March 30, 2011
It was a cool day. Minnesotans were rooting for spring, while winter refused to concede. The snow that remained looked more like the ashes from the cigarettes of the smokers that lined Hennepin Avenue rather than the fresh white fluff that beautified the deadness of the season. As I entered the library, I saw the line of people at the top of the escalator. I thought it was short, but it was a line nonetheless, so I called my friend and told her I would get in line and save her and her friend a spot instead of meeting outside the library as we had planned. When I got to the top of the elevator I saw the line snaked across the hallway and was deep; I was thankful I decided to hold the spots. It was 6:00 pm and the reading didn’t start till 7:00. I was amazed at the variety of people in the line. Mostly they were older than me.
The emperor of the line sat in a chair outside of the auditorium in a silver suit topped with a red bowtie. He was short and rotund, seemed to perspire from the roots of his thinning hair. A white beard cupped his cherry cheeks and his arms hugged a tattered copy of an obviously loved book. In front of me, two women decided who should leave their spot to retrieve cookies from the table outside the auditorium. I dared not leave the line, but I was not tempted by cookies. I had stayed downtown after work, ate leftover Chipotle from my lunch, and then attempted to work out. Running after eating half of a football sized burrito is not a pleasant experience.
Finally the doors opened and the line crept like an inch worm across a sidewalk on a sunny afternoon. My friends were still not here, I hoped they would arrive soon. As I slid along the wall I wall flowing with the people eager to see the famed author, I toted my heavy bag full of notebooks, books, and the sweatless gym clothes. I topped off the bag with my winter coat and scarf as it was too warm in the line. Ten people before I was about to enter into the auditorium my friends floated off the elevator and I waved them over.
The next hour rolled by as the staff packed people into sits and extinguished any seats that were saved for a friend. The excess audience members (those who, unfortunately, were too late) were redirected to other rooms where they could watch the reading being broadcast on televisions for their viewing pleasure. At that moment, I felt even luckier to have been there early enough to get us all a spot in line.
When Joyce Carol Oates walked across the stage, I discovered it hard to breathe. I was in the presence of an amazing writer. I have not read much of her work, but the handful of books I have read have moved her up to my favorite author shelf. There aren’t many.
After her reading was the question and answer portion of the presentation. It drug on and on. Everyone said the same thing, over and over again. “You are my favorite author.” “Let me start out by saying you are my favorite author.” “You are amazing.” It did not seem that anyone had anything to say other than asinine remarks which ruined the magic of it all.
As I got in line to await her signature, I clutched the new purchase in my hands. Seeing her at the table, over the crowd of bobbing heads was exciting. Closer and closer we crept. Luckily, we weren’t at the back of the line. We were maybe 30 people deep. When it came time to have her autograph the two friends I was with introduced themselves as recent MFA graduates. Maybe they said something profound or mentioned a favorite book of hers. I don’t remember. (I started to write this blog the day after I met her, but as you will see by the posting, it has been continued so my memories are not the freshest). What I said, to Joyce Carol Oates, was in reference to remark she made during her speech. It was actually more of a request than a statement.
In her discussion she mentioned her cats a few times. She jokingly said, if you want to see a picture of her, I have them on my iPhone. I am pretty sure when I cracked open the book for the first time and slid it across the desk to her I had one of those stupid looks on my face. Much the same, I am guessing, as the people who proclaimed their love for her earlier at the Q & A. So what did I say to Joyce Carol Oates? The Joyce Carol Oates? Not the normal syrupy, sweet sucking ups of admiring readers or soon authors to be, I said to Joyce Carol Oates.
“Can I see a picture of your cat?”
