Christmas Eve, 1989, I had dinner with John Updike. I was invited when someone canceled at the last minute. To me it was the chance of a lifetime. I'd taught his stories and poems forever in my English classes.
When I was in graduate school, I'd lived in the same town as Updike. He had movie star status, but I never saw him. I worked in a restaurant where he drank a Heineken once at the bar and the bartender got his autograph for me: ”For Diane who waitresses and teaches all at once -- John Updike.” And one night when I wasn't working he came in for dinner and the manager saved me the carbon from his American Express. I could see his signature if I held it up to a light.
Introductions in the living room were awkward. I talked about the custom of Christmas trees being strange--something I'd never thought before--while standing next to an exceptionally beautiful one. It was an odd thing to say and people noticed.
In the dining room, when I found my place card to the right of Updike's at the head of the table, I was thrilled. I wanted desperately to impress him and now, seated so close, I had another chance.
I said to myself, here you are, here you are, having dinner with a writer who's in the Canon with Shakespeare, Joyce, Twain, Woolf, Dickens, writers whose work English teachers devote their whole lives to teaching. It might as well have been Geoffrey Chaucer sitting next to me and I guess that's what I was thinking because I blurted out, “You've been alive and well in my classroom for years!” I have no idea what I meant.
He looked troubled by the thought. I was mortified.
The rest of the dinner I couldn't talk or eat. I thought about saying something about the napkin but it seemed dumb, and I wasn't sure he'd be too happy about that carbon. I pushed spaghetti around on my plate while everyone waited for me to finish. I remember nodding yes whenever Updike asked if I'd like more wine. I'm sure he felt relieved when the evening ended.
As the holidays passed, I tried to describe the event to my friends. “It's like I met Elvis,” I told them.
At the time, I taught freshman comp at a college in Vermont. After Christmas break, I sat at my table in the corner of a tenured Professor's office and the Professor, who had liked me okay first semester I think, asked which Updike story I was using.
“A&P,” I said and couldn't resist adding, “I had dinner with John Updike. On Christmas Eve.”
“Oh,” he said. Disappointment crossed his face.
He thought I was lying. John Updike? Christmas Eve? Right.
The Professor never mentioned it again and I was transferred to another campus after that semester. “Declining enrollment,” they claimed. But I don't know what the big deal was. It's not like I said I'd been charming.
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This is, unfortunately, a true story. Published in Opium.
I cringed with you all the way thru this, but love your graceful ending. I had a similar experience decades ago sitting in a booth, alone, across from Norman Cousins. (I just now winced from the memory). *
Sorry to make you wince. I think Norman Cousins would be even worse. And alone, no dilution? Oh dear.
Thanks for reading.
I had met him at the airport restaurant for an exclusive interview. Cub reporter meeting literary giant. We sat mostly in silence, nibbling baked beans and sipping stale coffee. I think my face is turning red at this very moment...
So funny. Sorry, but it is. Exclusive interview with Norman Cousins? How does one prepare for THAT?
Laughing - I love the awkwardness, so real and such fun to read.
Hehe. You should check out this poem http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2006/12/17
Sounds too true. Sad what envy and disbelief, combined, can do.
Thank you Paula. So glad you laughed.
Thank you, Samuel Derrick Rosen. The Louis Simpson poem is beautiful. Man, how big was Chekhov's heart?
Thank you Gary. Yes, hard to win with those two combined.
Most probably bigger than Updike's.
Well done, and, hey, look at the terrific story you got out of this one experience.
Thank you, Darryl. What a nice way to look at my experience and all experience really. Stories, stories everywhere!
You're too hard on yourself. Updike probably saw you as a charming dinner companion.
Thanks for sharing this!
*
Thank you for reading Bill. And thanks for your nice comment.
I like the not-so-gentle arc of this, and the "inevitability" of the ending.*
What Gary P. said. **
Thank you, Gary and Rachna K. Thanks for reading and for commenting.
Oh dear. Fav.
Funny, lovely piece--you've inspired me to write about my long-ago 1st. meeting-sit-next-to-at-dinner w/ Wm Stafford. Thanks!
Thank you Dulce Maria Menendez!
Thank you Ed. Hope you post the story on Fictionaut because I want to read it!
This is terrific, catching nuance upon nuance of embarrassment; how susceptible we are to the aura of celebrity and ensuing near paralysis. True or not, it seems true to the bone.
delightfully awkward
and one good updike story deserves another, so:
http://brevitymag.com/nonfiction/a-letter-to-updike/
What a perfect vignette! This could have been such a cliche, and yet you instill the experience with such original perspective, and humor too. It reads like fresh water. Wonderful.
Thank you, Philip! Much appreciated.
*
It's difficult to be cool and witty in the presence of greatness. Even if you think yourself witty, later in life you realize you were an ingenue fool. You captured it all. Good writing. *
Thank you Daniel. So nice of you.
Wonderful and wry.
Thank you James Lloyd.
Thank you, Mystery Reader!
Pushing spaghetti - no, no, no, no...dead give-a-way. You might as well have just spelled the word "nervous" in pasta script for all to see.
Certainly a gripping tale, and you know what? You survived it!
Hmmm, I wonder though - what DID you want to say about the napkin?
That's a great question.