I did call her, four or five times, and we talked, mostly about her projects—she was writing a book, she was being considered as a substitute host. We didn’t talk about our marriage until one day in April, when she mentioned that Biddy was sick again, and she said she missed me. Biddy died a week later, and Willa brought the body back to Minnesota for interment. She came to the condo for dinner one night and wound up staying.
My friends can’t believe I took her back after all those things she said about me, but I can’t see where it’s any of their business. I told her there was no need for her to apologize, so she hasn’t. She did scrap the movie project and the book, though. The substitute-host deal fell through when the regular host decided he wasn’t so tired after all. Except for our two dogs, Betty and Burt, we’re almost where we were last summer. The ice has melted on Lake Larson, the lilacs and chokecherries are in bloom, soon the goslings will hatch and their mothers will lead them down to water, and everything will be as if none of this ever happened.
1984
GARRISON KEILLOR
MEETING FAMOUS PEOPLE
WHEN Big Tim Bowers just happened to turn to his left and see the little guy with the battered guitar case emerge limping from Gate 4A at the Omaha International Airport on July 12, 1985, he held out his big arms to greet his best friend, which, although they had never met in person, Sweet Brian surely was. It was Sweet Brian himself! There! In Concourse C! His “White Boy” album was what got Tim through the divorce from Deloyne after three loving months of marriage, when she notified him that he was hopeless and the next day upped and split for Cheyenne with a bald bread-truck driver (unbelievable), after which Tim lost his good job and apartment and would’ve lost his mind except for Sweet Brian, so of course he yelled, “Hey, you’re my man! I got to shake your hand! Hiiiiya! Sweet Brian! Hey!”
Sweet Brian made a sharp right, climbed over a railing and a row of plastic chairs, and walked fast toward Baggage Claim, which didn’t surprise Tim one bit. After all, the guy who wrote “Tie Me Loose” and “That Old Highway Suits Me Pretty Well, I Guess” and “Lovers Make Good Loners” is no Sammy Davis, Jr., and Tim respected him for the uncompromising integrity and privacy and sincerity of his art, which had been crucial to Tim when his own sense of self was chewed up by Deloyne, all of which Tim now needed to say to Sweet Brian. He galloped down the concourse after the fleeing singer-songwriter, who heard his two-hundred-and-sixty-two-pound fan and panicked and went through a door marked “NO ADMITTANCE” and clattered down two flights of steel stairs, Tim’s big boots whanging and whomping on the stairs above, convincing him that death was very near, and burst through a pair of swinging doors marked “WEAR EARPLUGS” and headed across the tarmac, a man once nominated for a Grammy (for “Existential Cowboy”) and once described as the Dylan of the late seventies, panting and limping around some construction barriers along the terminal wall toward a red door twenty yards away. Incredible, Tim was thinking. I come to the airport to hang around and maybe get an idea for a song—not to meet anybody or anything, just to think about something to write about, maybe about not having anybody to meet—and I meet him. Fantastic. Tim was six strides behind him when he burst through the red door. There was a second, locked door a few steps beyond, and then and there, in the tiny vestibule, Tim expressed a lifetime of appreciation. He hugged Sweet Brian from behind and said, “Hey, little buddy, I’m your biggest fan. You saved my life, man.”
The star pushed Big Tim away and sneered, “You know, it’s vampires like you who make me regret ever becoming a performer. You and your twenty-nine-cent fantasies. I don’t know what you— You sicken me.” And he slapped Tim.
At this point Tim wasn’t thinking lawsuit at all. An apology would have been enough—e.g., “Sorry, pal. I’m under too darn much pressure right now. Please understand.” He’d have said, “Fine, Sweet Brian. No problem. Just want you to know I love your music. That’s all. Take care of yourself. Goodbye and God bless you.” Instead, Sweet Brian said those terrible things and then slapped him and shoved him aside and went to the hotel and wrote an abusive song about him (“Your Biggest Fan”) and sang it that night at the Stockyards, and that’s how they wound up in U.S. District Court two years later.
TIM had lost quite a bit of weight in those two years, ever since he got a great job at NewTech, thanks to the company’s excellent weight-loss program, which, in fact, Tim himself initiated (he’s executive vice-president in charge of the entire Omaha and Lincoln operations, about eight thousand employees and growing daily since NewTech bought up SmetSys, ReinTal, and Northern Gas & Hot Water), and he looked blessedly happy at the courthouse, which might have had something to do with his new wife, Stephanie, a blond six-foot former Vogue model who accompanied him, leaning lovingly on him and smiling fabulously as photographers jockeyed for position. A handsome couple. Rumor said she was two months pregnant. They looked ecstatic. Young and rich and very much in love.
Inside, Tim’s lawyer described Sweet Brian as a “candy-ass has-been who can’t hit the notes and can’t write the hits, so he hits his fans” and asked for a half million dollars in damages. The little guy sat twenty feet away from Tim, his ankles chained together. He looked bloated, sick. His cheap green sports coat wouldn’t button in front. It had stains down the lapels. The story of his downfall was in all the papers. Sweet Brian and Tania Underwood had had to interrupt their Hawaiian honeymoon to fly to Nebraska for the trial and in Concourse C Brian was nabbed by the Omaha cops for possession of narcotics with a street value of three hundred and twenty-seven dollars. Tania was furious. She slapped him around in the police station and left town. It snowed three feet and his lawyer was stuck in L.A., and Sweet Brian sat in the clink for six days. That was when Tim saw him in court looking morose. “Can I help?” he asked, but the sullen singer turned away in anger. That night, a rodeo rider from Saskatchewan who was doing thirty days for bestiality beat the daylights out of Brian and knocked out four front teeth. Next morning, the county dentist, Dr. Merce L. Gibbons, had to drill out the stumps without Novocain. Brian bled so much he fainted and toppled forward, and the drill went through his cheek. The dentist panicked, thinking malpractice suit, and he tore his white smock slightly and roughed up his thin hair so as to claim that Brian had attacked him, and then he clubbed the former star hard, twice, with a mallet and yelled for the cops. They took Brian to the hospital and he got an infection from the blood test and died. Nobody came from L.A. for the body, and finally some reporters collected three hundred and ten dollars around the newsroom and Brian was buried in Omaha under a little headstone: “Brina Johnson, 1492–1987.” The two typos weren’t noticed until it was too late. So what could they do? A local columnist taped a note to the stone saying, “His name is Brian. Listen to his albums sometime. Not ‘White Boy,’ which is too pretty, too nostalgic, too self-conscious, but ‘Coming Down from Iowa’ is not bad. I think it’s on the Argonaut label.”
Tim was in Palm Beach when someone told him Brian was dead, and although he was extremely busy in meetings all day, he wondered, “Could this have been avoided if I had approached him differently, maybe been more low-key?”
“He was a big hero to me back then,” he told Stephanie as they strolled along the beach toward The Palmery, where they were meeting some Florida associates for drinks and dinner. “I really wish we could have been friends.”
EVEN today, after he settled out of court with the singer’s estate for a rumored $196,000, Tim feels bad about the incident. He is not alone. Tens of thousands of people have approached very famous men and women intending to brighten the lonely lives of the great with a few simple words of admiration only to be rejected and abused for their thoughtfulness. To the stars, of course, such encounters are mere momentary irritations in their fast-paced sensational lives and are quickly forgotten, but for the sensitive fans personal rejection by an idol becomes a permanent scar. It could easily be avoided if, when approaching the celebrated, those who practically worship th
em would just use a little common sense:
1. Never grab or paw the famous. They will instantly recoil and you will never ever win their respect. Stand at least thirty-two inches away. If your words of admiration move him or her to pat your shoulder, then of course you can pat back, but don’t initiate contact and don’t hang on. Be cool.
2. Don’t gush, don’t babble, don’t grovel or fawn. Never snivel. Be tall. Bootlicking builds a wall you’ll never break through. A simple pleasantry is enough—e.g., “Like your work!” If you need to say more than that (I think you’re the most wonderful lyric poet in America today), try to modify your praise slightly (but your critical essays stink). Or cough hard, about five times. That relieves the famous person of having to fawn back. The most wearisome aspect of fame is the obligation to look stunned by each compliment as if it were the first ever heard. That’s why an odd remark (Your last book gave me the sensation of being a horned toad lying on a hot highway) may secretly please the famous person far more than a cliché (I adore you and my family adores you and everyone I know in the entire world thinks you are a genius and a saint and I think I’m going to fall down on the sidewalk and just writhe around and foam for a while). Be cool. Famous people much prefer a chummy insult to lavish nonsense: a little dig about the exorbitant price of tickets to the star’s show, perhaps, or the cheesiness of the posters (You design those yourself?). Or a remark about the celebrity’s pet (if any), like “How much did you pay for that dog?” Personal stuff (Do you have to shave twice a day? Do you use regular soap or what? What was it like when you found that out about her going out with him?) can wait for later. For now, limit yourself to the dog. As it gazes up in mealymouthed brown-nosed, lickspittle devotion, glance down and say, “Be cool.”
3. Autographs are fine, photos are fine, but be cool. Don’t truckle (Oh, please please please—I’ll do anything—anything at all), don’t pander (This is the high point of my life), and never cringe or kowtow (I know that this is just about the tackiest thing a person can do and it makes me sick with shame but . . .), and never, never lie (My mother, who is eighty-seven, is dying in Connecticut and it would mean the world to her if . . .). Hand the famous person the paper and simply say, “I need you to sign this.” Hand the camera to one of his hangers-on and say, “Take a picture of us.”
4. When you are cool like this and don’t fawn and don’t grab and just go about your business as a fan and get that autograph and the photo and are businesslike about it, probably you are going to make such a big impression on the famous person that he or she will make a grab for you in that offhand way these people have (Care to join Sammy and me for dinner, Roy? or Somebody find this guy a backstage pass, wouldja?). Remember, these people are surrounded by glittering insincerity and false friendship and utter degradation of all personal values to such a degree that three cool words from you (Like your work!) will knock them for a loop. Suddenly the star recalls the easy camaraderie of a Southern small-town childhood and the old verities of love and loyalty in the circle of family, church, and community. Desperately he reaches out for contact with you (Please. You remind me of a friend I once had. Many years ago and far away from here. Please), wants your phone number, tries to schedule lunch with you on Thursday (Anywhere, anytime. Early lunch, late lunch. You name it. I can send a car to pick you up. Thursday or Friday or Saturday or any day next week. Or Sunday if you’d rather. Or it doesn’t have to be lunch. It could be breakfast or dinner. Or a late supper. Brunch), tries to draw you into conversation (You got a book you want published? Songs? Anyone in your family interested in performing? Got a favorite charity you need anyone to do a benefit for? Need a credit or job reference?). Don’t bite. Just smile and nod and say, “Nice to meet you,” and walk away. He’ll follow you (What’s your name? Please. I need you). Walk faster. You don’t want to get involved with these people. Thirty seconds can be interesting, but beyond two minutes you start to get entangled. They’re going to want you to come to the Coast with them that night and involve you in such weird sadness as you can’t believe. (Please come with us. I mean it. There’s something real about you that’s been missing from my life for too long. Please. Just come and talk to me for three minutes.) Sorry. (Please.) No. (Then let me come with you.) No. (Tell me why not.) I’m sorry. I wish that it was possible, but it isn’t, not at this time. I hope we can meet again very soon. Bye.
1988
FRANK GANNON
YO, POE
Consider [Sylvester Stallone’s] pet project: a film biography of Edgar Allan Poe. “I am a student of his,” says Stallone. “But people have this image of Poe as a crazy alcoholic and drug addict, and that’s wrong. I’d like to set the record straight.”
—Newsweek.
IT is with a lot of humility that I pen the first sentence of this work. It is almost accompanied by a sense of trembling awe that I approach the reader with this, the most dreamlike, the most solemn, the most difficult, the most buried-in-my-gut.
Hey, Ulalume, if I could sing and dance I wouldn’t have to do this.
O strangely sent one, how your words touch my spirit! How well have we both learned the propensity of man to define the indefinable! How the strange happiness of our innermost souls has thus been magnified!
You really got lucky tonight, you know?
IT’S a quiet and still afternoon here. The leaves are all sere, whatever that means. But here inside the Spectrum it’s a different story. Men are screaming, women are fainting, and the children—well, they’re just being kids.
Right you are, Al. There’s tumult everywhere, and with good reason. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.
No, Dick, I haven’t either. You can almost feel the electricity in this arena. It’s almost palpable.
I can’t keep up with you, Al.
I’ve been going back to school, Dick. Heh, heh.
Excuse me for interrupting, but here he comes.
Making his way down the aisle with his entourage—Mister Edgar Allan Poe.
Some say his last name is Allan, some say it’s Poe. There’s quite a bit of controversy about that, Al.
All I know is he looks serious tonight, Dick.
Look at those eyes. Look at that expression.
He means business.
Yes, he does, Al. And there’s that tie.
That trademark Edgar Allan Poe tie. He’s still wearing it, and I guess he always will, Dick.
You can bet on that, Al.
But no raven tonight, Dick.
You’re not going to get me to say “Nevermore,” Al.
Heh, heh. You know, a lot of people don’t know that Edgar Allan Poe was actually a very good broad jumper.
That’s right, Al. A lot of critics feel that he may have symbolically put himself in his famous story “Hop-Frog.”
You’re a regular encyclopedia, Dick.
HELLO again, literature fans. Tonight we have a special treat on our post-fight show. Tonight’s guest is Baudelaire, the unofficial manager of Edgar Allan Poe.
Edgar Poe. I always call him Edgar Poe. Please don’t say “Edgar Allan Poe.” I hate that. It makes me—how you say?—sick.
O.K., Beau, have it your way. Edgar Poe.
Gracias, amigo.
Let’s get right to the big question. Why do you, the acknowledged champion of the symbolists, want to manage a guy like Poe, an alcoholic drug addict who marries little girls because he’s a pervert. And on top of all that, he can’t tie a tie.
Let me get this straight right away. And not just for you, Marv. For everybody. Edgar Poe is not a pervert. He is not an alcoholic. To my knowledge, the man has never taken a drink. He does not use drugs. He is not a “party” person.
How about the tie allegation?
I can’t say anything about that. He’s an individual, and like all individuals he has a right to his own tastes in neckwear.
You don’t think he looks funny?
No. But let me say one thing.
Go right ahead.
/> My man was actually an excellent athlete.
You mean you’re going to get into the broad-jumping thing and “Hop-Frog” and all of that?
Absolutely.
Good for you. And while we have you, you’ll forgive another question, I’m sure. How is Rimbaud?
Loved it. I was on my feet cheering.
There you have it. Baudelaire, the self-styled king of the symbolist poets. Nothing if not controversial. Thank you for coming.
Gracias.
VIRGINIA. Yo, Virginia—wake up. I have something I want to tell you. I was just over to look at the poster they got of me. And you know what? They got the wrong tie. That’s right. They got me wearing a club tie instead of this little one that I always tie funny.
I just want to say a couple of things. One, a lotta people probably think it was kinda weird for me to get married to you, on account of you being my cousin and only fourteen years old and like that. What they don’t know is that for a guy like me beauty is incarnate only as an intellectual principle. Man is but a part of the great will that pervades the cosmos. In other words, when I hear somebody say something about my wife I tell him to get out of the car.
I got one more thing I want to say. Some of my early biographers, they got the idea that I was an alcoholic drug addict or something. That’s just a bunch of you know what. I’m not a drug addict, I’m a poet. Keats, Shelley—they were poets and they died young. But it wasn’t because they were drug addicts. It was because they didn’t train.
Fierce Pajamas: An Anthology of Humor Writing from The New Yorker Page 15