My Desperate Little "Valentime"

Originally Posted Thursday, February 14

I have become even more a hillbilly than I was.  It is evident in small ways every day, but last night I was invited to a special presentation of the author Karen Russell whose novel, "Swamplandia," has received massively good reviews.  It was in a reception hall at Country Club College, a place where--dare I admit it--I once taught some writing courses to juniors and seniors.  Perhaps I'll tell you about that another time.  Last night, however, I went as the guest of a creative writing professor from another school who got her undergraduate degree there, with her and her husband who was my college roommate so very long ago.  I arrived before they did, so, on a cloudy night just threatening rain, I sat on the giant marble staircase waiting for them as guests arrived for the reception. 

I felt terribly underdressed.

And this was a shock because I never do.  Rather, never did.  But I have grown. . . heavy-ish. . . and the clothes I wear are not. . . fashionable.  I haven't tried for a very long time.  The fatter I get, the less I want to go shopping.  I'll wait, I tell myself, until I get back into shape. 

I don't think that is going to happen. 

And so I sat waiting for my friends in a slight sweat as women in sleek dresses and scarves and men in sports jackets and khakis, and everyone wearing fine leather shoes walked by.

"Hello Charles," they would say to the fellow at the head of the stairs in the prep school tones of people who belong to the right clubs and move in the same appropriate circles day after day.  These are not the cheap, loud republicans who are stock brokers and public officials in their expensively meretricious clothing, but those for whom they perform.  Arriving, too, were the academics, the professors of the college who pretend that they are of that ilk, whose lives revolve around the private college scene where they pretend to be academics though they are really only a higher form of prep school teacher who knows well deep down that they are ever in danger of pissing off someone, who know they will change a grade when confronted, and whose rewards are oak lined offices with real wooden desks and command performances at ceremonies such as these.  You can hear it all in their low tones and soft voices.

O.K.  I'm bitter.  Working at the factory has turned me into a clown.  And as I sat waiting upon my friends, I had plenty of time to reflect upon it. 

Finally they arrived, and we made our way into the hall where a string quartet played beautifully. 

"Look, there's the bar."  We made a beeline. 

My friend knew many of the people attending as did I.  Here was the ex-feature writer whose detective novels had become quite popular.  And there was the fellow who won the Flannery O'Connor Prize so many years ago and who hadn't published a thing since.  And then, glasses in hand, we were talking to the Great Poet's girlfriend, the fellow I introduced at a reading last year who cared for me not at all, the ex-Poet Laureate who plays golf with the stars.  Chat chat chat, yada yada yada.  His girlfriend did not remember me which was of much relief.  I hushed my friend when she tried to remind her.  To my surprise, I found that she and the Great Poet live just two blocks from me in a small "Key West house," she said.  I can see the house from my yard.  I felt a chill run up my spine. 

As we talked, I saw some of the student interns looking my way.  It could have been for any of a thousand reasons, but I chose to believe what I wanted.  The night could get interesting. 

After Karen Russell was introduced, one of the history profs was presented to talk about something. . . I couldn't figure out quite what. . . and I turned to my friend and asked, "What is this?"  "I don't know," she said.  "I thought Karen was going to speak."

But she wasn't.  And after listening to this tenth rate Woody Allen tell some personal tale of his relationship with books, I made my way onto the veranda for another drink.  The prettiest of the interns kept turning over her shoulder in my direction. 

Finally the crowd applauded and my friends came outside.  And then I found myself sitting next the Karen Russell.  Of course I had proclaimed to everyone that day that when she met me, she would love me.  I am used to that.  It is true.  And even though she was not as cute as the picture on the poster, she was still compelling, and so I sat and listened to her tell a story to a small group of girls waiting for her to come to me with bright eyes and a hopeful smile.  And it would have happened, too, I am dead certain, but by now my friend was tipsy if not a little drunk, and even when she isn't, she is a bit brash, and suddenly and awkwardly she was introducing herself to the author in a too-familiar way, and THEN to my CHAGRIN, she was introducing the pretty author to me.  There was nothing to do at that point but smile a slightly embarrassed smile. 

"Hello," she said. 

There was a brief moment of. . . .

"Hello," I replied. 

And then my friend began to talk again and the thing was done.  I drifted away.  I did not look back. 

This tale is taking too long in the telling this morning, and I must get to work real soon.  The factory.  It is killing me, making me fat and gap-toothed and slack-jawed.  I haven't energy to care about much any longer.  My clothes are awful, the light in my eye too dim.  I am surrounded by jacketed writers and even a Poet Laureate.  How can I have let this thing happen to me?  Why? 

But this morning, it is not about the writer that I am thinking but the young intern who kept looking over her shoulder in my direction.  What was it she was looking at, I keep wondering.  What was it that she saw?