Love Interrupted

In general, I'm not a what you call a fanatic when it comes to famous people. The two exceptions are musician Jack White and humorist David Sedaris. I've followed them from their humble beginnings. I don't just listen to or read them; I learn things about them to store in my limited memory. I follow them on Facebook. I pay attention to their tour schedules, their personal lives, their haircuts and clothing choices. With Jack I download all his music; with David I read all his books.

The other day, after recently rereading a favorite, I saw David Sedaris at a speaking engagement in Boulder. I was in that state of blissful awe that follows such an encounter. To the extent possible, I must share my elation with anyone who'll listen.

So I took my well-worn copy of Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim over to MD's house. We'd been seeing each other for a few weeks, and I was pretty sure I was in love, thus I needed to read a story to him from this hilarious book.

I'd gone to the show with three friends, two of whom might be close to adoring him as much as I did. I was jealous they'd seen him more times than I had, but I tried not to let it bug me. Meghan, who made up our foursome, really knew nothing of the man and barely qualified to go with us.

When she wondered aloud where Sedaris was from, I jumped a little in my seat. "He was born in Binghamton, New York, but his family moved to Raleigh when he was little, so really, he's from there." "When did he meet his partner?" "While living in Manhattan," I said with authority. "In the 90's. They moved to France, where he wrote Me Talk Pretty One Day - have you read that one? Oh you simply must! - but they don't live there anymore, they bought a place in England."

There were pauses between Meghan's musings, during which I anxiously awaited her next question. It was not unlike being in love, when you take every opportunity to talk about your beloved; to simply say his name sends a frisson tingling down the spine. I was thrilled to share what I knew of his writing routine, his life as an impoverished art student in Chicago, how he went to the same IHOP every day, sat in the same booth, wrote for two hours and drank only coffee, because he was so poor. "You'll read that in his diary. He's kind of a nut for structure. It's one of the things we have in common."

At this point, Wendy, shook her head. "You're such a fangirl," she observed. "Or a stalker." My enthusiasm had turned me into the annoying know-it-all in the car. I didn't care.

MD was only acquainted with David from This American Life, the NPR program where he got his start. "You're on a first name basis with him, are you?" MD teased. Why yes, yes I am, I thought. I've never met him - I don't want to meet him - I'd be a giddy dorkface if I ever stood in front him with my teetering stack of books for him to sign. I prefer to witness David from afar, like a Supernova, or a volcanic explosion.

"Okay, let me read you this story," I said, patting the couch next to me. MD plopped down and put his feet up. "You're going to love this," I promised.

I began reading my favorite, "Six to Eight Black Men." I raced along, eager to get to the part about Amsterdam's Christmas tradition, which featured not Jolly Old St. Nick, but a scrawny former bishop from Turkey known as Sinterklaas. I burst out laughing - as I always do - at David's outrage upon learning that Sinterklaas arrives by boat, accompanied by six to eight black men. I am practically falling off the couch when he finds out that bad children don't get a lump of coal; instead they are stuffed in a sack to be kicked and beaten by Sinterklaas's slaves before being sent off to Spain.

I was really on a roll, in full performance mode, channeling the author's delivery style as I am fond of doing, when MD hopped to his feet to grab his computer. "What the hell are you doing?" I gasped. In my world, one does not speak while listening to Jack White, and one never breaks up the sharing of a good story unless he is rude or has a bona fide diagnosis of ADHD.

MD, unfamiliar with my policies, was doing that annoying thing he does all the time - interrupting conversations to fact check whatever he hasn't heard about before. He calls the search engine "Uncle Google" which I once thought charming. At this moment, however, it was anything but. "Hey!" I shouted. "Stop it! You can do that when I'm finished reading!"

But MD was running full tilt. "He's not kidding! That is really what they do in Holland. But the helpers... they're not Black! They're in BLACKFACE!"

I fumed on the sofa, and when he returned, I slammed the book shut. It was a paperback, which made my gesture less powerful than I would've liked. MD looked puzzled. "Go ahead, finish reading."

"No," I said, seething. "It's ruined now. You've ruined it." Even my most hyperactive students find my readalouds so captivating they sit still right through to the finish. MD had no excuse. I went home soon after, reluctantly leaving my book, which he'd asked me to lend him, on his coffee table, certain he was unworthy. He might lack the attention span to even read it at all.

In the days and weeks since, my love has faded to bare tolerance. While this unfortunate scene is not entirely to blame, it plays a major role. I find I'm not particularly keen on seeing MD again, but I know I'll have to. I need to pick up my book.