreariness of mass media and how much more enlightened the Danes are, and I push back my chair and excuse myself. “I’m going for a walk.” “Where?” says Iris. She wants to come with me, but she doesn’t know how to rid us of these two wounded woodchucks. “Anywhere. Just need some fresh air.” This gets Sandy going on the subject of air quality standards.
Spacious Skies came out in the fall and was immediately a hit. I climbed on that old toboggan of fame and fortune and over the edge I went and the hill went on forever and forever and forever. The world took my little book to its bosom, I was the blue-eyed boy, Mr. Touchdown, fortune’s favorite, king of the hill, the blue-light special. Better men who had labored decades to produce novels of real substance were tossed aside like driftwood in favor of Mr. Wonderful—the world loves success and despises failure! If you’re one of Iris’s demented geezers, you can’t get the time of day, but if you’re a big winner and have everything you could ever want, America can’t do enough for you! People strive to pile more and more crowns on your head.
I flew to Chicago, and Los Angeles, and Houston, and gave readings, and book editors took me to lunch and asked my opinion on publishing matters. My success conferred absolute authority on me—in regard to politics, personal relationships, the brotherhood of man, the search for world peace, I was a voice to be heeded. I stayed in small luxury hotels on quiet side streets, hotels with small brass nameplates and
“All done. Sent it off. And it was just bought by a publisher,” I said.
“Oh,” she says. “Cool.”As if this sort of thing happened regularly in St. Paul, Minnesota.
Bob: “What sort of book is it?”
Me: “A novel.”
Sandy: “Well, I hope it’s not just about sex.”
Me: “It’s almost entirely about sex, Sandy. Except for some oak trees and two late model cars, it’s entirely about sex. Upstairs, downstairs, in the yard, in the car, under the car.”
“Oh, you’re just being stupid—” and we go to the kitchen where Iris is throwing supper together.
“They are going to publish my book,” I announce to Iris.
“Great,” she says. She kisses me. I hold on to her and whisper in her ear, “They’re giving me $75,000 for it.” She stiffens. Delight or fear—hard to tell which. “I get the check in two weeks.”
“That must be tough, writing a book,” Bob says. “God. I don’t know how you do it. Making up all that stuff.”
“I don’t make up a thing, Bob,” I say. “You’re in the book. Hair and all.” He gives me a queasy smile. But he’s not sure I’m joking. “I’ve got you in there, except I made you mulatto.” He runs this line past a focus group he keeps in his head—Gloria Steinem, Mister Rogers, Al Gore, Maya Angelou—he asks them, “Is this funny?” And they shake their heads. So it’s not funny. Sandy doesn’t think so, either. Iris is thinking about the $75,000.
Sandy is in a snit over something she heard on the news and moaning about that—some fearful injustice or other, take your pick—as Iris serves up the beans and Bob pops open a beer. We sit down to eat and the conversation drifts along the familiar lines— I don’t know how people can live in the suburbs, I honestly don‘t, it’s so sterile, I visit my sister in Eden Prairie and there’s no place to walk, no downtown, no black people—I don’t know why people send their kids to private schools, we’re losing all sense of community in this town—I don’t know what people see in television nowadays, all that violence and ogling of women —and an alarm sounds in my head: Old Liberal Talk. Get Away. Get Away. Grave Risk of Contagion. Sandy’s cold disapproving glance lands on me like a horsefly and Bob goes on complaining about the dreariness of mass media and how much more enlightened the Danes are, and I push back my chair and excuse myself. “I’m going for a walk.” “Where?” says Iris. She wants to come with me, but she doesn’t know how to rid us of these two wounded woodchucks. “Anywhere. Just need some fresh air.” This gets Sandy going on the subject of air quality standards.
Spacious Skies came out in the fall and was immediately a hit. I climbed on that old toboggan of fame and fortune and over the edge I went and the hill went on forever and forever and forever. The world took my little book to its bosom, I was the blue-eyed boy, Mr. Touchdown, fortune’s favorite, king of the hill, the blue-light special. Better men who had labored decades to produce novels of real substance were tossed aside like driftwood in favor of Mr. Wonderful—the world loves success and despises failure! If you’re one of Iris’s demented geezers, you can’t get the time of day, but if you’re a big winner and have everything you could ever want, America can’t do enough for you! People strive to pile more and more crowns on your head.
I flew to Chicago, and Los Angeles, and Houston, and gave readings, and book editors took me to lunch and asked my opinion on publishing matters. My success conferred absolute authority on me—in regard to politics, personal relationships, the brotherhood of man, the search for world peace, I was a voice to be heeded. I stayed in small luxury hotels on quiet side streets, hotels with small brass nameplates and
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