formal and out of place with what is happening now. I am there looking out, oblivious to what is happening now. I scan the page. âDress Like a Doll.â The article is about a Barbie childrenâs fashion show at McDonaldâs. There is a photograph of Normanâs granddaughter dressed like a Barbie. Normanâs daughter, my sister, is almost invisible. She is sitting on a chair, bending over, wearing a large hat that blocks most of her face. She is wearing white pants with some sort of polka-dotted thing around her waist, a scarf belt. Is she dressed right for a nice lunch? Does she own jewelry?
I look at the picture carefullyâI see her fat thigh, her belly, her feet, her outstretched hand, and it is my thigh, my belly, my feet, my hand.
There is something deeply ironic and pathetic about the whole thing. I am staring at a piece of wet newsprint trying to see what my sister, who doesnât even know she has a sister, looks like. There is an incredible sense of disappointment. She is in a McDonaldâs with her kid dressed up like a Barbie doll, and all I can think of is the short story I wrote, A Real Doll , about a boy dating a Barbie doll. I was being ironic; she is being serious. And to top it offâNorman thinks this picture of his daughter taking her kids to a fashion show at McDonaldâs is equal to an article on me giving a reading from my third book. His daughter went to finishing school, had a debutante coming-out ball, and now does âinteriors.â She has fat thighs, a belly, and paws for hands, but Iâm sure she dresses right for lunch. Itâs depressing as hell.
Drenched, I return to my parentsâ house. I have ten minutes to get ready for the reading.
I go alone. Ever since the night Ellen appeared without warning at the bookstore, I am afraid of what might happen. My parents want to come, but I excuse them. I am protecting them as well as myself. The library where Iâm reading is en route to Normanâs house and just down the road from Uncle George. I have no idea if Ellen has told her brother about me or if they are even speaking. I never know who knows what.
Libraries are sacred, preserved spaces where people are supposed to behave well; they are trusted places for people who love books.
I am oddly ill at ease. From the moment I arrive, I have the sense they are thereâexactly who, Iâm not sureâbut I can tell I am being watched, sized up. There is the strange sensation that something else is going onâthere are people here who have come for a reason other than to hear me read. No one approaches me, no one identifies themselves or makes themselves known in any way. It is incredibly eerie.
The librarian introduces me and I stand to read. The lights onstage are bright; I cannot see far enough into the audience to memorize every face. I wish I had guards on either side of the stage, looking out on my behalf, reading the crowd, identifying faces, reporting into their lapel pins.
I read from a work in progress. The crowd follows closely. There are book club ladies, friends from high school, fans with first editions, people who are habitués of that library, but there is something else, some unnameable force field. I am on display, I feel myself being watched, scanned, and yet I am obligated to keep reading, to pretend I donât know this is happening. Do they think I donât know theyâre out there, that Iâm oblivious to them, that they are invisible, anonymous, in the dark?
I wish I could turn the lights around, shine them into the audience, I have some questions of my own. I am tempted to pull a Lenny Bruce, stop the show, and address the mystery guests, imploring them to reveal themselvesâhey, you spies from the other planet, itâs October, the least you could do is put on a Halloween costume, maybe show up looking like a skeleton or something. But it would look as if Iâd lost my mind.
At the end of
I look at the picture carefullyâI see her fat thigh, her belly, her feet, her outstretched hand, and it is my thigh, my belly, my feet, my hand.
There is something deeply ironic and pathetic about the whole thing. I am staring at a piece of wet newsprint trying to see what my sister, who doesnât even know she has a sister, looks like. There is an incredible sense of disappointment. She is in a McDonaldâs with her kid dressed up like a Barbie doll, and all I can think of is the short story I wrote, A Real Doll , about a boy dating a Barbie doll. I was being ironic; she is being serious. And to top it offâNorman thinks this picture of his daughter taking her kids to a fashion show at McDonaldâs is equal to an article on me giving a reading from my third book. His daughter went to finishing school, had a debutante coming-out ball, and now does âinteriors.â She has fat thighs, a belly, and paws for hands, but Iâm sure she dresses right for lunch. Itâs depressing as hell.
Drenched, I return to my parentsâ house. I have ten minutes to get ready for the reading.
I go alone. Ever since the night Ellen appeared without warning at the bookstore, I am afraid of what might happen. My parents want to come, but I excuse them. I am protecting them as well as myself. The library where Iâm reading is en route to Normanâs house and just down the road from Uncle George. I have no idea if Ellen has told her brother about me or if they are even speaking. I never know who knows what.
Libraries are sacred, preserved spaces where people are supposed to behave well; they are trusted places for people who love books.
I am oddly ill at ease. From the moment I arrive, I have the sense they are thereâexactly who, Iâm not sureâbut I can tell I am being watched, sized up. There is the strange sensation that something else is going onâthere are people here who have come for a reason other than to hear me read. No one approaches me, no one identifies themselves or makes themselves known in any way. It is incredibly eerie.
The librarian introduces me and I stand to read. The lights onstage are bright; I cannot see far enough into the audience to memorize every face. I wish I had guards on either side of the stage, looking out on my behalf, reading the crowd, identifying faces, reporting into their lapel pins.
I read from a work in progress. The crowd follows closely. There are book club ladies, friends from high school, fans with first editions, people who are habitués of that library, but there is something else, some unnameable force field. I am on display, I feel myself being watched, scanned, and yet I am obligated to keep reading, to pretend I donât know this is happening. Do they think I donât know theyâre out there, that Iâm oblivious to them, that they are invisible, anonymous, in the dark?
I wish I could turn the lights around, shine them into the audience, I have some questions of my own. I am tempted to pull a Lenny Bruce, stop the show, and address the mystery guests, imploring them to reveal themselvesâhey, you spies from the other planet, itâs October, the least you could do is put on a Halloween costume, maybe show up looking like a skeleton or something. But it would look as if Iâd lost my mind.
At the end of
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