Don't Sleep With A Bubba: Unless Your Eggs Are In Wheelchairs. Susan Reinhardt

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СКАЧАТЬ not the sort of journalist who’s going to ask you those kinds of questions,” I said.

      He nodded and produced a “Mercy, what-did-my-publicist-get-me-into?” smile.

      Instead, I asked about his wrinkled shirt. Turns out his plane arrived, but his luggage did not. We talked about his clothes, and I said to the most famous writer I’d ever met, “Why don’t you go to the Goodwill and pick something up? I could drive you there. I bought a great Kate Spade with only a small flaw on the handle, kind of looked like a rat or dog had maybe chewed.”

      More of that look. He sort of cocked his head. Ah, he’s cute. So small and fine-boned and adorable. I wanted to take him home and have him bronzed like a pair of baby shoes. Or maybe set him on the shelf. Or maybe just have him sign a few books I could set on the shelf.

      “I love the Goodwill,” I said. “Do you?”

      Shit. I just asked David Freakin’ Sedaris if he loved the Goodwill. I’m so fired. My career is over.

      “I’ve been to the Goodwill before,” he said and I knew then we were meant to be. If only it wasn’t for that minor problem of me being married. And him being gay.

      It’s not like he was a snob. Lots of stories in his books talk about him working rather gross jobs including cleaning apartments in New York’s rich section for a living.

      “I won’t buy pants there, though,” he said, blowing curls of his Kool into the air.

      “Really? Why not?” Oh, good, our conversation was finally off to a start.

      He sucked his cig. “The last time I did, I got the crabs.”

      Saints alive, David Sedaris is talking about a sexually transmitted disease! This was going to be a great interview after all. “Oh, I got those one time, too,” I said, wishing the hell I hadn’t. “I was dating this gorgeous man, cute, even with a horse-shaped head and horsy teeth, and he passed them along claiming he picked them up off a workout bench at the Y. I know he cheated.”

      David seemed entranced and even leaned forward, closer to my face. I decided to divulge more. “I got rid of mine easily, since I couldn’t find but two, but he was such a wooly booger he had to shave himself. Then guess what happened?”

      “I can’t imagine,” David said.

      “When all that fur grew back, the crabs—I call them crotch crickets—well, they came back, too. Do you know what he ended up doing?”

      “I can’t imagine,” David said again, and I could tell he was bemused and enchanted and this subject was far more interesting than some fancy New York Times reporter picking and analyzing his brain.

      “See, he was just planning on scaring them with his Bic lighter, but instead, he caught his whole pubic area on fire and had to go to the emergency room. His region blew up like that because he’d put Polo cologne down there for some odd reason and it sort of didn’t mix with the Bic’s flame.”

      Why am I saying this shit?

      By now we had decided the dulcimers were too loud and moved to one of the long corridors of the inn. We faced the inner courtyard. Here, it was quiet. No music to compete with. No smoke. Nothing but sheets of rain and a wrinkled and stubbled famous author biding his time with a little-known reporter and doing so with grace. He didn’t glance at his watch but once.

      As we talked, his sister Lisa appeared and politely interrupted. She had a list of spa treatments she presented to her famous brother.

      “There’s the custom-blend facial or a hand-and-foot massage,” she said. She also suggested he might enjoy the gentleman’s wax, a paraffin for the hands and feet.

      “You know I hate being touched,” he said, drawing in his arms and getting twitchety about the face.

      I thought about how I’d wanted to hug him. “I’m glad I didn’t hug you,” I said, and he agreed it wouldn’t have been a good idea. “Southern women like to hug, you know?”

      He pulled his arms in like a kangaroo’s and smirked, that trademark grin, a smile without teeth.

      He decided against the spa and planned to get to his Malaprop’s gig two hours early. He knew the crowds would be thick; his performances sell out and the multitudes would run into the hundreds and thousands. That’s a lot of books to sign. And he’ll stay hours—sometimes until early morning—until every book is autographed. He’s that nice of a guy, and I was surprised he was so low-key and quiet one-on-one, as opposed to his typical effervescent audience performances.

      He even enjoys the book tours, something other authors dread but know comes with the territory. The airplane rides, the hotel stays, lack of sleep, countless media interviews—it’s exhausting, yet Sedaris seems to thrive on the pace.

      Typically, he converses with everyone who has come to see him, and has something witty to say or write in their books. The only thing that seems to irk him is the age-old question that haunts most humor writers—“Is this stuff for real? How much is exaggerated?”

      That’s like asking David Copperfield to reveal the secrets to his disappearing acts. He won’t do it. Another drawback to fame and writing about his family is that Sedaris had no idea people would decide they knew them personally. It never occurred to him, either, that he’d become so popular—gaining in notoriety and building a bigger following with each book.

      The fame has rather stunned him. He figured people know him through his National Public Radio readings, but recently, in Toronto, where there’s no NPR, six hundred fans showed up at a bookstore.

      By this point in our interview I’d given up talking about the Goodwill and fiery pubic mounds and asked him to reveal the secrets of his successful book signings.

      “I had only eleven people come to mine in Charlotte,” I said, “and nine were relatives.”

      What he usually does during these touring events is read stories for twenty-five minutes. “After that I run my mouth,” he said, “and answer questions.” His new way of signing is to draw a stick of dynamite and write “TNT” within the sphere, and then “You’re Dynamite” on the book’s page.

      It was time for our interview to end and him to prepare for this evening. I shook his hand, wanting a hug, but knowing better. He accepted a copy of my book and said he looked forward to reading it. I doubted he ever would. But that’s OK.

      Later that night, amid the huge crowd bursting to get in the doors at Malaprop’s, many pressing eager faces against the outside windows hoping for but a glimpse, Sedaris worked the room as a waiter might take drink orders.

      He gets as many books signed this way as possible—to avoid dragging back to his hotel at 3 AM and keeping bookstore employees up into the wee hours.

      Because his luggage never arrived, he told the crowd he was lacking in his typical gift-bearing routine for the young people.

      “I figure they’d rather be doing drugs or having sex, so I like to give them a prize for coming to a book signing,” he said.

      And with that, he handed out dollar bills, shampoos and lotions from various hotels, and other trinkets. This is the Sedaris way of saying, “Thank you.”

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