In bed his wife kisses his back, plays with him, and he says “I’m sorry, I just don’t
feel like it; imagine,
me
. But my mind’s off somewhere, thinking about how I’d feel right now if I’d won, what
I’d be doing and so on, worried about the morning and all the fuss and scurrying around
me and arrangements being made and what I’d have to wear, even. Other than for the
tux and old sports jacket and corduroy pants and single shirt and tie, I didn’t come
prepared for that,” and she says “So you’d buy, for you get a ten thousand dollar
check with the prize,” and he says “It takes me days to decide, and I could buy clothes
so early in the morning? Because they’d probably want me for some network or local
‘Today’-type show around eight or nine. But would’ve been nice, no? Winning, I mean—fooling
around with you too, of course—but also rejecting all that comes with the win, or
most. ‘Sorry, but each appearance I make takes away about two pages of my new manuscript.’
‘Sorry, but you can’t keep my fountain pen, nor will I sign the photocopy you made
of my story; it does something to the nib.’ ‘Sorry, but I truly feel I’ve been overinterviewed’—‘prodigally,
immoderately’ (I’d switch it around a bit)—‘supererogatorally, in excess of and over
and beyond and above the call of blathering and dry cleaning my clothes,’” and she
says “I can understand it. I’m a little sloshed myself from the evening’s excess.
Did you take aspirins?” and he says “Aspirins and Alka-Seltzer. I bought some packs,
knowing I’d drink and think too much, before we left yesterday. It’s probably been
on the eleven o’clock TV and radio news already and in the newspapers—at least the
articles have been written—and certainly over the news service wires. It could even
be in the
Times
edition just hitting the streets, if there’s one between the city and late editions.
I want to read about it tomorrow. I don’t, really, but I don’t want to duck around
it either. Good, I didn’t win; life will be easier and my work harder. Pond, what
a yuk. I wonder what he’s doing now. Probably entwined in a phone-off-the-hook all-time
celebratory screw with his wife, even if they haven’t done it in years, let’s say.
Sure they have, in that period of time just about everyone their age does, but this
is a special night—brain’s burning and blood’s burbling and nerve endings are especially
trembling. Or they could still be at the champagne reception at the Plaza. We could
probably still be there too, but after ten minutes of it you also had enough, didn’t
you? I never really asked. But talking elatedly with three people at once. And taking
in with characteristic modesty for such an occasion the last congrats of the judges
and AFF officials and some high-born or just gold-crusted AFF benefactors who forked
over thousands to be at this fete, and maybe even some publishing brass—almost certainly
his own—who tomorrow can go into work late. All of them, though, slobbering and sucking
all over him. It’s the new Pond dance, everyone’s doing it. Or maybe he’s being prepared
this very minute by a Sklosby publicity exec as to how to appear on TV tomorrow on
one of those early morning news-and-nothing programs or midmorning-crisis talk shows.
How to smile, how to look serious—no, he’s dour enough, so could teach them. But how
to hold back on your remarks till the interviewer has made his full range of compliments
about your book without having read it. ‘Though don’t fidget with your wrists or toupee,’”
and she says “His hair’s real—thick with not a bald spot or single gray,” and he says
“Well, to me it looked that way, all of one piece, or maybe I’m thinking of his writer’s
beard, which looked pasted on. ‘But stare straight at the camera, Lem, and try not
to move your head erratically and, for certain, don’t curse, even if the blips will
cover it—lots of people can read lips. In fact, curse, though not big curse words,
for the audience might think you’re looking down your nose at it. Oh, just be yourself,
Lem; call the moderators by their first names, let them call you what they like, though
don’t blink too much or spit. In fact, be yourself completely. Blink, belch, patronize,
boast, butt in and spit. That’s what the home folks want from a writer—the real thing.
Even have a parrot on your shoulder and come in drag.’” “Really,” she says, “go to
sleep if you’re in no mood for making love. I thought it would help relax you, I still
think it would, but maybe you can use the rest more,” and he says “It would have helped
and of course be enjoyable, but I’m just too sour to. Too full of drink too, too keyed
up. Too everything. Too eager to get back to my writing after two days. Too many aspirins
and antacids in me too. Too pissed too, with rotten anger and revenge, the too-too
creeps. I never should have gone to that stupid gala, squeezed myself into that plastic
tux and those steel shoes. But boy am I going to dish it out to them now. My own publisher
won’t even want it,” and she says “Shh, shh, sweetheart,” and kisses the back of his
head, turns over on her other side, and he turns over on his side to face the back
of her, fixes the covers on them, moves up to her, and they start making love.
Way it didn’t happen. Chairperson says “… is Robert Bermmeister for his novel
Scorch
, published by…” “I can’t believe it,” he says to his wife, kissing her. “I can’t
believe it, this is impossible,” he yells to the table. The editor’s hugging the publisher.
She jumps out of her chair and runs around the table to Rob and hugs him. “Do you
believe it, do you believe it?” he says to her. “I mean, being a finalist was more
than enough, right? But this, it’s crazy, how’d we do it?” and she says “You deserved
it, silly,” and he says “Ah, those blessed judges, I could kiss them all.” The publisher’s
stretching across the table to shake his hand and can only reach his elbow and squeezes
it. “Stand, Robert, stand,” and he says “Me?” and the publisher says “Sure, you, you
have to go up there and make a speech and take your bows,” and he says “Me, a speech?
I didn’t think I’d win. This is ridiculous, I’ve never been so happy,” and he stands,
waves to the applause, yells to his wife “What do I do, what do I say?” and she says
“Whatever you want to, it’s your moment, though just be nice,” and he says “You’re
right,” kisses her, turns to the editor to kiss her and is blinded by the spotlight,
shields his eyes, a voice from the podium says “Come on up here to be officially congratulated
and to accept your statuette and check, Robert, please come up, as you’re also delaying
the entrée,” and the crowd laughs, and two young women, probably AFF workers, take
his arms, one says “Follow us, sir,” and they escort him around the tables to the
stage, people seated and standing pat his back, arms, someone musses his hair, and
he looks at the guy and doesn’t know him but smiles at him, grab his hands as he passes,
say “Wonderful,” “Congratulations,” “Bravo, Robert,” “Glad you got it, terrific book,”
he turns to some of them and recognizes no one, keeps smiling, is near to crying,
reaches the stage, woman holding his right arm says “There are four steps altogether,
Mr. Bermmeister, and they’re awfully steep, so be careful,” and he says “Thanks, got
a cane? Only kidding, thanks very much,” and they let go of him, and he walks up the
steps and over to the podium, shakes the chairperson’s extended hand, hand of the
president of AFF, two other people’s, all four say “Congratulations, Robert,” the
president gives him the statuette and check and says “When they’re done applauding,
please say something,” and Rob steps up to the mike, looks out, bows, waves, too many
lights, wants to see his wife but can’t make her out, glasses are wet, dries them
with a handkerchief, they’re stained now and even worse to see out of than before,
breathes hard on the lenses and then rubs them on his jacket sleeve, applause is dying
down, looks up, smiles, puts the check away, takes the paper with notes out of his
pocket and holds it below the podium and reads it, nothing he can use and has to remember
to call Ned sometime in the next hour, what’s he going to say now? Just thanks to
everyone and get off of here, looks up, sees his wife, and she waves at him, he blows
a kiss to her, “That’s my wife I did that to, I want you to understand,” people laugh,
then the room’s quiet except for some buzzing, flash bulbs, cameras clicking, ice
in glasses tinkling, everyone’s seated, and he says “Thank you. Really, thanks. Everyone.
I can’t believe this,” holding up the statuette and patting the jacket pocket with
the check, then realizes they wouldn’t know what that means. “I mean, I’m beginning
to but it’s still hard. That’s what I yelled when I first heard”—can’t come up with
her name—“the chairperson say my book won; how it couldn’t be possible. I thought
anyone else but me. They were all so deserving. Each of the other four finalists deserved
it and, in my mind, more so than I. It’s true; it’s what I thought. You can ask my
wife; she’s honest to the core and wouldn’t lie about this for me. So this is all
so maddeningly surprising, really. Not maddeningly; it’s just crazy, crazily surprising
and silencing, beyond words. I didn’t, as you see, prepare a speech because I didn’t
expect to win, honestly. In fact, if any of you saw me peeking at a piece of paper
below the podium before, it was my losing speech if anyone was going to ask me for
one. It’s the truth, or sort of. I prepared it for the book review editor of the
Boston Globe
who wanted me to call, win, lose or draw, or if somehow the foundation had made a
mistake by listing me as one of the finalists. I won’t read it now, self-ridiculingly
funny as it might possibly be, because it’d be too absurd to,” and someone shouts
“Go, read it,” and he says “No, thanks but no, I’d rather fail at extemporization
than at preparedness,” and some people laugh and applaud. “Does that mean I’m through
or should be? Anyway, before I go let me just give my thanks. I know I’m only supposed
to have five minutes to speak, and I’ve already blown a couple of them. So my deepest
thanks to my wife, my kids, my mother for her encouragement, my father, may he rest
in peace, for giving me the necessary discouragement I think every writer needs to
keep him going with his work, and also a sense of humor and lots of stories. My mother
again for encouraging me to read, for knowing all the words when I didn’t, and during
my early writing years and later ones too—I just didn’t want to give my dad more praise
than her, in what I said before—for never giving up on me, always encouraging. And
the publisher, of course, Lawrence Terngull, and my editor, Sissie Lassner—please,
she should take a bow. Without her I doubt the book would have been published and
she even designed the cover and did the layout and everything like that. She’s at
my table; please, if you could get the light on her,” and a spotlight finds the table,
there’s applause, she stands, waves, blows a kiss to him with both hands. “And Jeffrey
Baker for loaning me his tux, Pic ’N Pay, or is it Pick and Pay? for having black
dress shoes for twelve bucks, which I’ll probably only wear this one time in my life.
And finally the, well, my wife Jane again, though I could never say enough about her,
all of it nice. And I said the publisher, but for backing this agentless worstselling
author and especially in so large and expensive a book to produce. And the typesetters
or printers or whatever they are and also the copyreader and proofreader for having
to deal with those endless paragraphs and oddly constructed sentences and intentional
misspellings and such. And finally the judges, the foundation, all of you for coming
here, and the manual typewriter, erasable paper and pencil eraser, and Mr. Cavalieri,
the one person in Boston who’s still able to fix my aging typewriter and find the
parts. Thank you, I’m so happy I can’t tell you how much,” and steps back from the
podium, is applauded, shakes hands with the four people on stage, “Very nice,” “Very
natural,” “A shot in the arm to all of us,” “Congratulations again, Robert,” leaves.
As he’s going down the steps he thinks why didn’t he can all that thanks crap and
mention that writer who’s in hiding because of the Iranian death threat he’s under
for his book? Just to say “Don’t forget, besides the monstrous horror against him,
it’s also an abomination against all culture and civilization, we should do something
about it, all we can, keep writing and speaking out and using whatever power we have
and getting literary and all those kinds of organizations here to do the same thing
against it and in every way possible pressure our government to do something, like
a complete trade embargo and economic sanctions against Iran, if they’re not the same
thing, and other people and organizations of other countries to pressure their governments
and labor unions and such and pressure the UN also till the sentence is lifted and
the guy can do what the hell he wants with his life, like walk along the street again
with his kid without thinking he’s going to get stabbed or shot and the kid too,”
is escorted by the same young women to his table, back patted, slapped, arms squeezed,
“Damn,” he thinks, “that’s what I should have said, plus a few quick start-off thanks,
instead of rattling on so foolishly and self-depreciatively, what a chance, what a
dud,” hands grabbed and shaked till one time he almost drops the statuette, good,
who needs the stupid ugly thing, and where’s he going to put it anyway except in some
out-of-the-way storage place so he can never see it again? Someone pops up in front
of him, blocking his way, and says “Mind signing your book, Mr. Bermmeister? It’ll
take a second,” and holds out the book and a pen and he says “You bet, and thanks
for buying it,” and the man says “You’re welcome—actually, I didn’t buy it, it was
a book trade between your house and mine—we fielded one of the other finalists, Buckley’s
Ye Who Enter Here,”
and he says “Looks like my house got the best of the deal, since that was some book,”
and the man says “I’m not taking sides in this,” and Rob signs his name and then says
“Oops, I forgot to ask to whom,” and the man says “Sally, and the date if you don’t
mind—November 28th,” and he writes above his name “To Sally, via the fella who gave
me the book to sign for you, best and thanx,” and puts the date after his name and
someone says “What’re you doing, Robert, writing a short story?” and he says “Just
an appreciative inscription—I at first thought he bought this too-expensive book—I’m
only kidding,” he says to the man and hands him the book back, gets to his table.
“I hope he wasn’t offended,” he thinks. Spotlight’s on the table, people crowded around,
most of them reporters and photographers, judging by their equipment and clothes.
“So how do you feel, Mr. Bermmeister?” one asks, and he says “Feel? Just great, what
do you think? Great. Totally unexpected, winning it. What a bunch of writers to beat
out. I mean, they’re not really beat out. Their books are there to be read and revered—
reveered
, how do you say the bloody word?—for a long time, and it might take them a little
longer, maybe because they’re more complex, before they surpass my book’s recognition.
But my head’s still swimming from the surprise and excitement of the announcement,
so if you don’t mind, nothing more than what I said up there till my head’s cleared.”
He sits. “Oh boy,” he says low to his wife, taking her hand and kissing it, cameras
click, “this is too much—am I sure my fly’s zipped up, I don’t have drool on my lips?—I
need a drink,” and she hands him his glass, “I don’t know why I didn’t think I could
get it myself,” and she says while he’s drinking “Go easy for now, and listen, get
used to this, and tonight’s attention will probably be the worst,” main course is
on all the surrounding tables and is now put before them, he’s hungry and picks up
his knife and fork when a reporter asks “What do you think of the food, Robert—taste
any better now that you’ve won?” and he says “Food? Who can eat? And again, I’m so
nervous and excited I’m afraid it’ll go in my lap, ruining Jeffrey Baker’s new tux
and costing me a fortune to clean it or replace. He’s a writer, by the way, who lives
down the street from me,” and a woman says “Mr. Bermmeister, sorry to interrupt your
meal, though the kitchen will keep your plate warm—and all you newspeople if you wish—would
you come to the Louis the Fourteenth room for a brief press conference?” and he says
“Sure thing, I guess,” stands, whispers to his wife “Where you think the losers go,
the Sixteenth?” kisses her, then whispers “It is Louis Seize who got his head chopped
off, in case I gotta make a joke, right?” and she nods, he follows the woman, in the
corridor outside the ballroom he sees Pond from a distance and shouts “Pond, Lemuel,
hi, it’s me, I’m sorry, and I meant every word I said about you up there—you know—the
rest of you and especially you,” reporters take this down, he says to the one closest
“Oh Christ, look at me, how does anyone like me win such an award? I can’t even speak,”
and Pond waves without smiling, it seems, though he can’t really tell because of his
big beard, and goes into, he sees when the door opens, the men’s room. “Doesn’t look
happy, I don’t think,” he says to the AFF woman. “Well, why would he be? I doubt I
would be too.” Goes into the Louis Quatorze room. TV lights go on when they enter.
Two cameras, few microphones on a lectern, reporters, maybe twenty of them, and the
AFF woman points to where he’s supposed to stand and says “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr.
Bermmeister,” and he says “Heilo, thanks for being here, I hope I haven’t disturbed
your meal. Well, I’m ready for whatever from you, not that anything I say here will
be the last word, meaning, that I really, in all this excitement again, haven’t the
wherewithal—not that, but the intelligence, the thinking cap—
on
, you know—to convey any articulate statements and sentiments about anything but my
painfully tight shoes and borrowed tux, but shoot. Not literally, but go ahead, I’m
ready, and sorry for my silly jokes—feeble tries at them, rather,” and a woman says
“We understand, Robert, and we’ll do our best to refine what you say if it doesn’t
come out well. You’re still a bit overexcited, no excuses needed—so be as informal
and as much yourself as you want,” and he says “Though what I said before wasn’t recorded,
was it? Because if it was—,” and she says “Don’t worry. If it’s on tape it won’t be
used and will be erased or destroyed—that’s not what we’re interested in,” and he
says “So what are you then? I mean—,” and she says “Basically, from my standpoint,
sir, in an abridged version of the acceptance speech you made, since we only have
so much air time for the story, and some of us were setting up here and didn’t get
it for radio or TV. And then some elaboration, if you will, and perhaps even in-depth
exploration to things pertaining to your writing and the award that the other reporters
might ask you and maybe even me too, okay? Okay, let’s start, for I’d love to get
it on the eleven o’clock, and I think some of the print people have deadlines of their
own,” and there’s a pause, “Face the camera please, sir,” and he does and she makes
some hand signals to the camera crew, then says “Mr. Bermmeister, well, how do you
feel about winning the award?” and he says “Just what I said in there,” pointing to
the door, “I—” and she cuts him off and says “I should have told you this, Bob. Robert?
How do you go by?” “Either.” “Well, pretend it’s the first time you’re saying it,
so no ‘just-what-I-said’s’ please or pointing, since no one watching will know what
you’re pointing at,” and he says “Make everything seem as if it only just happened,
which it almost just did, but I got it. All right. I’m shocked, surprised—” and she
says “Wait’ll I ask the question, Bob. Now,” hand signals to the crew, “Mr. Bermmeister,
how do you feel about winning it?” and he says “Surprised, shocked, very surprised,
almost incredibly so. Totally unexpected, and excited. It was unexpected, and I’m
excited because for me it was so unexpected, to the point where I was made speechless.
No, that’s not exactly so. Moment it happened I yelled out ‘It can’t be,’ or something
like that. ‘Impossible. This is. Wake me up.’ My wife would remember the exact words.
To tell you the truth, and I know I’m going on too much with this, it was more than
enough, although perhaps not to my publisher, though he was quite ecstatic enough,
though who wouldn’t be and particularly when your company’s that small and new and
never had a major success, though we both thought that as long as I was nominated
and it was going to somebody…oh, where was I? Lost my train of thought. You’ll have
to edit and splice, whatever the term is, to make sense of this or just do it over.
For I was saying something about how being a finalist was more than enough for my
publisher and me, though as long as—” and she says “Let me ask you this, and we’re
still running. Why are you so shocked and surprised, as you said? After all the acclaim
your book’s received so far, you don’t believe it deserves the award?” and he says
“What acclaim? There was the nomination, of course, but almost no reviews, though
okay, it’s only been out a month. Four, to date, and only one from a prepublication
review service, so five altogether. We thought the nomination would generate more,
though maybe that’s what got us the four newspaper reviews. And of those, only two—possibly
three, if I stretch the praise a little on that one and sidestep what can be construed
as complaints—were good, but certainly not smashingly so. But you know, but you wouldn’t,
but it’s almost always been like that, minus the nomination and award and two or three
reviews, for all my books when they were published. Day of publication with those
it was as if the publisher just dropped the book off the George Washington Bridge
and you watched it sink. But if there was a passing barge or boat below—the rare chance
of that happening, is what I mean, though which must’ve in this case—and it hit someone
on the head, then maybe there’d be some attention given to it, like a feature news
piece with the lead ‘Book Beans Boatman,’ or something. So what I’m saying is that
other than for the nomination and now the award, and maybe the one fairly good review
it got in my city and leap-from-nowhere articles that same paper gave me—but something
like that’s almost