Roth looked me dead in the eyes and said, “So, you’re a great writer, huh?”
I returned his stare and said, “I like to think so.”
He looked back down at his bowl of cherries, then back up at me.
He said, “Sit down.” And he nodded toward the chair across from him.
I have never followed instructions so quickly in my life.
As I sat, I thought, all the torture and bullshit has finally paid off. I could already envision Roth’s endorsement of my next book. Maybe he would say something like, “Periel Aschenbrand is the most brilliant young writer I have ever encountered.” Or, “Brilliant, screamingly funny, deeply moving—everything you could hope for in a book.” Obviously he wouldn’t say something so banal, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that I was hanging out with Philip Roth, one of the important living literary figures of our time. And that was a big fucking deal.
I was trying to make a good impression and sound mildly intelligent, so I started talking about French critical theory. This was definitely a gamble since I don’t actually know anything about French critical theory. Had I read The Dying Animal before I met Roth, I would have known this was a colossal waste of time. But I hadn’t read The Dying Animal before I met Roth because I hadn’t read anything by Roth before I met him.
As it turned out, it didn’t really matter what I was talking about because Philip Roth spent the vast majority of the time I was with him alternately talking about his great love for cherries and staring at my tits.
While I was droning on about the great French feminist philosopher Monique Wittig, who is both famous and obscure enough that I thought I could get away with it, Philip Roth interrupted me, “I have a question for you.”
I was already formulating my answer. Yes, Mr. Roth, of course, I would be thrilled to have you write the foreword of my next book.
I look at him expectantly, the way I imagine a dog would look at its owner right before the owner is about to fill its bowl with food. I was anticipating a very serious literary question.
Roth said, “Do you like cherries?”
Trying not to skip a beat, I licked my lips and batted my eyelashes. “Who doesn’t like cherries?” I asked as I smiled sweetly.
Roth got a devilish twinkle in his eye, “Would you like to taste one of my cherries?”
He pierced a cherry with his fork. I opened my mouth, and Philip Roth, one of the greatest writers maybe ever, popped a cherry into my mouth.
“Mmmmm,” I said, as I smiled at him, “Delicious!”
It was actually revolting. The cherries were preserved in some heavy, sugary red liquid. They tasted like cough syrup. But hey, who was I to ruin an old man’s good time?
The whole thing was pretty sexy and I kept wondering if he was going to ask me to come home with him or something but he didn’t. He did, however, tell me to “keep in touch” and wrote his address down on a little piece of paper for me. I tucked it snuggly into my bosom and then gave him a sweet, soft kiss good-bye. On the lips, no tongue.
The second I stepped foot outside, I called my mother. I was like, “You are never going to believe who I was just with!”
My mother: “I’m scared to know.”
Me: “You shouldn’t be. You’re going to be thrilled. Philip Roth!”
My mother: “I don’t believe you.”
Me: “I swear.”
My mother: “That’s unbelievable!”
Me: “It was unbelievable. It was pretty pornographic, too.”
My mother: “Peri, please!”
Me: “What? It was!”
My mother: “What does that mean, it was pornographic?”
Me: “It means that I probably could have slept with him if I wanted to.”
My mother: “Oh my God. I can’t believe this! That’s terrible!”
Me: “Why is that terrible? I thought it was wonderful. I’m actually sort of regretting that I didn’t go home with him. Or to a hotel, that probably would have been better.”
My mother: “Peri, are you telling me the truth!?”
Me: “Yes! I swear! I literally just walked out of the restaurant. He even gave me his address.”
My mother: “You’re telling me that Philip Roth just tried to have sex with you?”
Me: “He didn’t exactly try to have sex with me, but he was very flirtatious and I could have probably had sex with him if I wanted to. That’s all I’m saying.”
My mother: “Well, I think that’s terrible. A man of his stature shouldn’t behave like that.”
Me: “Behave like what? I just told you he didn’t do anything.”
My mother: “Yes, but you said he was flirtatious and I would expect him to behave in a more dignified fashion. After all, he’s a professor!”
Me: “What does that have to do with anything? Aren’t all of his books totally pornographic?”
My mother: “Well, yes, but . . .”
Me: “You don’t think I made a mistake by not having sex with him?”
My mother: “Oh my God. Peri, please. No, I do not think you made a mistake by not having sex with him.”
Me: “He could catapult my literary career.”
My mother: “You can catapult your literary career by yourself with your own talent, not by sleeping with Philip Roth! And isn’t he in his seventies!”
Me: “Yeah. So what? Picasso was forty-five when he met Françoise Gilot and she was seventeen.”
My mother: “Did he catapult her career?”
Me: “Well, everyone knows who she is, so I guess so.”
My mother: “He did not catapult her career. He catapulted her notoriety.”
Me: “That’s a first step, isn’t it?”
My mother: “No, Peri! It is not.”
Me: “So you’re against sleeping your way to the top?”
My mother: “Yes, I am.”
Me: “Well, I’m not and I think I may have made a big mistake. I really think I should have had sex with him.”
My mother: “Oh, you are talking such nonsense. Why don’t you read one of his books instead of wasting your time with this idiocy!”
Me: “Maybe I’ll do both.”
My mother: “You are not to sleep with Philip Roth! Do you understand me!?”
The next day I bought every single Philip Roth book I could find. After I finished Portnoy’s Complaint, I cursed myself again for not sleeping with him. I decided to send him a token of my appreciation and I had the perfect idea for a present. I quickly discerned that Traverse City, Michigan, was world renowned insofar as cherries were concerned. I ordered an enormous crate of them to be delivered to his home and was very pleased with myself.
Once I received confirmation that the package had arrived, I began to obsessively check my mailbox for a thank-you note. I imagined Roth would say something to the effect of how sexy and funny I was, how much he enjoyed meeting me, that he would love to read my book. Whatever he would write, I was certain, would be charming and I would, perhaps, even find a lovely antique frame to display it prominently in my home, if I ever got one.
When people came to visit, they would inevitably ask me what it was. I, of course, would act distracted. “What?” I would ask. They would have to repeat the question and in repeating the question, I would know that they were paying full attention. Only then would I answer. I would pause and strain my neck as though I needed to get a better look at what they were talking about. Maybe I would even giggle a little. Casually I would say, “Oh, that, I had no idea what you were talking about. That’s just a note from, um, Philip Roth.”
Of course, this would impress them immensely. “You know Philip Roth?” Very nonchalantly I would say something vague and interest piquing like, “We’ve spent a little time together,” or maybe even, “We have a mutual friend . . .”
&n
bsp; Even though this scenario was absurd, I took solace in my fantasy. Since all else had gone to shit, at least I would have this to remind me of how far I had come. And also because I have never followed the rules, per se, I have taken a lot shit from a lot of people throughout the course of my life. My parents have always been extremely supportive—albeit a bit skeptical—of my decisions. But there are many other people—my parents’ friends, other members of my family, the list goes on—who have just been waiting for me to land on my face and crack my skull open for not being more obedient.
It’s always been the same story: “Peri is doing what? Peri is going where?”
Or, as Uncle Bark once said, “You are building your future on a pile of sticks.”
I don’t blame people for this reaction; we have been bred to be sheep but I refuse to kowtow to convention. It’s too boring. In my mind, not taking risks has always been a bigger risk than taking them. The sense of security that comes from jobs that confine you to a beige cubicle farm is false. I’d always known that but when Lori’s brother, Guy, was killed on September 11, I became more convinced than ever.
And so sometimes it’s nice to say to all of the people who have tacitly agreed to live their lives in the most banal, mundane, expected way possible: “And by the way, fuck you. I may be illegally squatting in my dead grandmother’s apartment in the East Village, but at least I have a letter from Philip Roth on my wall.”
After I sent the cherries, I waited a week.
Then another.
And another.
Eventually, it became painfully obvious that I was waiting in vain. I never even got so much as a cherry pit from him. I don’t care who you are, if someone sends you two hundred of the best cherries in America, the very least you can do is send them a fucking thank-you note.
Who knows? Maybe I deserved what I got; my intentions were not exactly pure to begin with. And you know what Sir Walter Scott says. Or maybe you don’t know what Sir Walter Scott says. I’ll tell you what Sir Walter Scott says. He says, “Oh what a tangled web we weave / When first we practice to deceive.”
And really, who am I to argue?
Right when I thought things were taking a turn for the better, they took a turn for the worse. And then, they got worse yet. After it was eminently clear that I was never going to hear from Philip Roth again, I received an e-mail from Andrew Wylie. Anyone who knows anything about the book world knows that Andrew Wylie is the most powerful and ruthless literary agent in the world. He represents the biggest names in the industry—dead and alive—everyone from Nabokov to Rushdie. I couldn’t imagine what he wanted with me.
And then it hit me. Wylie was Philip Roth’s agent. Roth was finally reaching out.
I opened the e-mail. It read:
Andrew Wylie and Lady Susie Sainsbury
Invite you to dinner in honor of
Michael Boyd
Artistic Director of the Royal Shakespeare Company
On
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Drinks 7:15 PM
Dinner 8:00 PM
Dress Code: Business attire, ties required
And there he was, God, in all his glory, smiling upon me. I had no idea who Lady Susie Sainsbury was, what the Royal Shakespeare Company was, or even who Michael Boyd was, and to be frank, I didn’t really give a shit.
I wondered if I could bring a guest? Maybe I would bring Nico? No, that was a terrible idea. It would obviously be better to bring a girlfriend. Maybe Hanna? Certainly two good-looking women are better than one. I wondered if Roth would be at this dinner. Then I chided myself for having floundered in my self-confidence. Obviously Roth himself had suggested I would be a good addition to what was obviously going to be a very exclusive literary event.
I didn’t want to RSVP from my personal e-mail address since the e-mail seemed to be from someone at his agency rather than from Wylie personally. I decided to be clever and respond as though I were my assistant responding on my own behalf. This would send a clear message that they were dealing with someone who was very important in her own right.
I wrote:
Periel Aschenbrand would be pleased to attend dinner and drinks on June 19. She has asked me to convey to Andrew that she thanks him for the invitation and looks forward to meeting him.
Sincerely,
Julia Mead, Executive Assistant to
Periel Aschenbrand
I hit SEND.
Then I sent another e-mail that said, “Please confirm receipt of this e-mail,” so it would seem like my assistant was really on top of her shit.
And then I started planning my outfit.
I was thinking sexy, but chic, and that perhaps I’d wear my high-waisted black pants, with suspenders and the lace Christian Louboutin spike heels that Nico bought me for my birthday last year. I pulled out a strand of Chanel pearls. I thought, This necklace will provide just the right touch to balance rock and roll with downtown chic—which is often how I regard my sense of style.
I tried everything on.
I looked in the mirror.
I thought, You look perfect.
I took everything off and hung the outfit on a hanger.
I hadn’t felt so good in a very long time.
Ever so pleased with myself, I sauntered back over to my desk and logged back in to my e-mail account.
I saw that I had received an e-mail from the reception desk of Mr. Wylie again. I thought, How lovely. He probably told his secretary to personally reach out to me immediately and tell me he was looking forward to meeting me as well.
I clicked OPEN. The e-mail read as follows:
Many thanks for your e-mail.
Unfortunately, Mr. Wylie and Lady Sainsbury’s invitation seems to have been misdirected to your account. It was not intended for Periel Aschenbrand, who is not invited to the dinner and drinks on June 19th. We apologize for this mistake, and for any inconvenience this may have caused you.
Please confirm receipt of this e-mail.
8
Life Is a Daring Adventure or Nothing
Despite my suffering, I didn’t regret a single second I had spent with Noam. I was a better person for having been with him—smarter, deeper, less reactionary, and more introspective. And Nico, for all of his flaws, had given me hope when I had none. It may have been misguided hope, but still it was hope. And for that I would forever be indebted.
Although we hadn’t really resolved anything, Nico’s birthday was coming up and I wanted to give him something special. He was difficult to shop for because he had everything he wanted and he certainly didn’t need anything. He had beautiful homes filled with incredible art and books and curiosities from his travels around the world. But he had always been fond of vintage items and photography, and I had just unearthed an exposure meter from the 1930s that had belonged to my grandfather and I knew he would love it. I wrapped it beautifully, enclosed a seductive photo of myself, and wrote another mortifying letter that I should have burned instead of sending.
Nico,
I understand very little about the way technology works, but I’ve managed to glean that exposure meters have something to do with measuring light, which means, well, absolutely nothing to me. Shedding light, on the other hand, is quite another story. And while I’m sure you’re just fine as far as equipment goes (in fact, I know you are) this belonged to my father’s father, my grandfather Seymour, and I think it’s pretty amazing.
Seymour, for better or for worse, did very little in the way of passing anything else down to me, nor, during the course of my life, did he shed light on anything in particular. But he sure had a lot of very cool stuff, which I’ve managed to snag, and that’s good enough for me.
Given all that, I suppose one thing I did learn from him is that if we don’t expect things from people that they are incapable of giving us, we are rarely
disappointed. And disappointed is certainly no way to go through life. I don’t really know much about else about Seymour, even though he only just died a few years ago.
It’s entirely possible that Seymour was a fascinating individual—his things certainly seem to indicate as much. If you can learn about people from the things they accumulated throughout the course of their lives, it’s possible that my grandfather was more interesting than I ever knew.
My impression is that my grandparents lived a very safe life. Helen Keller said: “Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.”
It’s an interesting point.
Put that way, the thing to choose seems so fucking obvious.
I do remember once, when I was about five years old, visiting my grandparents, and convincing them to let me play on the swing set. I was swinging higher than I had ever swung before and was having an absolute blast. And then I fell off and I hurt my knee really badly. So badly, that to this day, I still have a scar.
So, maybe, in the end, I learned more than I thought. I learned I’m willing to fall and hurt my knee. I learned my knee will heal. Because if you want to soar, you have to be willing to fall . . .
Life is either a daring adventure or nothing, right?
Given that, in addition to everything else I’ve said, I’ll say this, too:
I love you.
P
Soon after Nico’s birthday, he invited me over for dinner. Nico could be really romantic when he felt like it and I was sure my letter had moved him and was absolutely certain that he was going to tell me that he had thought long and hard and was ready to really give us a chance. When I got there, primed and ready for him to profess his love to me, he told me that several other friends would be joining us and that we’d all be going out. I was expecting an intimate evening for two and he had planned a fucking dinner party.
On My Knees Page 9