Don't Sleep With a Bubba

by Susan Reinhardt

  My heart tripped as if I was 17 and meeting Frampton, which I never got to do because as I raced the stage during one of his concerts, the security guards grabbed me and put me in the “jail” at the Omni in Atlanta until the concert was over.

  The concierge rang David’s room.

  “Yes, Mr. Sedaris. There is a reporter here who SAYS she has an appointment with you, but I wasn’t sure this could possibly be the case…Yes…so you say. Well, then.” The suspicious concierge, surprise on his face, grimaced and cleared his throat. “Mr. Sedaris will meet you here at my station momentarily.” I gulped the humid air and listened as the rain pounded the hotel’s tiled roof, rolling off in sheets as guests enjoyed the storm while sitting snug in giant rocking chairs under the covered porches.

  I thought I would pass out and felt the palpitations coming on. Not now, I told my heart. I can’t go to the ER now. I coughed and beat on my chest like a mad gorilla to get my heart back into proper rhythm.

  Things kept dropping from my clumsy grip. First the notebook. Then the recording device. His people had said no camera, so I obeyed, thinking, “He’s as a bad as a woman. Still, I love him so!”

  I inhaled some yoga breaths and exhaled mightily, blowing the leaves off a small plant. I did some more breathing and chest beating and was gathering a bit of a crowd.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” the concierge asked.

  “No. Do you have some defibrillator paddles like those they have on airplanes to keep people from dying of heart attacks and various and sundry arrhythmias?”

  Just when I thought the room was going black and the heart attack had arrived, there he was. Precious David. Walking toward me in a wrinkled, striped yellow shirt and beautiful beard stubble. Was he smiling? Could he possible be smiling at ME????

  I dropped my purse and blushed. “Sorry. I’m Susan…uh…Hi. Umm…I be with the…What I meant to say is, I’m with the paper. Not I be with the paper…Anyway…Oh, never mind.” I couldn’t remember the name of the paper or my last name. “I’m just here, well, to talk to you about stuff.”

  Stuff. Who says “stuff” to David Sedaris? He is accustomed to scholars analyzing and interviewing him, not country bumpkins who can’t even remember their names and occupations.

  We shook hands, though mine was already shaking on its own. We were about the same height. Should I hug him? Should I ask if he’d like a piggyback ride around the hotel just for fun? He couldn’t weigh that much—maybe 110, 120. We could go up and down the great hallways giddy-upping and just forget the whole interview thing since I had no idea what in the world I was going to talk to him about.

  “Hello,” he said in an almost childlike voice and I moved forward to hug him, but it’s a good thing I didn’t, and you’ll hear more about that later.

  He didn’t introduce himself. I figured it was because he is shy, and saying, “Hi, I’m David Sedaris” would be like a big movie star playing demure and saying, “Hello, I’m George Clooney.” No need for introductions on his part. We decided to go someplace where he could smoke his Kool cigarette. I’d never known a white man to smoke Kools. Seemed like Kools were the top cig choice for hip African Americans and Marlboro Lights were for white folks.

  We chose a small table in the main room where the fireplaces are big enough to engulf most of my living room. Dulcimers dueled, and I could barely hear the soft-spoken writer. I kept imagining him leaning over and saying, “Forget this. I think I love you. Isn’t that what life is made of? Though it worries me to say that I’ve never felt this way.”

  He had probably watched The Partridge Family . I’ll bet he liked David Cassidy, too. And Bobby Sherman and Peter Frampton.

  He lit his cigarette, and I just sat there drinking in the smell as if it was aromatherapy and not carcinogenic. I panted and palpitated and wondered if maybe he would get upset if I did the gorilla defibrillator thing on my chest since I was again beginning to black out from nervousness. I had read in one of his books where he used to lick things like doorknobs and lightbulbs and that he suffered from an assortment of obsessive-compulsive behaviors and neuroses. Surely he would understand a girl trying to beat her heart back into a steady pump-pumping.

  I was still wet with rain, rustling my papers and parcels like a dog trying to get comfortable. He smoked and stared and didn’t seem to mind he was there for an interview and I was doing nothing but daydreaming and thinking of love songs.

  I’d better ask something…anything. “Have you been here before, to Asheville?” My voice came out squeaky, twangy and very Loretta Lynnish.

  He smiled and relaxed with his legs crossed and his arms loose. “About four or five times. Lisa’s here with me,” he said.

  Oh, I guess he meant to throw that in so I’d know his “bodyguard” sister was on call in case I had any ideas of sinking my heterosexual fangs into his sweet gay neck meat.

  This would be Lisa, his older sister, and one of his personal assistants of sorts. Other siblings also play starring roles in his books, which include Barrel Fever , Holidays on Ice , Naked and Me Talk Pretty One Day , the latter two becoming immediate best sellers. His latest that I owned, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim , is also a best seller and I’ve read them all at least twice.

  What could I ask next? Hmm. I just sat with the cat holding my tongue hostage and a recording device by my side. He stared at it several times. “It’s not a camera,” I said, laughing nervously. “I was thinking maybe later, we could have you do a little reading, a minireading into this microphone.”

  At this point he could have laughed hysterically at the preposterousness of my plan. Here was a man with a golden voice and here was a hicky, though I prefer drawling, Southern Belle with a cerebral crush on a very gay man trying to coax that voice onto her recording device.

  His face registered utter kindness. Or maybe I was misreading things. Perhaps he was humming a Frampton tune. Maybe he was thinking how refreshingly small my pores were. I’ll admit my skin was looking rather good since I burned it off with some acid ordered from eBay.

  OK…What to ask? Other reviewers and interviewers always talk about his political satire and genius ways of describing the human race and condition with just the right blend of humor.

  “I’m not the sort of journalist who’s going to ask you those kinds of questions,” I said.

  He nodded and produced a “Mercy, what-did-my-publicist-get-me-into?” smile.

  Instead, I asked about his wrinkled shirt. Turns out his plane arrived, but his luggage did not. We talked about his clothes, and I said to the most famous writer I’d ever met, “Why don’t you go to the Goodwill and pick something up? I could drive you there. I bought a great Kate Spade with only a small flaw on the handle, kind of looked like a rat or dog had maybe chewed.”

  More of that look. He sort of cocked his head. Ah, he’s cute. So small and fine-boned and adorable. I wanted to take him home and have him bronzed like a pair of baby shoes. Or maybe set him on the shelf. Or maybe just have him sign a few books I could set on the shelf.

  “I love the Goodwill,” I said. “Do you?”

  Shit. I just asked David Freakin’ Sedaris if he loved the Goodwill. I’m so fired. My career is over.

  “I’ve been to the Goodwill before,” he said and I knew then we were meant to be. If only it wasn’t for that minor problem of me being married. And him being gay.

  It’s not like he was a snob. Lots of stories i
n his books talk about him working rather gross jobs including cleaning apartments in New York’s rich section for a living.

  “I won’t buy pants there, though,” he said, blowing curls of his Kool into the air.

  “Really? Why not?” Oh, good, our conversation was finally off to a start.

  He sucked his cig. “The last time I did, I got the crabs.”

  Saints alive, David Sedaris is talking about a sexually transmitted disease! This was going to be a great interview after all. “Oh, I got those one time, too,” I said, wishing the hell I hadn’t. “I was dating this gorgeous man, cute, even with a horse-shaped head and horsy teeth, and he passed them along claiming he picked them up off a workout bench at the Y. I know he cheated.”

  David seemed entranced and even leaned forward, closer to my face. I decided to divulge more. “I got rid of mine easily, since I couldn’t find but two, but he was such a wooly booger he had to shave himself. Then guess what happened?”

  “I can’t imagine,” David said.

  “When all that fur grew back, the crabs—I call them crotch crickets—well, they came back, too. Do you know what he ended up doing?”

  “I can’t imagine,” David said again, and I could tell he was bemused and enchanted and this subject was far more interesting than some fancy New York Times reporter picking and analyzing his brain.

  “See, he was just planning on scaring them with his Bic lighter, but instead, he caught his whole pubic area on fire and had to go to the emergency room. His region blew up like that because he’d put Polo cologne down there for some odd reason and it sort of didn’t mix with the Bic’s flame.”

  Why am I saying this shit?

  By now we had decided the dulcimers were too loud and moved to one of the long corridors of the inn. We faced the inner courtyard. Here, it was quiet. No music to compete with. No smoke. Nothing but sheets of rain and a wrinkled and stubbled famous author biding his time with a little-known reporter and doing so with grace. He didn’t glance at his watch but once.

  As we talked, his sister Lisa appeared and politely interrupted. She had a list of spa treatments she presented to her famous brother.

  “There’s the custom-blend facial or a hand-and-foot massage,” she said. She also suggested he might enjoy the gentleman’s wax, a paraffin for the hands and feet.

  “You know I hate being touched,” he said, drawing in his arms and getting twitchety about the face.

  I thought about how I’d wanted to hug him. “I’m glad I didn’t hug you,” I said, and he agreed it wouldn’t have been a good idea. “Southern women like to hug, you know?”

  He pulled his arms in like a kangaroo’s and smirked, that trademark grin, a smile without teeth.

  He decided against the spa and planned to get to his Malaprop’s gig two hours early. He knew the crowds would be thick; his performances sell out and the multitudes would run into the hundreds and thousands. That’s a lot of books to sign. And he’ll stay hours—sometimes until early morning—until every book is autographed. He’s that nice of a guy, and I was surprised he was so low-key and quiet one-on-one, as opposed to his typical effervescent audience performances.

  He even enjoys the book tours, something other authors dread but know comes with the territory. The airplane rides, the hotel stays, lack of sleep, countless media interviews—it’s exhausting, yet Sedaris seems to thrive on the pace.

  Typically, he converses with everyone who has come to see him, and has something witty to say or write in their books. The only thing that seems to irk him is the age-old question that haunts most humor writers—“Is this stuff for real? How much is exaggerated?”

  That’s like asking David Copperfield to reveal the secrets to his disappearing acts. He won’t do it. Another drawback to fame and writing about his family is that Sedaris had no idea people would decide they knew them personally. It never occurred to him, either, that he’d become so popular—gaining in notoriety and building a bigger following with each book.

  The fame has rather stunned him. He figured people know him through his National Public Radio readings, but recently, in Toronto, where there’s no NPR, six hundred fans showed up at a bookstore.

  By this point in our interview I’d given up talking about the Goodwill and fiery pubic mounds and asked him to reveal the secrets of his successful book signings.

  “I had only eleven people come to mine in Charlotte,” I said, “and nine were relatives.”

  What he usually does during these touring events is read stories for twenty-five minutes. “After that I run my mouth,” he said, “and answer questions.” His new way of signing is to draw a stick of dynamite and write “TNT” within the sphere, and then “You’re Dynamite” on the book’s page.

  It was time for our interview to end and him to prepare for this evening. I shook his hand, wanting a hug, but knowing better. He accepted a copy of my book and said he looked forward to reading it. I doubted he ever would. But that’s OK.

  Later that night, amid the huge crowd bursting to get in the doors at Malaprop’s, many pressing eager faces against the outside windows hoping for but a glimpse, Sedaris worked the room as a waiter might take drink orders.

  He gets as many books signed this way as possible—to avoid dragging back to his hotel at 3 AM and keeping bookstore employees up into the wee hours.

  Because his luggage never arrived, he told the crowd he was lacking in his typical gift-bearing routine for the young people.

  “I figure they’d rather be doing drugs or having sex, so I like to give them a prize for coming to a book signing,” he said.

  And with that, he handed out dollar bills, shampoos and lotions from various hotels, and other trinkets. This is the Sedaris way of saying, “Thank you.”

  Two days after our interview, he sent me a humorous postcard, thanking me for interviewing him. On it were two bimbos with huge tits.

  “I think your new breasts look terrific,” he wrote. This means he at least read part of my book.

  It’s a card I’ll save forever.

  Fishing for a Date

  F or quite a few years now, more than I care to admit, men have all but quit glancing my way. That’s fine, I don’t look their way too much either due to my wild estrogen swings and wayward hormones, which, long ago, could have been called whore moans as I was a tigress on the prowl.

  These days, even the bald-headed fellas tend to “ma’am” me as if I’m old enough to be their mothers. They may look my direction with a modicum of interest, and as soon as they’re close enough to see the years of living etching my forehead and the upper arms waddling like a pelican’s pouch with a fresh fish, they glance elsewhere. Usually at my enhanced chest, which is entirely another story with an ending that sends people either reeling or peeling with laughter.

  A friend of mine lined up for a host of cosmetic procedures shortly after her divorce, saying she had to get “shelf ready” or “market fresh” as if she was an Arby’s sandwich or something. Another friend looked at her as if she was crazy. We middle-aged women tend to travel in packs and it helps to talk about our wrinkles, which tag along with zits, bloating and wiggling body parts.

  “I’m having a major overhaul,” this friend, who looked great to me, said. “It’s like being a car with 50,000 miles. The engine may be good but my paint’s dulling, my belts (skin) are loose, I need new tires (titties) and my muffler fell,” meaning h
er butt dropped.

  “Why would you want to do all that?” I asked. “Sounds painful and expensive.”

  “How else will I find another husband?”

  “My mama always said personality and a sense of humor goes a long way.”

  “Well, I have no personality. But I’ll have the flattest stomach in North Carolina and the firmest thighs after my dual lipo and thigh lift.”

  “Good Lord, girl. I’d much rather have good furniture at this stage in life or travel to Europe and the Caribbean. You know what happened after I gave myself that chemical peel I bought off eBay? I forgot the most important step, that part where you neutralized the acid so you don’t burn to bone, and swear to God I saw a piece of skull. Don’t mess with yourself. Just get some Crest Whitestrips and a decent girdle. If you find the right man, make him buy the procedures, sugar pie. They will, believe me. Men like pretty things hanging off their arms. It all goes back to the days when they carried carcasses over their shoulders.”

  She harrumphed and sipped her coffee.

  “A push-up bra is a good idea along with a fine-fitting pair of jeans,” I said. “Go to the Gap. They size pants all wrong, in a good way. I wear a 10 but can get away with a 6 at the Gap. They have good mirrors and lighting and know a thing or two about marketing to our crowd.”

  Women, as we all know, have a need to feel attractive and be told this OFTEN by the men we are with. If they fail to do so, I can all but guarantee we will dump them like cantaloupe rinds in the compost of our past melons. Men, I’m told, at least the metrosexual ones, have the same needs. Wimps. Seems to me the mirrors or reflecting storefronts they’re always peacocking in would do it for them.