David Sedaris - Barrel Fever and Other Stories

7:45. I ARRIVE at Malison's hotel an hour and fifteen minutes before his lecture is due to begin at the Pavilion of Thought. The desk clerk shoots me a look that suggests he might be interested in throwing his weight around. Rather than pass him, I take a seat in the lobby, pull out my journal, and light a cigarette. He gives me another look.

"My husband hates for me to smoke in the room," I say.

He says, "What?"

I say, "My husband, he hates the smoke, so I'm just going to sit here for a moment before going up to our room."

The clerk says, "Fine, whatever," and turns his attention back to a little TV set, one of those Watchmans.

I can't believe that Malison is staying here at The Chesterton. It's so ironic, so unlike Malison. It's perfect. I'd called every hotel in town asking if they had a Malison registered, but of course they didn't. We're not talking about Mr. Small Press Nobody here. Malison is MALISON, and he's got to protect his privacy. I can understand that. I can respect that. I called around again asking if anyone had a guest by the name of Smithy Smithy, the name of all the characters in Malison's second novel. All the hotel clerks said no. They said, "What the hell kind of name is that?" Really, I think Smithy Smithy would have been too obvious, so I tried again and again, thinking he might have registered under the name of one of the minor characters in Rotunda Surf. I finally found him here at The Chesterton registered under the name A. Davenport, the character who under-goes a needless colostomy inMagnetic Plugs. Malison is here in room 822.

How like Malison to use an assumed name, and especially here at The Chesterton, where he'll be rubbing elbows with every shallow middle-class clichZ you'd never want to meet, the exact type of people he exposes in his novels. How like Malison, how perfectly ironic.

8:04. I had really hoped to catch Malison before he left for the reading, but since nobody answers his door I can only assume that the department heads have him hogtied at The Crow's Nest or Andrea's Butcher Block, one of the upscale slaughter-houses this town calls a restaurant. I can see it now: the dean and his spaniels are shoveling forkfuls of red meat while poor Malison just sits there, tuning out their petty conversation and gagging at the sight of the carnage on his plate. Even the vegetables in this town are cooked in blood. I think it's pretty obvious that the English Department knows nothing about Malison. They just see him as another feather in their cap, a name they can use to attract new students. It makes me sick. They fly him in for a few days, race him around campus like a greyhound, and then bore him to death with their talk of funding cutbacks and Who's Who on campus. I've been standing outside this door for the last twenty minutes, so I think it's also very obvious that they're herding Malison straight from the restaurant to the Pavilion of Thought.

At first I was excited about tonight's reading, but now I say forget it if Malison has been rushed around by these university types all day, then I know he'll be too exhausted to express himself. I had a feeling this might happen, so I arranged for a few people to tape tonight's reading at the Pavilion. Bethany, if left to her own devices, can tend to get a little too artsy for her own good, so I got Daryll as a backup. Deep down in his middle-class heart Daryll would just love to be a cameraman for some big TV studio. He'd love to wear a jumpsuit and boss people around. While I really hate his politics, I trust his overall skill much more than I trust Bethany's. She taped last month's John Cage lecture and kept the camera aimed at his feet the entire time, and he wasn't dancing or anything!

Another reason for boycotting tonight's lecture is that I don't think I can sit back and watch while Malison wastes his time reading to an audience of a thousand kids who can't even begin to understand his work. The students began lining up outside the Pavilion hours ago. They're holding Malison's book in one hand and some bullshit economics text in the other, economics or political science or whatever it is they're really interested in. Most of them had never even heard of Malison before Rotunda Surf, but they act as though they've been reading Malison forever. I want to confront them. I want to ask them where they were when Malison was physically attacked after the release of Magnetic Plugs. Where were they when Malison needed support after the media trashed Smithy Smithy? These kids all act like they understand Malison and it makes me sick to hear their lame opinions on his work. This afternoon I overheard a girl telling her boyfriend that Malison's work mirrored the oppression inherent in Western capitalist society. She read that off the dust jacket. She doesn't know shit about Malison. She was wearing clothes that Malison would really hate. Here at the university I am surrounded by jokes like her.

My head is still spinning from the reading Malison gave in my master's writing seminar this afternoon. I'd looked forward to some one-on-one contact, but the room was packed with people who aren't even enrolled in the seminar. These kids weren't writers, they were fakes. But did the teacher ask them to leave? Did Professor Nobody tell them that this was a class for serious writers? Of course not. He masks his cowardice with this "we're all here to learn" cheeriness that really makes me sick. It was perfect then when Malison walked into the classroom. He saw all the copies of O'Flannery on our desks and he picked up my copy and said, "Who's making you read this shit?" It was so perfect. Professor Nobody just stood there pretending he hadn't heard Malison's remark. He just stood there and tucked in his shirt. He couldn't even own up to it! I think Malison hates O'Flannery for the same reasons I do, because she's a fascist, a typical bourgeois racist, a judgmental Christian right-wing parrot, and a timid writer who relies on grammar to carry her through the page. I hate O'Flannery, I really do.

Malison's reading was wonderfully assertive. He read a few sections from Rotunda Surf, parts that I had practically memorized even though the book only came out last month. He never numbers his pages, but I was with him for a good quarter-inch at the beginning of the second part. I just mouthed the words while he read. I wasn't doing it for attention; it's just a reflex action because I know his work, all of it, so well. After the reading, Professor Nobody opened the floor for questions, which was a mistake because it's always the stupidest people who ask the most questions. For example, one guy who's not even in the writing seminar raised his hand and said, "I tried reading your third novel but gave up when I realized that all of the characters were going by the name Smithy Smithy . I found it confusing; I had a real problem with it."

Oh right, he had a problem with it.

Malison was great. He just looked at this guy and said, "Well, if it's giving you trouble, then I guess I'll just have to rewrite it in simpler terms. I thought I might continue work on my new project, but if Smithy Smithy confuses you, then I guess it's back to the drawing board." Everyone laughed but you could tell that they had problems with Smithy Smithy too. I didn't laugh because I don't have any problems with it. I have no problems with Malison. Bethany raised her hand and asked Malison if he had grown up in New York City, which of course he had. It's right there in his writing, and besides, it says so on the back of all his books. Malison answered her; he just said yes, but in a bored way that acknowledged the dumbness of the question. It really was a stupid question and I laughed when she asked it. I was the only one laughing, which simply proves how well I know Malison's life. He gave me a little glance, a little smile, when I laughed. I've spent a lot of time in New York City, and I'm often asked that same question myself. I wasn't raised there, but I could have been. I'm incredibly street-smart.