Wifey and me, we caught the T; but we were almost late, and were the last ones to be seated, with some kind of idiot luck, in a couple of front row seats, to the left of the lecturn up there on the stage (the Brattle's). There was no time to squirm, as the readings started immediately.

This was the line-up. First, Lorrie, who read a story from Birds of America called "Dance in America", about a middle-aged dance instructor visiting an old college chum who's got a child with cystic fibrosis. Next, Susan Minot read from her novel, Evening, about a woman dying of cancer. Lastly was Jay McInerny, who read from his novel Fuss Budget (can't remember the title).

The whole reading segment went like a breeze. Lorrie was superb, everything you'd expect and more. She reads softly, with a trace of huskiness, and does different voices, as needed. There's a French woman in the story, and Ms. M. did the accent effortlessly. Her stories attempt several balls in the air at one time, and these most often are Wry, Sad, and Gently Mocking. Her reading style adapted perfectly to each of these qualities. Overall, she's sexy...very sexy. I was stunned and had fantasies of Lorrie picking me up and carrying me around the theater.

Susan Minot was OK, and her story became affecting as she went along. Jay, however, was a pain in the ass. I now know how to pronounce his last name. "Mack 'n Ernie". It sounds like the handle for a couple of Irish vaudevillians. Jay relentlessly "worked the room", pausing now and then for reactions to the funny bits. The selection from his novel seemed to be about a monied yankee family acting out and behaving like morons. As a writer, McInnerny is, to paraphrase Pennelope Gilliat, like a neon sign proclaiming the soulessness of neon. His story was crap, unconvincing and not funny to boot. In it, the patriarch of this yankee, monied family (who is having Thanksgiving dinner at the St. Regis) whips out his dick, in a fit of pique, in front of everyone. Har-har. Actually, it reminded me of some of the lame stuff I write, and this was not a good feeling.

Finally, we lined up for the signing. A special line was formed just for Lorrie, who was by far the greatest draw. Problem was, many folks carried books by all three authors, so that when one of them was done with Jay or Susan, they just kind of cut in front of everyone in the Lorrie line. It was like the toll booths on the Pike. I was in line with Kim Maxwell and we're both getting steamed. I wondered about the appropriateness of just saying, "Look, fanboy, BACK OF THE LINE." To which, he's gonna say, "You're an asshole." And me: "Well, you're a FUCKING asshole."

This dialogue just didn't happen, because, seated in the midst of all this grasping, harrowing, me-first nonsense, was radiant Ms. Moore, who was being absolutely gentle and gracious with everyone, including these collector types who brought in all their first editions for her to sign and sigh over. There was all kinds of patter and cross-cooing between her and my competition, various Cambridge nebbishes. My thinking was: is this a date with Lorrie Moore or a book-signing? I was also thinking, "If it wasn't for that promise I made Wayne..."

My turn came. Like a schoolgirl, I clutched to my chest two copies of her book, now slick with flop sweat. A goateed book store clerk had come around earlier and stuck a posted with "Wayne" written on it, to facilitate Lorrie's personalizing of the book. This posted went onto the title page of Wayne's copy. My copy had no posted at all.

Lorrie and I made eye contact.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Now," Lorrie said, taking the first book, Wayne's, from the pile. "Who is this one for? Oh...I see. Wayne."

"Yes," I said, "it's for Wayne, who is out of town. In fact, you could write that. 'For Wayne, who is out of town'. If you would, please..."

"Then, I shall," rejoined Lorrie, who proceeded to write those exact words at the top of the title page, along with 'All Best Wishes, Lorrie Moore' surrounding the author statement. Then, turning to page 52, she inked in a correction, changing "her chair" to "his chair".

"He really wanted to be here," I began, as she finished up with Wayne's copy; but she was moving on to the other copy, and didn't appear to be listening.

"Now. This one. Is this one for you?"

"Yes. It is."

"And what is your name?"

"Gordon." The same routine. A message at top. A sentiment and signature at the author statement. The correction on p.52.

"Thank you so much."

"Bye."

Away from the crowd, I read, with Sarah, what she had written. It was:

"For Gordon,
Just for you."

"All the Best, Lorrie Moore" 

Gosh.

 

-Gordon Thomas 11/98