Idolatry and Idiocy, part two.

After showing Tobias and Catherine Wolff to the green room,  I was practically bouncing, on clouds, back to the check-in table.

As I passed the main entrance of the Contemporary Jewish Museum, I glanced at the glass doors, which were locked (the museum’s security is on par with security measures at The White House, it seemed) and saw George Saunders and his wife waving to get my attention. I waved back and pointed them to the cafe entrance to which I ran, in heels no less, and opened the door. Mr. Saunders extended his hand and introduced himself as George, “and this is my wife, Paula!” They were so nice! You sometimes don’t expect celebrities to be all that cordial, but writers are of a different breed. I should know that I shook their hands, guided them toward the check-in table, and walked them back to the green room. Tom Barbash checked in next, with a friend who he introduced as “also a writer” and who’s name I, embarrassingly and regrettably, cannot remember. They were very nice as well, and chatty, as I guided them, yes, to the green room.

(In the middle of all the chaos, Wavy Gravy was chillin’ at a table in the cafe, drinking coffee and reading.)

The tribute commenced shortly thereafter, following me literally running around to see if the emcee, Dr. Michael Krasny, of NPR/KQED fame, had yet arrived. Thankfully he had, he just hadn’t checked in. (I heard one of the museum curators say to another, “I’ve never seen someone who could run in heels so well!” I laughed and took that as a compliment.) After the audience had taken their seats, we volunteers quietly slid in and up the stairs, sitting in the very last row of the small theatre.

The tribute lasted a little over an hour, begun with a stellar performance from Word For Word of an excerpt from one of Mr. Wolff’s stories, Down To Bone. Everyone spoke with such respect and reverence for Tobias Wolff, not only as a writer, but as a mentor and a friend and a human being, it made me want to read everything he has ever written. In fact, it made me ashamed that I had not yet read everything he’s ever written, and I’ve vowed to do so as soon as possible! But more than that, it made me feel incredibly honored to be a witness; a spectator at this beautiful award ceremony for a writer whose work has consumed my attention, and whose character, proven in the admiration of his friends and colleagues, and contribution to literature and education represents a person truly worthy of idolatry; an anomaly in today’s celebrity culture, especially in America.

Ann Packer talked about her relationship with Wolff, one that began as idolatry and evolved into a camaraderie, and about the dichotomy between the two; the respect she has for the writer Tobias Wolff and the friendship she has with Toby Wolff. The other speakers echoed this, in anecdotes about their experiences with him as a teacher, as a writer/role model and as a friend.

His political views and contributions were also recognized. Stephen Elliott praised Mr. Wolff for his contribution to the Progressive Reading Series, quoting Ann Packer in saying that Mr. Wolff is a “willing foot soldier in the war against idiocy” explaining that “many writers are appalled by the meanness of the Bush administration, but few have actually rolled up their sleeves and done something about it.” (I may be paraphrasing!) He has done readings for the Progressive Reading Series, placed phone calls to voters on election days, “Imagine getting a phone call from Tobias Wolff reminding you to vote!” Elliott exclaimed, and has worked to raise money and awareness for progressive candidates and causes.

George Saunders mentioned that, upon purchasing the house previously inhabitated by Mr. Wolff and his family, he discovered in the garage, the actual sled from Wolff’s story The Chain, (recently republished in his short story collection, Our Story Begins) pencil markings of his children’s heights at various times in their lives, and “in the basement, on a workbench, marked in red crayon in a childish scrawl: DOWN WITH THE REPUBLICANS!”

One of my favorite moments was also described by Saunders:

During the Q & A, [after a reading at Syracuse University] someone asks what Toby would do if he couldn’t be a writer.

A long, perplexed pause.

“I would be very sad,” he finally says.

The room makes a sound that means: we would too.

My new friend Jen and I milled about the museum after the ceremony, hoping for the chance to talk to him and perhaps even ask him to sign our books, but he was encircled by friends and fans and, ultimately, we lacked the courage to do so. Frozen by fear, in spite of the knowledge that he is affable and easy to approach, we finally gave up. Unfortunately, volunteers were not invited to the reception (one volunteer blew it for everyone after she was escorted out of the opening night reception for harassing the authors) so we left reluctantly.

Even though we didn’t get our books signed, I’m okay with that. And I’m okay with my status as an idolater. I feel as though I need build up a repertoire of literary accomplishments, before I can talk literature with my idol. “I’m a big fan” is all I’m worthy of saying to him at this point in my career!

Hopefully, I’ll stop feeling like a grinning idiot soon. I guess idolatry and idiocy are separated by a very fine line

Idolatry and Idiocy, part one.

I do not know where to begin. I am (almost) at a loss for words. I suppose I must begin by saying never, in my entire life, have I felt more inspired, more in tune with who I am, where I belong and why I am here, (yes, in that ever-so-existential way I can be fantastic at pondering pensively) than I do right now, at this moment, five days into volunteering for Litquake. Sitting on a BART train flooded in harsh, fluorescent lights, I feel as if I am floating; my entire being had been uplifted. I’m not exaggerating. My handwriting is shaky, erratic, unrecognizable even, because of this energy buzzing, coursing, through my body. (Even now, as I type this an hour later, I am still shaky.) I feel as if I have soaked my body in a coffee bath, my energy level so high one might say it could only be produced through osmosis, my skin absorbing gallons of the highly caffeinated liquid. (Or shooting speed perhaps, but I like the coffee reference better – it’s more innocent.) I would say that I have been in the presence of literary greatness in a way I’ve never imagined and if I have absorbed anything, I hope it is a even just a spark of what makes the literary figures to whom I’ve been an eager audience and hopeful idolater, so luminescent, so talented and so inspirational.

“I stood there quietly drowning in two rivers of happiness at the same time.” I read that in Elizabeth Gilbert’s beautiful memoir Eat, Pray, Love recently, and immediately after, set down the book and wrote the quote in my journal, and then wrote that I’d settle for one river. Or just a little creek. Hell, I’ll take a puddle! Because when going through a difficult time in your life, you hope that anything can lift you from the depth of your despair.

I have to admit that my “prayer” for a puddle has been answered and then some. I have been swimming in an ocean of happiness these past few days. And tonight, I think I finally, happily, drowned.

I arrived at the Contemporary Jewish Museum an hour earlier than the volunteer call time. I have been early for nearly every event I have worked. (Except one, only because the train I was on was moving much slower than usual for some reason.) Because of my unusual “early birdness”, I found myself sitting at a table in the museum cafe, chatting with Jane Ganahl, one of the founders of Litquake, and Ann Packer, along with Ann’s friend, also named Ann.

At first it was just Jane and me, and she casually mentioned how stressed she felt and that she had tweaked her neck somehow and couldn’t look to her right, so she had scheduled a massage for the next day. I smiled, a little timidly, and said, “Actually, I’m a massage therapist. I’d be happy to try to help you right now.” Her eyes widened and she said that that would be great. As I was performing the neck/shoulder melt on Jane, she spotted Ann Packer walk through the door and called out to her. Ann laughed as she approached us, Jane explaining the impromptu chair massage, and Ann mentioned how she had a headache. I couldn’t help myself: I said to her, “I’d be happy to show you a few pressure points that might alleviate your headache.” She smiled, sat down at our table and said, “Sure!” I finished with Jane, (who could fully move her head to the right after just a few minutes of massage!) and sat next to Ann, showing her pressure points on her hand, on the back of her neck, and just under her eyebrows. Yes, it felt a little strange to be in this situation, but hopefully I helped them both, even just a little bit. As we sat there afterward, I kept a little quiet, listening to the ladies talk about the festival. I wanted so much to say to Ann that I loved her short story collection, Mendocino and Other Stories. But I couldn’t. I think it was mostly because I felt mortified at not yet having had occasion to read her other books. The possibility that she might ask what else of hers I’d read, stopped me altogether from engaging her any further than offering a brief tutorial on one principle of Traditional Chinese Medicine. Basically, I chickened out.

So they chatted, without much interjection from a stupidly-smiling me, as the other authors began to pour into the cafe. All at once I was in the company (albeit at a safe distance of a few feet) of Tom Perrotta, Stephen Elliott, Andrew Foster Altschul, and the man of the hour himself, Tobias Wolff, along with a host of other people clearly comfortable in the crowd at which I stared, as casually as I could, in awe.

Jane and Ann joined the circle and I stayed at the table, hesitant to mingle, deciding to maintain my post at the check-in area. The crowd began to disperse, walking toward the green room to watch the presidential debate. I noticed that Tobias Wolff and who I presumed was his wife, stayed back to order food at the cafe. I glanced around the museum lobby until Jane caught my eye and said, “Melissa, will you please show them to the green room?” She gestured toward Mr. Wolff  who smiled at me. Tobias Wolff smiled at me! I thought. I smiled back and jumped up and said, “Absolutely!” and as I approached them Mr. Wolff extended his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Toby and this is my wife, Catherine.” I shook both of their hands and replied, “Hi, I’m Melissa.”

I had imagined this moment on the ride into the city, not really thinking it would actually happen. But I had imagined everything I would say to him. I would tell him that his prose is so beautiful. I’d thank him for inspiring me; for writing such amazing stories that make me smile, or make me think, make me laugh or completely shock me, because of how wonderful they are and how they inspire me to be a better writer. I would apologize for only recently discovering his work and would say that I’d have to also thank him for the future me, because I know that he will continue to inspire me. I can foresee that inspiration, and it sounds ridiculous, but I know he will be a big influence in my life. I just know it.

I wanted to tell him all of that and more, but instead I said, “Congratulations on the award. I’m a big fan.” I was bursting inside, but I didn’t show it. (Ten years in hospitality has taught me a thing or two about discretion.) Toby smiled at me and said, “Thank you.” Catherine asked if I had seen Word For Word perform ever, and I told her I had not, and they both exclaimed how wonderful it was and that I was in for a treat, and so we chatted, all the way to the green room.

I was smiling so wide my cheeks hurt.

Stay tuned…