A Prayer for John Irving

    Many have heard the advice warning against meeting one’s heroes to avoid what is predicted to be inevitable disappointment. Paul Beatty (Slumberland ) goes as far as to say, “Heroes. Idols. They’re never who you think they are. Shorter. Nastier. Smellier. And when you finally meet them, there’s something that makes you want to choke the shit out of them.” I guess I should count myself lucky then. The experience of meeting one of my heroes did not prove to be offensive or malodorous at all! To be fair, I already knew he would be short. Nor did the encounter provoke any sense of murderous rage. Instead of choking, I wanted to hug the shit out of him, something from which I just barely refrained. No doubt he was already spooked by my stammered speech and prolific sweating. 

     While the rest of my senior class were self righteously spouting off Holden Caulfield’s ideologies of phoniness, those in Mrs. Leary’s English class were busy wiping away tears of laughter and heartbreak. We’d been assigned John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. I had always been an avid reader, but this book caught me by surprise on all levels. It certainly was the first book to make me laugh out loud. And I was absolutely gutted when I read the last line, "O God - please give him back! I shall keep asking You." I continued to cry for an hour (okay hours) after. Oh teen angst. Over the years I devoured most everything he’s ever written, each time more impressed and inspired by his voice.

      It was quite titillating then when on an otherwise boring Tuesday at work, a video of Mr. Irving was being circulated around my office. The subject of the email was praising the fact that he was touting our company brand in his wardrobe choice for a TIME interview. For five minutes I was too enthralled in the interview to contemplate or care why he was wearing our company shirt. When it finished however, the math slowly began to add up. My boss also had the last name of Irving. A weird kind of yelp involuntarily escaped my lips. I started giggling and clapping like a small child, also as if beyond my control. And I started sweating. A lot. I was having a weird sort of half in half out of body experience. Although I wasn’t half sweating, I was whole body sweating. For six months I had been working for the son ofJohn flipping Irving, completely oblivious. I couldn’t focus the rest of the day. The knowledge that there was one measly degree of separation between me and my favorite author was like a shot of epinephrine. By the end of the day my cheeks were legitimately sore from maintaining the face of a deranged clown.

    The following Monday I was incapable at making eye contact when my boss walked into the office; partly because of the leftover excitement and mostly because my hysterical reaction had been told and retold among my co-workers. I pretended to be buried in my work and not notice as he pulled up a chair to my desk and began to whisper. 
"Sooo Courtney, my dad is.... 

My face immediately flushed and started distorting itself into …well, something just grotesque. I also started sweating again – and again, quite visibly. ....is coming into town to do a reading on Thursday.” There was no containing the nervous snicker just below my not so collected surface. It amused and terrified him.  

I know it's kind of short no....  

“YES! Oh my god! I mean…Yeah that would be cool.”

...tice.” he finished, laughing. “Good, because I've already put your name on the list. It's at the Aero Theatre Thursday night. There's a reception beforehand at seven o’clock, then the reading is at eight.” 

       I just sat there nodding and smiling. I tried to say Thank You, but it caught in my throat behind a lump of emotion. Why was I being such a weirdo? My eyes started to well up and he asked jokingly, “Are you gonna be okay?” Even I had to laugh. It was a fair point though. What if I couldn’t get ‘it’ under control? I mean, my name was on a list to meet John Irving, a total celebrity in my eyes. I have loved his work since I was 17. What was I going to say? Did I have time to read his latest book so I could ask impressively insightful questions at the reading? Since I work for his son, could I hug him? That would be too much, right? Would he be willing to sign my copy of Owen Meany? 

      These thoughts and hundreds more rattled my brain as I sat in my car that Thursday evening. I was employing every relaxation technique and kind of yogic breathing I knew of to temper my racing heart. It didn’t help that I was frantically searching my backseat for a gym towel or any kind of absorbent to sop up the profuse flood of perspiration that began as soon as I left my house. Again with the goddamn sweating! What was wrong with me?! I had arrived 15-20 minutes early for all thesereasons, but my plan was failing me. I had to get my game face on so I didn’t look like a bigger idiot than already anticipated. Other co-workers were coming, but more to see the Courtney-show than for the reading. The whole John Irving thing was not an issue for them. I wouldn’t be surprised if there had been a company pool betting to see just how much of an ass I would make of myself. If there was, I totally would’ve gotten in on that action.  

           Walking to the theater I started to feel more normal, so much so that I completely forgot about ‘the list’ and was chilling in line. When I saw my co-workers walk straight up to the door, I casually slid out of line and sauntered toward the front. I semi-confidently gave my name at the VIP table, got a drink ticket and then tripped, stumbling inside very un-cooly. Semi-confidence blown. I purposely avoided all eye contact while I tried to regain my composure. I bought a pre-signed copy of his latest book and got my glass of wine, which on an empty nervous stomach was not a wise move. Within seconds I felt myself getting weird again – and sweaty. I decided to kill time by hanging out in the bathroom with paper towels plastered to my pits. As I felt my nerves steady enough to leave the stall, I splashed my face with water and gave myself my best Stuart Smalley pep talk. I emerged only to practically run smack into John as he was being escorted to the ‘green room’. Cue the flood gates and pit stains. As it neared eight o’clock I had no choice but to go downstairs and find my coworkers. They were all laughing and thoroughly relishing in the absence of my usual poise. We chatted for a bit and then my boss smiled and said, "So are you finally ready to meet my dad?

“What? Wait, what?! NO!”

“Well too bad, because here he comes…." 

“I'm not ready!” I hissed under my breath as he spun me around.

"Dad, I want you to meet my friend Courtney. She works for me actually and, well, she is a pretty big fan of yours."

“Oh. Well Hi there, very nice to meet you.” It felt like an eternity that his hand was outstretched waiting for me to shake it. The moment went from 0-60 in three seconds as the verbal diarrhea began to flow. 
“Oh my god. Sir. I, uh… oh my. God. It is such a pleasure to meet you. You have no idea. How are you? I mean, I love…umm and I‘ve read….err high school…, but uhhh.. *Sigh* I'm really trying not to geek out on you too much, but....you are … and I, well…well honestly, this is one of the greatest moments of my life. Like seriously.”

“Hold it together Courtney.” My boss whispered. John sadly yet sweetly smiled at me before getting swept up to start the reading.  
“Like seriously.” LIKE SERIOUSLY?! I could not believe those words had just come out of my mouth. I turned in a slow circle around myself trying to hold back tears.  

     Over my friend’s mocking and laughter I heard my boss say, "It’s fine. You were fine. It’s cute. Look, I don't know if you have plans after this, but Dad wanted to take everyone to dinner." I literally felt my knees buckle. “Courtney? You’re in, right? Or have you eaten already?"

"I think I’m gonna vomit. But yes, I’m in.”

     After the reading, the plan was to meet at the restaurant. Unfortunately, I was the last one to turn up which put me directly in the spotlight and in the only seat left…right next to the man himself. To this day I have no memory of what I ordered or drank. I just sat there shyly staring, nursing an obviously significant crush. I normally have excellent self-possession, am an eloquent speaker who can hold her own in any conversation. This, unfortunately, was not one of those times. Mr. Irving is kind, funny and very easy to talk to. I know this as I watched everyone else do it with no problem. Bastards.That being said, I will admit there is a hint of an intimidation factor in his demeanor, just under the surface. That coupled with my deep respect for him and his work rendered me an utterly useless dinner companion. One of my co-workers and good friends was completely mortified by my oafishness, and desperately tried to help me save face. When John mentioned a time he had done a reading at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, my friend chimed in about my own performances at the festival later that year. And it was he who reached into my purse to retrieve my well-worn high school copy of ‘A Prayer for Owen Meany’ and slid it over the table for John to sign. 

     I cringe to imagine what Mr. Irving must have thought of me that night. Readers. Fans. They’re never who you think they are. Dumber. Crazier. Sweatier! And when you do finally meet them there’s something that makes you want to cancel all future readings and public appearances. Lord, I hope not.

    The whole experience was surreal, especially when he signed and personalized my book or rather, his book. The once in a lifetime opportunity of meeting someone I so admire made the humiliation of my creepy smile, nervous laughter, and complete lack of competent conversation slightly more bearable.  Even though I used to look at his head-shot and read his back cover bio hundreds of times wondering what he was like, I never had any preconceived expectations. I believe that is why I wasn’t disappointed. Although I wouldn’t have cared if he had been nasty, smelly or choke worthy, it would not change the fact that he is a great mind, an invaluable gift to American literature and to me.

    To most this reaction sounds a bit extreme reaction for meeting ‘just’ an author, but your heroes and idols are based on the things you value most highly. As a book nerd and someone who fancies herself a writer of sorts, I hold authors in the highest regard. As J.K Rowling says, “Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic…”John is certainly a magician who writes with a truth that is so visceral it knocks the wind out of me. I absorbed things from his books years ago that radiate from my life now. I abide by the philosophy and APFOM quote, “If you care about something you have to protect it – If you’re lucky enough to find a way of life you love, you have to find the courage to live it.”  

It has fed my future, taking me on all sorts of adventures and for that, I shall always say a prayer for John Irving.

"Always be yourself... unless you can be a unicorn then always be a unicorn"