about this. It seems too convenient.
Surely a plumber would not stand before a customer and a burst pipe, wrench in hand, sewage seeping onto the carpet, and proudly proclaim, “Any plumbing is good plumbing.”
I am out with Q at a restaurant in the Village. She is wearing her beauty casually, as she always does, draped like a comfortable sweater. She is full of life. The light from the flickering tea candle on the table reflects gently off her glowing face, and one can see the aura around her. She is glorious.
The tables are close together, virtually on top of one another. We are near enough to our neighbors that either Q or I could reach out and take the salt from their table without fully extending our arms. It is a couple. They are talking about us. I am so full of Q that I do not notice. She, though, is distracted.
“You two are in love,” the man says finally.
“Yes, we are,” says Q.
“It is lovely to see.”
“Thank you,” she says.
The woman, presumably the man’s wife, continues to stare at us. This goes on through the end of the main course, and dessert, and even after the second cup of coffee has been poured. At last she says, “You’re that novelist guy, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I say, beaming.
“Wait a second, wait a second,” she says. “Don’t tell me.”
I smile.
“Let me guess. I know. I know.” She snaps her fingers and points: “John Grisham!” she cries.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I am.”
The Colbert Report has me as a guest. I am excited about the appearance. I have not seen the show, but my agent says it is popular with the sort of people who might read my book and, she says, the host is quite funny. She knows this will appeal to me, as it does. I am something of an amateur comedian, and as I wait for the show to begin, I envision snappy repartee.
In the green room, they have put out fruit. The spread consists of cantaloupe and honeydew and watermelon. I do not care for honeydew, but I respect it as a melon. The cantaloupe is luscious. The watermelon, however, is less impressive. It is a cheap crop, grown in China, and seems to me to have no place on a corporate fruit plate. I make a mental note to talk to one of the staff about this.
Approximately fifteen minutes before showtime, a production assistant enters the room and gives me some brief instructions. In a few minutes, they will take me onto the stage, where I will sit on the set until the interview begins. I will be on following a segment called “The Word.” Colbert will introduce me, and then she says—this is unusual—he will run over to greet me. Unfortunately, I either do not hear or do not understand this last instruction. I think she says that I should run over to meet him.
I am not sure why I get this wrong. I think most likely I just hear what I want to hear. I am a runner, and I conclude this will be a unique opportunity to demonstrate to a national audience my unique combination of speed and humor. I suppose I get caught up in all that.
Approximately twenty minutes into the show Colbert introduces me. He says, “My guest this evening is the author of the new novel, Time’s Broken Arrow, which the New York Times has praised as unique and singular.” He graciously omits the following word from the review—“bad.” He says, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome …”
At the sound of my name, I lower my head and break into a sprint. As I round the corner of the set, I see Colbert. He is merely in a light jog—he does this every night—but it is too late for either of us to stop. I make a last-ditch effort to veer to the left, but he turns in the same direction, and I strike him squarely in the head. Even as he is injured, he is supremely self-possessed and funny.
As he falls to the ground, he says, “Et tu? So fall Colbert.”
He is concussed.
Colbert is done for the night, so the episode is concluded with a backup interview, which the show keeps in the can in case of emergency. The guest is Ted Koppel, reminiscing about his time in the White House press corps. He covered Nixon and was there for the trip to China. Following Nixon’s visit to the Great Wall, Koppel asked Nixon what he thought about the experience. Koppel relates the president’s reply in a surprisingly good Nixon, with just a hint of his own sultry baritone. “Let it be said,” says Koppel-as-Nixon, “that this was and shall be for all time, a truly great wall.”
The audience howls. The ratings are strong. Rather than reschedule my appearance, the producers decide to invite back Koppel.
I am invited to the 92nd Street Y, as part of its “Lox and Talks” series, focusing on young Jewish writers. I am worried. The event is set for a Tuesday at lunch, and I will have no reliable supporters on hand. Q is out of town for the week at the Northeast Organic Farming Association annual convention. None of my friends can take the time from work. Even my mother, who reliably attends all of my readings, cannot make it because of a conflicting pedicure appointment. I am uncomfortable—for good luck Q has bought me new pants, which are itchy—and nervous: I expect an empty room.
But the room is not vacant. Not at all. It is brimming with alter kakers, a gaggle of old ladies sipping coffee and munching coffee cake and kibitzing about dental surgery. It is not exactly my target audience, as they say in the ad biz, but I am elated all the same. Here are real human beings gathered to hear my work. I take the stage and open to my favorite chapter—the one where Secretary of State Daniel Webster uses his rhetorical gifts to cajole President-elect Harrison into wearing a coat at his inauguration—and begin reading with verve.
“I must prove that I am the same man who triumphed at Tippecanoe,” protests the president-elect.
“You are sixty-eight years old. You will catch a cold and die.” Webster had a rich and musical voice, which I do my best to imitate. I am good but not great at impressions. I hold out hope that Jim Dale will voice the book on tape.
“You are extremely persuasive,” says Harrison.
“So I am told,” says Daniel Webster.
Harrison dons an overcoat and the rest, as they say, is history.
Fake history, but history all the same.
I see immediately that the old ladies are disappointed. It is not even what I have written, my mere speaking seems to dishearten them. I press on, but they continue to fidget in their seats and whisper to one another. One woman makes an ordeal of opening an ancient sucking candy. Another sighs a giant sigh.
I stop reading and ask, “What is wrong?”
“You are very nasal,” says a woman in the front.
“Do you have a cold?” asks another.
“I am fine.”
“Well, you should have some chicken soup anyway.”
“I do not like chicken soup.”
“You would like mine. It is the best.”
“Is my voice the issue?”
“Yes, we are surprised
