The bad news: they ran out of books. Good news: I got the last one. Bad news: forgot to get it signed. Good news: I'll stop doing this good news/bad news thing. Bad news - oh. Right then. Sorry.
As usual we were late, so after some brief milling around looking for friendly faces - we saw Joanne and after many years finally met their daughter, Jasmine - we headed into the reading room.
We sat on the left behind another couple - I got an aisle seat, a habit gained from those incredibly shrinking airline seats - and I mentioned to Susanne that later, at Jim and Joanne's, we'd get to see Chico.
Poof!
At the mere mention of the name of The Kid's name, the guy in front of us was transformed into Mark Chimolecki. Mark - you look pretty much the same, except for the grey, and it was great to see you. More and more I think we don't change all that much, except for me who, many times, even I don't recognise. Gotta get that nametag.
Mark and his daughter Lisa had come down from Hartford. Meeting people like her and Jasmine makes you wonder about people who complain about KIDS THESE DAYS! Answer: meet a better class of kids.
A Reading from the Book of James
Sav gave good read, stepping right up to the most important consideration in any writer's life: what to wear to these things. You have not had a true picture of Jim Savio till you've seen him in a tux.
Foregoing the mike (of course), he read a selection of the stories while moving around freely - from Cropsey to Calcutta, that's kind of the way he came by them. He also read a good-sized chunk from a work in progress that he told us had not been reworked or edited or otherwise pasteurized and maybe for that or for a bunch of other reasons was different from the other pieces. When it ended with, 'to be continued,' left me want to strangle him. But then I wouldn't get to find out what happened.
Afterwards Sav answered a range of questions on writing, teaching, the creative process ('Never ask a writer if something is true;' see tux ref. above), and some of the more elemental questions ('Hey Jim,' said someone in the back - I think it was one of his students - 'when can I get a beer?'). So soon after, most everyone moved off to Jim and Joanne's.
Susanne and I decided to first walk down Broadway to Ground Zero - not far from Sav's place, a little over half a mile. Twice the pre-11 September height of the north tower.
Can we bomb them back to before the stone age?
A sizeable patch of New York City blocks are cordoned off with police tape around Liberty Plaza. On the Broadway side it's not really needed - there are more than enough photos flowers tee shirts poems banners candles messages from all over the world.
It's not easy but there are a few long views here and there of the site, even at night floodlit and busy. And still smoking. A shower of warm golden sparks cascaded from the top of the remaining façade of the north tower. 'It looks like a menorah,' said a guy behind us. As is, it wouldn't be a bad memorial.
Susanne worked on Wall Street for a long time and was familiar with the area and the buildings and with the gold-trading companies and the people who worked for them. Most of the people she has known for almost 20 years got out. But she was understandably quiet and thoughtful.
I was thoughtful too. This was my thought as I looked at the sparks drifting down and thought of the falling of the plane parts and papers and people - a thought unusual for an old peacenik like me, totally un-Christian and probably even un-Islamic (who knows?): could we get away with thermonuclear carpet bombing of every country who's not us? Except for England, where I live. And St Martin, which I miss. And Rome - the bone church and that restaurant where all you have to do is order starters and you leave like Thanksgiving. And yeah - the Pope and all. And Paris - for no other reason than not making a liar out of Humphrey 'We'll always have Paris' Bogart.
And that's where my evil master plan fell apart: when you start making exceptions for places like Paris, can some stupid reason for not totally destroying Baghdad be far behind? Nah! Fire one!
The Last Station of the Cross to Clarksville
Meanwhile, back at the party, a great time was being had by all and we were glad to change emotional gears and catch up with Jim and Joanne and Chico and Mark, who had somehow forgotten about the sad loss at sea of the entire Rocket Club Mousonaut corps. But as happens, he remembered other stuff and it was fun to talk to his daughter Lisa, soon to leave for the coast (the other one) to be a tech in Hollywood. Wish I had thought of that.
Joan Savio looks the same too. Jim's mom talked about Pete and Sav's musical Stations of the Cross. Years ago she gave it to her church group, who gave it to their missionary group, so that today Stations are being sung to Paul Simon tunes in exotic and faraway places like Afgha - nah.
One summer, she said, Fr Earl came out to their place in West Hampton. She said he was different there - seaside paradises are good for that - and that he 'really let his hair down.' And his false teeth, which the Atlantic ate. Holy weeping and gnashing - what is it with retainers and plates around here? When you get the tonsure, they pull out your hair, right? Anyway, unlike Fr Mike L, the teeth of Earl were washed away.
At the end of the night, Chick gave us a ride in the KidMobile to Laguardia for our flight to Dallas early the next morning. We got back to London Tuesday morning and leave tonight again for JFK. I spoke with Chico last night, and we're thinking of getting together on 20 or 21 December (Thursday-Friday).
We haven't picked a place yet, but while we were last there I looked at a pretty good restaurant in midtown. It's at 701 7th. I got their card - raised red letters in a Wild West style. Tad's Steaks, it says. And if we don't like that one, they have another branch on 42nd Street - right next to the Peep-O-Rama. Sounds like a full night of fun to me!
Happy Christmas to all, and to Jim, a good night.
