Essays

Turmoil here in Koontzland struck just as I was about to write this month’s newsletter. Be not concerned. Everyone here is safe and well. There is very little chance that the pterodactyl will recover from its wounds and return. However, for the first time ever, I am going to regale you with a reprint of something I wrote years ago for another venue. You probably never saw it, and you might find it to be an amusing peek into the glamorous life of an author. I will admit that my life is less glamorous than that of the former Prince Harry and his bride, but it is at least as silly as theirs. Herewith:

A long time ago, in an Earth far different from the one we now inhabit, a couple of great guys and good publishers, Larry Kirshbaum and Mel Parker, decided to try to lure me away from Putnam to what was then Warner Books. I had done a heavily illustrated novella for them—Oddkins: A Fable for All Ages—arguably a children’s book, and they hoped I would write novels for them, too.

As part of their welcome scheme (I was ready for a change), they invited Gerda and me to a special dinner at the then annual convention of the ABA (American Booksellers Association). There were maybe a dozen key people from Warner Books, Gerda, and me, gathered for an evening of fine food, good wine, and the business—world equivalent of romance. I had bought a new suit for the occasion, and they had booked a table in an alcove of the high-end restaurant of a major hotel.

Maybe the restaurant was short on staff. Maybe the waiter was incompetent. Maybe the chef had gone mad and was chasing people around the kitchen with a meat cleaver. Maybe all three. Anyway, it took all of these high-powered and very successful publishing executives 30 minutes to get the waiter to take a drink order, and when the drinks came, everyone received someone else’s beverage. When that was straightened out, conversation was repeatedly interrupted by the waiter loudly insisting on taking dinner orders, whether we had looked at our menus or not. “Time to eat! Very busy tonight! I must have your orders now!” To make him shut up, it was decided that everyone would order. Although the fourteen of us chose perhaps ten different appetizers, the busboys brought everyone the same salad, which was a limp mess in soupy dressing. The waiter insisted that the busboys had brought us exactly what we had ordered. “Salad!” he declared. “All salads at this table! Salads here, salads there. You’re a salad! And you, you’re a salad! All salads!”

Getting a reservation for 14 on short notice in a town swamped with conventioneers was out of the question. We would endure. Most people left most of the salads untouched on their plates. After taking a wine order with a fuming resentment worthy of Basil Fawlty, the waiter ordered the busboys to clear away the salads. Mine was the last plate to be taken. As the busboy reached down for it, he lost control of the tray that he carried, on which were balanced half a dozen other salads. He dumped plates, forks, salads, and a few cups of dressing on the head of the guest of honor—me. In my new suit.

When I looked up at my fellow diners, through the drizzling mess of vinegar and oil, their expressions of astonishment were almost worth the experience. I started to laugh, and Gerda—who sat spotless beside me, as if protected by an invisible shield—found the situation even funnier than I did. My publisher at Putnam, from whom the Warner folks were trying to lure me, was named Phyllis, so the first thing that I thought to say was, “Who told Phyllis the name of the restaurant?”

The Warner folks apologized profusely, though they had no blame in the incident, and from somewhere they got several napkins with which I could blot my face and hair. No one working at the restaurant bothered to apologize. Instead, they showed up shortly thereafter with our entrees, most of which were placed before the wrong people, which didn’t matter, because all of it was equally inedible. After that, everyone but Larry and Mel relaxed, and the conversation became animated and hilarious, for we were all consuming wine—which wasn’t poisoned—on empty stomachs. Larry sent the head of publicity into the kitchen to have words with the chef, and the manager soon joined them, and it was my impression that the bill was greatly discounted.

Warner Books wanted to pay for my ruined suit, but I refused. Then they wanted to force the restaurant to pay, but I thought that was a bad idea, because intuition told me that any suit paid for by the restaurant would burst into flames the first time I wore it.

I never did move to Warner Books, but not because of that evening. I would have been happy to go there, but unknown to me, my agent at that time was taking extraordinary steps to keep me at Putnam, even if at great expense to me. Having half a dozen salads, plates, and utensils accidentally dumped on your head is a minor inconvenience compared to the things that are done to you intentionally by people you trust.

Still no sight of the pterodactyl. So I will conclude with warmest regards from everyone here in Koontzland.