T.C.
In 1979 or 1980, I, a pampered twenty-something, sat assured by the velvety comfort of a high backed chair in the loungeable lobby of the Algonquin Hotel. I had insisted on this stop, hoping to sniff up some residue of Dorothy Parker.
I watched the Kat rummage through the Saks shopping bags that surrounded his chair like lap dogs with fresh batteries and eager for his attention.
I sipped Dewar’s and gurgled appreciatively as cashmere or silk or sterling was brought forth and held up to the light and caressed by the happy Kat. And then, looking over his shoulder, I saw something in a chair, in a corner of the far side of the room.
A tiny man under a magnificently brimmed hat, thick scarf and smoky glasses, shuffling long papers and reaching for a glass. I jumped forward and grabbed the Kat’s wrist.
“You mustn’t look! You mustn’t look! You must not look!” I implored with breathless and barely capped hysteria.
The Kat immediately turned around to see what had put me into such delirious agitation.
“What on earth are you talking about? I don’t see anything.”
“It’s Truman Capote, you complete fool! Over in the corner. Under the hat.”
The Kat kept up his scrutiny for several seconds and then returned to his bags.
“How can you tell it’s him?”
“How can I tell?! How can I tell?!! For God’s sake, who else could it be? I always knew someday I would meet him.”
“Meet him! Don’t be crazy. You can’t just walk over there and start writhing on the carpet.”
“The hell I can’t – just walk over there. How’s my hair?”
I don’t know why I felt it necessary to check my appearance before going over to him. I was not out to seduce him. This was not like that night not long before, when I had been tipped off that Edward Albee, who had come to our wretched little city to present a new play, would probably be stopping (alone) by our one miserable gay bar after the dress rehearsal. My plan that evening was specifically starfuckular. I had taken the stool next to his, where he sat unrecognized by the dismal collection of regulars.
“Hey, sailor.”
Guess if you can: was it he or I who spoke those words?
Overriding the Kat’s counsel, I stood up and was about to approach T.C. when he gathered up his things and swiftly left his chair. I sat down, hating this moment, a missed opportunity to meet the man whose writing I admired most. I had wanted to tell him that no one crafts a sentence as perfectly as he. I had wanted to list for him those passages that I found most dazzling. I had wanted him to know that it wasn’t his Black and White Ball, or his swans or his photos. It was his writing I loved.
“Oh my God! He’s not leaving! He went downstairs! Downstairs to the bathroom!”
“Now you’re really gonna get us thrown out of here. You can’t go chasing down after him into the Goddam bathroom.”
“The hell I can’t. This is perfect. Honey, you gotta understand. You know how you felt when you found that black sweater this afternoon?”
“Go. I’ll get another round.”
As I took the narrow stairs down to the bathroom, I quickly constructed a course of action that involved my sidling up to a urinal and feigning surprised recognition. I decided to refrain from looking at his dick, as that would surely make him nervous and less inclined to chat. By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, I had modified the plan slightly to include just a brief and discreet peek at his dick, if chance were to make such a moment possible.
When I entered the men’s room, I was surprised to find it empty. Had he gone into the women’s room? Was this a dodge? I scanned the urinals on the left, stalls ahead and sinks to the right. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized that one of the stalls was not empty.
Oh my God. I’m standing here and Truman Capote is taking a shit.
What do I do now?
I stepped up to a urinal thinking that I could time my zip-up to coincide with his exit from the booth, at which time I could deliver my feigned surprise. After lingering much too long at the urinal, I began to wonder if he was hesitant about coming out while someone else was present. This was one of several moments in which I almost gave up the thought of meeting him.
I heard the rustling of papers from within the stall and realized that he was reading and that I might have to face this urinal for quite some time. I’m doomed if someone else enters the room. Finally, I heard the unmistakable and tired grumbling of an old porcelain and wood spindled toilet paper dispenser, and I knew the moment was at hand. I moved to the sink and began a hand washing, the endurance of which would have well satisfied an obsessive-compulsive.
He came forth, and I delivered some very believable shock-and-awe followed by the extension of a well-sanitized hand to make his acquaintance.
“If you don’t release “Answered Prayers” by sundown, I do swear I will die”, was what I said that made him stop backing toward the door. He seemed delighted with my yearning for the long awaited work. When I quoted a line from “La Cote Basque” that I had found particularly delightful in its savagery, he beamed with pleasure while correcting part of my quote. He seemed genuinely to soak up while testing the depth of my babbling about his writing until he raised a tiny hand to hush me, and informed me that the pages he was holding were actually galleys for a new book about to be published.
“Wow”, was all I could say, and then, “I would love to just touch a corner, not even read a word, but just to touch a page would be…”
“Like the woman who was cured when she secretly touched the hem of Jesus.”
“Yes. Just like that. Maybe I’ll be suddenly infused with literary powers.”
“Well then, you very silly person, you really must go right ahead and touch it.”
Touch it I did, and said “Wow” again.
We talked for a few heavenly minutes, mostly about craftsmanship and the various American writers who lacked it.
We made our good byes and best wishes and the meeting was over. I gave him time to climb the stairs alone rather than tag along and make an inconvenience of myself. I looked into the mirror above the sinks and thought I saw change in my reflection.
It turned out that the galleys he was holding were not those of “Answered Prayers” but of “Music for Chameleons”. On the morning it was published, I had my nose pressed up against the door of our local bookshop. I didn’t stop reading until I reached the story entitled “A Day’s Work”. I found that he had inserted the line from “La Cote Basque” that I had admired. It appears on a sheet of paper in a typewriter. It is misquoted exactly as I had misquoted it to him. A sweet gesture, and evidence of how much he needed and appreciated some honest admiration at that point in his life, even if from a stranger in a restroom.
No one writes a better sentence.
I watched the Kat rummage through the Saks shopping bags that surrounded his chair like lap dogs with fresh batteries and eager for his attention.
I sipped Dewar’s and gurgled appreciatively as cashmere or silk or sterling was brought forth and held up to the light and caressed by the happy Kat. And then, looking over his shoulder, I saw something in a chair, in a corner of the far side of the room.
A tiny man under a magnificently brimmed hat, thick scarf and smoky glasses, shuffling long papers and reaching for a glass. I jumped forward and grabbed the Kat’s wrist.
“You mustn’t look! You mustn’t look! You must not look!” I implored with breathless and barely capped hysteria.
The Kat immediately turned around to see what had put me into such delirious agitation.
“What on earth are you talking about? I don’t see anything.”
“It’s Truman Capote, you complete fool! Over in the corner. Under the hat.”
The Kat kept up his scrutiny for several seconds and then returned to his bags.
“How can you tell it’s him?”
“How can I tell?! How can I tell?!! For God’s sake, who else could it be? I always knew someday I would meet him.”
“Meet him! Don’t be crazy. You can’t just walk over there and start writhing on the carpet.”
“The hell I can’t – just walk over there. How’s my hair?”
I don’t know why I felt it necessary to check my appearance before going over to him. I was not out to seduce him. This was not like that night not long before, when I had been tipped off that Edward Albee, who had come to our wretched little city to present a new play, would probably be stopping (alone) by our one miserable gay bar after the dress rehearsal. My plan that evening was specifically starfuckular. I had taken the stool next to his, where he sat unrecognized by the dismal collection of regulars.
“Hey, sailor.”
Guess if you can: was it he or I who spoke those words?
Overriding the Kat’s counsel, I stood up and was about to approach T.C. when he gathered up his things and swiftly left his chair. I sat down, hating this moment, a missed opportunity to meet the man whose writing I admired most. I had wanted to tell him that no one crafts a sentence as perfectly as he. I had wanted to list for him those passages that I found most dazzling. I had wanted him to know that it wasn’t his Black and White Ball, or his swans or his photos. It was his writing I loved.
“Oh my God! He’s not leaving! He went downstairs! Downstairs to the bathroom!”
“Now you’re really gonna get us thrown out of here. You can’t go chasing down after him into the Goddam bathroom.”
“The hell I can’t. This is perfect. Honey, you gotta understand. You know how you felt when you found that black sweater this afternoon?”
“Go. I’ll get another round.”
As I took the narrow stairs down to the bathroom, I quickly constructed a course of action that involved my sidling up to a urinal and feigning surprised recognition. I decided to refrain from looking at his dick, as that would surely make him nervous and less inclined to chat. By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, I had modified the plan slightly to include just a brief and discreet peek at his dick, if chance were to make such a moment possible.
When I entered the men’s room, I was surprised to find it empty. Had he gone into the women’s room? Was this a dodge? I scanned the urinals on the left, stalls ahead and sinks to the right. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized that one of the stalls was not empty.
Oh my God. I’m standing here and Truman Capote is taking a shit.
What do I do now?
I stepped up to a urinal thinking that I could time my zip-up to coincide with his exit from the booth, at which time I could deliver my feigned surprise. After lingering much too long at the urinal, I began to wonder if he was hesitant about coming out while someone else was present. This was one of several moments in which I almost gave up the thought of meeting him.
I heard the rustling of papers from within the stall and realized that he was reading and that I might have to face this urinal for quite some time. I’m doomed if someone else enters the room. Finally, I heard the unmistakable and tired grumbling of an old porcelain and wood spindled toilet paper dispenser, and I knew the moment was at hand. I moved to the sink and began a hand washing, the endurance of which would have well satisfied an obsessive-compulsive.
He came forth, and I delivered some very believable shock-and-awe followed by the extension of a well-sanitized hand to make his acquaintance.
“If you don’t release “Answered Prayers” by sundown, I do swear I will die”, was what I said that made him stop backing toward the door. He seemed delighted with my yearning for the long awaited work. When I quoted a line from “La Cote Basque” that I had found particularly delightful in its savagery, he beamed with pleasure while correcting part of my quote. He seemed genuinely to soak up while testing the depth of my babbling about his writing until he raised a tiny hand to hush me, and informed me that the pages he was holding were actually galleys for a new book about to be published.
“Wow”, was all I could say, and then, “I would love to just touch a corner, not even read a word, but just to touch a page would be…”
“Like the woman who was cured when she secretly touched the hem of Jesus.”
“Yes. Just like that. Maybe I’ll be suddenly infused with literary powers.”
“Well then, you very silly person, you really must go right ahead and touch it.”
Touch it I did, and said “Wow” again.
We talked for a few heavenly minutes, mostly about craftsmanship and the various American writers who lacked it.
We made our good byes and best wishes and the meeting was over. I gave him time to climb the stairs alone rather than tag along and make an inconvenience of myself. I looked into the mirror above the sinks and thought I saw change in my reflection.
It turned out that the galleys he was holding were not those of “Answered Prayers” but of “Music for Chameleons”. On the morning it was published, I had my nose pressed up against the door of our local bookshop. I didn’t stop reading until I reached the story entitled “A Day’s Work”. I found that he had inserted the line from “La Cote Basque” that I had admired. It appears on a sheet of paper in a typewriter. It is misquoted exactly as I had misquoted it to him. A sweet gesture, and evidence of how much he needed and appreciated some honest admiration at that point in his life, even if from a stranger in a restroom.
No one writes a better sentence.
posted by Father Tony of the Farmboyz at 8:35 PM
8 Comments:
The little hairs on my neck and shoulders pricked up at the end there. (that's my way of gushing)
Clearly you were in fact infused with literary powers, just as you thought.
This is my favorite thing that you're written so far. And that is saying something.
Little TC was the finest American writer of the 20th Century.
Though, as he said about Jane Bowles, his shelf is short, it is formidable.
I re-read his writing religiously. Alliteration is the least of my vices.
You clearly did recieve something from the man.
Three years ago I was walking down Canyon Rd. in Santa Fe with my partner and a white mercedes was driving down the road. I turned to my partner and said, "I think I just saw Truman Capote." He replied with, "He's dead." I swear it was him.
Great post - but then it was a great experience.
I have a friend who used to be mistaken for Truman Capote. People would ask him to sign their books, and he would do so, using his own name. Now, in Capote, there are more than a few moments in which Philip Seymour Hoffman looks just like my friend.
I loved this story! I'm so glad to know this bit about Truman's life.
Thanks,
Vig
Thank you for your comment and question on my site. It furthered the conversation in a way that may be helpful for me.
Vig
Darlin', as always, this is a brilliant story. My Overeducated Redneck has a gay Uncle Condee living in New Orleans. Condee is such a character, and frequently mistaken for T.C. Love him.
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