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Illustration by Mario Noche
My husband, George, recently surprised me with tickets to see writer David Sedaris at the Palace Theatre. It was a lovely gesture, particularly since he had neglected to surprise me with tickets to CATCO’s production of Evil Dead: The Musical, but had indeed surprised me earlier this year with Sammy Hagar tickets—and I am still bitter about both.
I’m a person who doesn’t procure my own tickets to anything. I wait for them to appear, and then either complain or rejoice, depending upon the event. I’m an awful lot of work, truth be told. Thank God George overlooks it.
The Sedaris gift was especially kind because George had gotten us in to see the humorist in 2003 at OSU’s Mershon Auditorium, and he came away from the program a little underwhelmed. Sedaris stands at a podium on an unadorned stage, pulls out different manuscripts, reads them and shares some amusing anecdotes. I think George had gone in expecting a bit more showmanship.
Sammy Hagar, for example, keeps strippers onstage who bring him fishbowl-sized margaritas between songs. Indeed, we were “lucky” enough years ago to be standing up against the stage when the “singer” threw the margarita into the crowd. Nothing like reeking of tequila as you drive back to Grandview, home of the world’s most attentive traffic cops.
Clearly, Dave is no Sammy (where have I heard that before?), and yet I nonetheless was eager to see him live again. Sedaris is a genius, and I’ve been a fan since my twin sister, Joy, introduced me to his work many years back. She would phone from Boston and read sections of his book Me Talk Pretty One Day. Eventually, she mailed me her copy.
This may seem odd, but for us it’s common practice. For my (our) birthday last year, Joy bought me a copy of Rob Sheffield’s Talking to Girls About Duran Duran, and I would call her to read particularly funny segments. Once I finished it, I mailed it back to her so she could enjoy the complete work. Ditto Tina Fey’s Bossypants.
For a few years there, though, it looked as if I’d corrupted our tradition beyond repair when I lent Joy’s copy of Me Talk Pretty One Day to a friend, who moved out of state without returning it. Joy never got it back, and she’s been upset about this for more than a decade.
How so? Last Christmas, our nephew Michael thanked me for having introduced him to Sedaris’s work a few years back. I recalled that I’d given everyone on my list a Sedaris book one merry season, but Joy insisted that I’d really just shipped Michael her copy of Me Talk Pretty One Day. She has many such theories about what became of her beloved text.
Naturally, I’ve offered to replace the book, but I never do it. I have purchased other Sedaris books for Joy and she thanks me sincerely before launching into a lament for her lost and beloved Me Talk Pretty One Day.
Well, I’d determined to finally make amends at this Sedaris show. After he had finished an enormously enjoyable evening, I lined up for a book signing. As I stared at that curious pink mural that bedecks the wall opposite the Palace lobby staircase, I decided I would purchase Joy’s birthday gift and ask Sedaris to autograph it, thereby overcoming my debt.
Me Talk Pretty One Day was among the purchasable items. I chose, instead, his newest volume, Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk.
Why? No doubt a part of me—the cruel malcontent—inexplicably refuses to buy her a replacement copy.
Anyway, at the signing table I shared the sordid tale of book snatching and years-long bitterness with Sedaris, who listened with rapt attention and autographed Joy’s copy thusly:
To Joy,
Your story touched my heart.
David Sedaris
Now, as soon as I finish reading Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk, I’ll get it wrapped and send it to her.
Hope Madden is a film critic for The Other Paper and a freelance writer.
