Q: A Love Story

“Which was his favorite?” he asks.

“The brat,” I say.

“I have never had a brat.”

“That is too bad.”

“Is it like the knock?”

“No, it is much better.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It is nevertheless true,” I say. “It is the best of the wursts.”

The Fantasia for Clavichord in C Minor begins playing in the background, signaling the end of the interview. “I am afraid we are out of time,” says the host. “Is this not always the case? Just as things are getting interesting, time runs out.”

“It is always so,” I say, whereupon I am ushered out of the studio to the music of C. P. E. Bach.

The following morning my book is reviewed in the New York Times. To be fair, it is not a review per se. Rather, it is an oblique reference to my novel in a less than favorable discourse on the new Stephen King novel. Specifically, the critic writes, “The new King is frivolous claptrap, utterly predictable, surprising only for its persistent tediousness and the suddenness with which the author’s once discerning ear for a story has, as if touched by Medusa herself, turned to stone. The novel’s feeble effort at extrapolating from a counterhistorical premise as a means of commenting on modern society compares favorably only with the other drivel of this sort—I dare not call it a genre lest it encourage anyone to waste more time on such endeavors—including the profoundly inept Time’s Broken Arrow, surely one of the worst novels of the year.”

My publicist calls around nine o’clock and merrily inquires whether I have seen the mention in the morning’s paper. I say that I have.

“It’s a coup of a placement,” she says. “Do you know how difficult it is for a first-time novelist to get a mention in the Times?”

“A coup? She called my book one of the worst novels of the year. It isn’t even a review of my book. It’s just a gratuitous slight. It’s actually the worst review I have ever read, and she says my book is even worse still.”

“Don’t be such a Gloomy Gus,” says the perky publicist before she hangs up. “You know, any publicity is good publicity.”

I wonder 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 to hear you speaking.”

“You have never heard someone with a nasal voice?”

“No, we are surprised to hear you speaking at all.”

“It is a reading after all.”

“We came to hear Marcel Marceau read from Bip in a Book. You are not he.”

An official from the Y standing in the back hears the exchange. She explains that the rare video of one of the few readings Marceau gave before his death is being shown in the next room. Slowly, the old ladies file out. One woman remains to whom I ascribe the noblest and most empathic virtues of humanity. No doubt she too has stumbled into the wrong room. But she recognizes how vulnerable a writer makes himself when he puts his work out to the world. Even if this reading was not her first choice, as an act of basic human dignity, she perceives a duty to stay. I, in turn, am grateful for her and read with even more zeal than before.

I become apprehensive, however, when she fails to perk up at Harrison’s mention of reviving the Bank of the United States, and downright suspicious when she does not so much as chuckle at Martin Van Buren’s snoring during the second hour of the inaugural. I take a close look at her and conclude that she is either asleep or, as appears to be the case upon further reflection, dead.

Hastily, I finish the chapter and head for the door.

I want to make a quick exit from the Y and the yet-to-be-discovered corpse, but I also need to pee and I decide to make a stop at the bathroom. Here I meet Steve Martin, who is having a pee of his own at the adjacent urinal. It is a coincidence, but the sort of chance encounter that happens more often when one travels in the circle of celebrities.

Martin will be performing banjo at the end of the week, as part of a bluegrass festival at the Y, and he is here for a rehearsal. His banjo case is on the ground between his feet.

I fumble a bit as I get started. It’s the new slacks.

“Usually I wear pleated pants,” I explain to Martin, “but my girlfriend bought me flat fronts for this occasion.” He does not look up. “She couldn’t be here today,” I explain further. “She is at the Northeast Organic Farming Association annual convention in Hartford.”

“I see,” says Martin.

“I have just finished reading from my novel. Perhaps you have heard of it? It is called Time’s Broken Arrow.”

Martin shakes his head.

“I was very much influenced by Picasso at the Lapin Agile,” I say. “I think you are right that all great works, whether of art or scientific genius, are of equal merit and share the same mysterious origin. I just love the scene where Picasso’s art dealer asks the waitress whether Pablo has been to the bar and Germaine says, ‘Not yet,’ as if she knows what is going to happen in the future. I bet you get that all the time.”

“More often people prefer scenes involving the main characters.” Martin does not look up as he says this. He is concentrating.

“I also love the way you make time fungible and everything arbitrary. When Einstein shows up at the wrong bar and explains there’s just as much chance of his date wandering into the Lapin Agile as at the place they made up to meet because she thinks as he does, it’s just hilarious. It’s a brilliant play. I bet you get that all the time, too.”

“More often people prefer the movies,” he says.

“I enjoy your movies, too. My favorite is The Jerk, before you got all serious with The Spanish Prisoner and Shopgirl. I love the scene where Navin Johnson sees himself in the phone book and is so excited to see his name in print. I like Mamet as much as the next guy, but that’s just classic.”

“That seems a bit incongruous.”

It’s true. It is. I hadn’t thought about it before. I watch as he fixes himself.

“I had broccoli for lunch,” he says.

I tell this story the next day to Charlie Rose on the air and he is delighted. More accurately I perceive that he is delighted. In fact he has fallen asleep and, by coincidence, stirred during my telling of the Steve Martin story. I mistake this for delight.

Following my successful appearance on Charlie Rose, I am invited to speak at the Gramercy Park Great Books and Carrot Cake Society. The director sends me a historical pamphlet, from which I learn that the club has paid host to many of the great writers and thinkers of the day, including Henry Miller, Gertrude Stein, S. J. Perelman, the Kinseys, and a young Norman Mailer. Reading between the lines, it appears the society was, in its day, a den of iniquity.

I have high expectations for the evening, and am further buoyed when Q accepts my invitation to come along. At the appointed time, we are greeted at the door to number 7A, 32 Gramercy Park South, by the director of the society, Shmuley Garbus, who ushers us inside the apartment. It smells of matzo brie and Bengay. The average age in the group is eighty-seven. Three of the seven remaining members of the society are on artificial oxygen. None are ambulatory. When I finally perform my piece, it becomes the second time in a week that people fall asleep at my readings. In my defense, four of the seven people here are asleep before I begin. Happily, no one expires.

The carrot cake is surprisingly disappointing. Garbus, a spry eighty-three, explains that Rose Lipschutz used to bake for the meetings, but she got the gout, and then, sadly, the shingles. So they use frozen cake now.

Frozen carrot cake can be quite good. Sara Lee’s product, from its distinguished line of premium layer cakes, is particularly delicious, with a moist cream cheese frosting that tastes as fresh and rich as anything produced in a bakery. And it is reasonable too, only $3.99 for the twelve-ounce cake, or $5.99 for the super-sized twenty-four-ounce cake, which serves between eight and twelve guests.

But this isn’t Sara Lee. It is from the A&P, which is problematic since there has not been an A&P in Manhattan in more than twenty years.

“Wow,” I say to Garbus. “A&P carrot cake. I haven’t seen the A&P in ages.”

“This is all Rose’s doing,” Garbus explains. “They had a sale down at the A&P on Lexington Avenue, and Rose, who was so devoted to the society that she wanted it to go on forever, went to the supermarket specifically with us in mind and stocked up.”

“When was that?” asks Q.

“Nineteen eighty-seven,” he says.

The future of the carrot cake is assured, at least for the short term. At the end of the evening, I see Garbus wrap in aluminum foil the uneaten part of the carrot cake, which is the bulk of it, since many of the members are lactose intolerant. He places the remainder back in the freezer.

On Garbus’s plastic-covered sofa, as Q and I finish our tea, we are approached by Helen Rosenberg, of the publishing Rosenbergs, who once famously put out a collection of Albert Shanker’s pencil sketches. The teachers’ union gave my father a copy for his retirement.

“I couldn’t help but notice how much in love the two of you are.”

Q and I smile and squeeze one another’s hands.

“You must be proud of him.”

“I am,” says Q.

Mischievously, Helen asks me, “When are you going to put a ring on that beautiful finger of hers?”

“As if she would ever have me,” I say playfully, but the truth is, the ring has been ordered, and I have a grand plan for how to propose.

“If you need a jeweler, I recommend my daughter,” Helen says, handing me a business card. It amazes me that a jeweler has a business card, though I don’t know why one shouldn’t. I have more legitimate cause to be further amazed that the card belongs to the same person who sold me Q’s engagement ring just two weeks earlier.

It is the sort of thing that brings home to one the interconnectedness of life, and I am in these months of semi-fame more sensitive to these linkages than ever. I am contacted by all kinds of people and have all sorts of random meetings, as my universe becomes bigger than it has ever been before.

I eagerly anticipate the tiny and large surprises that each morning brings. And the days never disappoint, in particular the one on which I receive a note asking me to arrange a table for dinner the following evening at Jean-Georges.

Of all the remarkable chance encounters, this is the most remarkable and exciting of all, because I can tell from the unmistakable handwriting that this note is from, of all people, myself.

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