Updike's Departure

John Updike died yesterday. Sickness and death are everywhere, I guess, but that is no consolation. But Updike is one of the lucky ones who will be remembered, who will live on through his characters and observations. Rabbit Angstrom is now as much a part of the American mythology as Lady Brett Ashley and Daisy Buchanan, I think.

In memoriam, I will tell of my meeting with Updike at the PEN/Hemingway First Fiction Awards at the John F. Kennedy Library. I had been invited for reasons I will not divulge here having to do with Cuba, Patrick Hemingway, Radio Havana and the Havana Tribune, rum, women, the city's mayor, and The Hemingway Review. That is all I will say here and now.

For whatever dubious reason, though, I was invited, and what an affair it was, a veritable Who's Who of literature and celebrity. In truth, I can't remember who won the prize. I've looked back at the winners this morning and I swear I am even vague about the year. I have a collection of clippings, though, in a file at the office, and I will look them up today to find the date. I am like this about most things.

I will cut to the chase. Following the awards ceremony, there was a big reception where everyone ate and drank and mingled. I spent most of my time with academics and scholars, but at some point I found myself positioned next to Caroline Kennedy. I knew that there would be an immediate chemical reaction, that we would make eye contact and there would be that spark. But at that moment she was engaged in conversation with Annie Prouxl and Patrick Hemingway, and before I could catch her eye, John Updike and George Plimpton had moseyed over and joined the conversation. Someone I knew was just finishing up a critical book on Updike with whom he had been in close contact for a year of research, and he told me before I went to make certain that I told John hello. And so I did.

"Mr. Updike," I said with great deference, "Larry __________ asked me to give you his greetings."

Updike, who was very tall and hawk-like in appearance drew himself to his full height and looked down his considerable nose at me as if he had just gotten a whiff of something very bad. And with that and nothing further, he turned his back and stepped to the bar. Quickly in my embarrassment, I shot a look at Caroline who just as quickly averted her eyes. That had not gone well at all, I thought, just as Plimpton, who was equal to Updike in height, put his long arm around my shoulder and said, "Don't worry about that, John's an asshole to everyone." I guess I felt succored. Plimpton and I continued to talk for some time. He told me horrific stories about Updike's sexual escapades and I pitched a book idea I had concerning him and Peter Matthiessen and the entire Tall Young Men of Paris crowd. He liked the idea, but like most things in my life, I let the opportunity slip and slide into obscurity.

In spite of Updike's horrifically embarrassing treatment of me at the awards reception, I wish him a speedy journey into the afterlife. He leaves behind a bucketful of good observations.

I've looked high and low for a photo of one of the Hemingway boys and me in Paris, Boston, or Havana, but I was not prepared for this and cannot lay my hands on them. As I say, most of my life is this way. Instead, I will post a picture of my father. He would have been eighty-nine today. He was a swell guy who got a kick out of things. He taught me that (and much more).