Thus Invited to Lunch if Ever in Los Angeles, He Now Ponders What Serendipity Might Incite Such a Journey
At the end of my interview of literary agent Whitney Lee she invited me to lunch if I’m ever in Los Angeles. As the authorial equivalent of dogsbody, unwashed novitiate or wordy desperado, my first thought is a melange of scenes from all of those Woody Allen movies in which, babbling, I would shred my drivers license while graceful natives dining al fresco look on in horror. I dream of success that involves never leaving the house, a world in which lunch is convened without the necessity of my being present, where moguls jostle in silk suits and, yeah, uniformed dwarfs serve telephones. My agent, her glasses low on her aquiline nose, would toss Sonny Mehta a haughty glance before rejecting his ten book deal. Don’t insult us, she would say, while ordering a minuet of arugula with a pear champagne salsa.
Los Angeles. I can’t just go there. Whitney Lee would want to know why I was in town, and what the hell would I say? The conditional offer of lunch was predicated on more than simply being there, that I floated ashore on a desert thermal with the sort of free will deficiency we associate with rock stars or members of the Manson Family. That being in the Entertainment Capitol I can no longer conjugate Squeaky and Tex from Grumpy and Doc, or understand that choosing the right restaurant is the equivalent of being accepted at Harvard? No, some other spontaneous event must propel me back to the azure shores of the Golden State, something hefty, enough to risk Severe Tire Damage before merging onto Century Boulevard and driving fifty miles only to realize I’ve never left LAX. Just because I can spell arugula doesn’t mean I know what it is.
August 4th, 2005 at 5:49 am
You could always say that you are just in town for the surfing. If she wants to reach you she can find you down on Hunnington Beach. If not, no big deal because you have some tubes to shoot.