 |
| The crowd at Zellerbach Hall for Saturday's David Sedaris reading |
To prepare for meeting my literary hero, I showered, dabbed on make-up and trimmed my eyebrows. I also took an eraser to the “$6.95” penciled into the endpaper of his book.
“I don’t want him to know I bought the book second-hand,” I explained to Matt.
The truth is, that hardback copy of “Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim” is the first David Sedaris book I’ve ever owned; I’ve “read” all of humorist’s bestselling essay collections by listening to him read them to me through library-owned audiobooks. So months ago, after I purchased tickets to hear Sedaris deliver a reading at Berkeley’s Zellerbach Hall, I began scouring bookstores for a used copy my hero could actually sign. Sentimentality steered me toward “Dress Your Family,” the book that introduced me to Sedaris’ acid wit in 2005. I even sprang for the hardback edition.
I’m never early for anything, but I drove Matt and I to Berkeley six hours ahead of Saturday’s 8 p.m. reading, one of 47 engagements Sedaris had scheduled for a 49-day book tour. No, I wasn’t obsessed to the point of insisting we spend the entire afternoon loitering outside Zellerbach Hall; I wanted to thoroughly explore this beautiful college town. If we happened to “randomly” spot Sedaris dining in a restaurant or polishing off his holiday shopping on College or Shattuck Avenue, so be it.
“Keep your eyes peeled,” I told Matt through a mouthful of Cheese Board Pizza Collective pizza. “He could be just wandering around here.”
“I don’t even know what he looks like,” Matt said. He retrieved his iPhone and Google Image-d Sedaris’ name.
“Well, he’s sort of balding, and kind of short,” I said.
Matt displayed a photograph of Sedaris holding an umbrella, an expression somewhere between amusement and weariness playing across the writer’s face.
“Yeah, but he’s a little older now.”
 |
| Maroon Shirt |
“See that balding guy standing behind the table with the books on it? In the maroon shirt? I think that’s him.”
“Why would he be here four hours before the show starts?” my ever-practical husband asked.
“I don’t know, but that kind of looks like him – and that guy seated beside him, that’s probably Hugh.”
I said “Hugh” as if Sedaris’ long-time partner, Hugh Hamrick, happened to be a friend of a friend we were meeting for brunch.
Before long, I had tiptoed up to the lobby’s locked glass doors to stare at Maroon Shirt, my nose all but pressed to the glass. Was that really him? My hero? He seemed taller than I imagined.
I was so engrossed with observing Maroon Shirt that I failed to notice the badged auditorium employee observing me from the other side of the door. She propped open the door but no more than the few millimeters required to make herself heard.
“Can I help you?” the young woman asked.
“Um, yes,” I stammered. “Is there, um, a public restroom around here?”
“Try the Student Center, to the left,” she said and closed the door.
Matt and I made use of the facilities and then continued our stroll up and down College Avenue. We returned to the hall at 7 p.m., an hour before the show, and discovered, to my delight, that the line containing five book-holding bibliophiles wasn’t the queue for entrance but the gateway to securing a pre-performance book signature. Two silver-haired matrons – the stereotypical kind everyone associates with performing arts usher-hood -- were handing out pens and custom post-it notes featuring Sedaris’ name beside a picture of an owl, a nod to his latest essay collection, “Let’s Explore Diabetes With Owls.”
“Write your name on the sticky so he knows how to spell it,” one of the matrons instructed. Expecting my thus-far good fortune to evaporate, I decided to quiz the ushers.
“So, is he actually in there? Now? Are we really going to meet him?” I asked.
“Yes, of course,” one said, and turned to pass out another pen.
“I thought she was going to say they wanted us to write our name down so they could take the book, have him sign it, and then return it to us,” I whispered to Matt. “So, do you think I should have him make it out to ‘Megan’ or ‘Megan V. Winslow?’”
“I think just ‘Megan’ is enough.”
Post-it in place, I began flipping through my book’s pages.
“What are you doing now?” Matt asked.
“I want to make sure I know the name of my favorite essay in case he asks me,” I said. “Actually, you should read this. It’s really funny.”
I watched Matt read “Us and Them,” waiting for him to laugh. Or just smile. When he failed on both accounts, I began watching Jessica, the student teacher-turned book signing line bouncer.
I noticed she delivered the same directive before escorting each group of four inside the auditorium and around the corner to disappear under the stairs in some sort of alcove, presumably where Sedaris was ensconced.
"Remember: no photos,” she said. “Don't even hold up your phone as if you're going to take a picture. His demands.”
“I think he wrote an essay about that – hating having his picture taken,” I informed one of the matrons.
“Oh really?”
Matt and I were now at the front of the outside line, and I could clearly see Maroon Shirt, still loitering behind the book table. Two facts suddenly made me question my earlier Sedaris identification: The first was that Maroon Shirt’s table was positioned far from the sacred alcove beneath the stairs; The second was Maroon Shirt no longer wore his maroon shirt. He had shed it to reveal a “Moe’s Book Store” T-shirt, the kind an employee representing the local provider of performance-related materials might wear. So this wasn’t Sedaris, and he was no longer worthy of my attentions. Instead, I studied Jessica and the auditorium staff member whispering in her ear. It was the same woman who had shooed me off to the bathroom.
“I see,” Jessica said. She turned to Matt and I and opened her mouth to speak. My face fell.
“What?” Jessica asked me.
“I thought you were going to say the book signing is over,” I told her, crestfallen.
“No, I was going to say ‘It’s your turn.’ How many people are in your group?”
I could hear Sedaris’ voice as Matt and I rounded the auditorium stairs. It was the same soothing voice I had heard speaking through my car stereo during countless road trips across Florida. The same nasally tone that always interrupted the fluidity of my iPod music playlist whenever I selected “shuffle.” The same snarky delivery I forced my parents to listen to and laugh with whenever we happened to be in the same vehicle. Now that voice emanated from a pint-sized man seated behind a table strewn with colored Sharpie markers. He wore a tie and a button-down sweater, a combination that reminded me of my 11th grade math teacher (I couldn’t tell at the time, but he was also wearing culottes breeches, another wardrobe choice reminiscent of Mr. Dougherty). Sedaris was chatting to a group of middle-aged men, explaining how much he dislikes being interrupted by fans while eating in restaurants.
“Quick! Is there anything hanging out of my nose?” I asked Matt. “I feel like my nose is running.” I flared my nostrils so he could get a good look.
“No, you’re good.”
Then there was a trio of giggly Berkeley co-eds.
“It’s nice he’s taking time to speak to each fan,” I reflected.
Then us. I took a deep breath and handed my hero my copy of “Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim.”
"Your name must be...,” He said, slowly opening the book cover as if the name might magically come to him in the seconds before he consulted the post-it note. I remembered him describing this trick in one of his essays. But he could not guess my name. He opened the book and read the post-it. “…Megan. Megan, have we ever met before?"
"No, but I'm a huge fan,” I gushed. I felt my lips begin to quiver.
But Sedaris was no longer looking at me. Instead, he was doodling on the title page of my book, selecting first the black Sharpie and then the brown.
"Megan, don't ever send me a book in the mail to sign,” Sedaris said. “You know what I do with books people send me in the mail to sign? I throw them away."
My eyes grew big. Had I ever subconsciously mailed him a book to sign? Dear God, I hoped not.
"I'll be sure to spread the word." Matt said, laughing nervously.
"Yes, it's the knife I would use to stab the people who send me books to sign."
“Oh.”
"And some people send them directly to my house -- with American stamps. That doesn't do me any good in England."
“No, I bet it doesn’t,” Matt agreed.
I decided to change the subject.
"We've spent all day wandering around Berkeley hoping to see you in a restaurant or something."
Oh dear, I thought. That surely sounded stalker-ish.
“I was in San Francisco, spending money."
“Oh.”
Sedaris put the finishing touches on his knife – a bloody drip in red Sharpie – and I realized our 2-minute conversation was drawing to an end.
“I just wanted to tell you that you've inspired me to become a humor essayist,” I babbled. “So maybe. One day..."
I trailed off, leaving a pregnant pause ripe for a line of encouragement that never came. Instead, Sedaris squinted up at me and smiled. I knew this was my signal to go. So I went.
“Could you tell I was flustered?” I asked Matt later as I drained a glass of overpriced performing arts merlot. “I didn't know what to say when he started talking about the knife.”
“What could have possibly inspired him to say that?” he said, laughing.
“I don’t know, but I guess it makes people remember him.”
“Oh, he was unforgettable.”
We finished our drinks and found our mezzanine seats. The show was about to start.
No comments:
Post a Comment