Last night at the Brattle Theater in Cambridge, in an event sponsored by Porter Square Books, I got to see Sherman Alexie “read” from his new novel “Flight.”
Note; the “quotations” are not to inflict tone (I.e. you call THAT a reading???) but rather, Alexie guided the audience through a very large portion of the work seemingly from memory in an effect that was incredibly moving, funny, entertaining and all-around amazing.
The picture above is from Alexie’s website, http://www.fallsapart.com, and I would have taken some pics myself save for the request of no pictures (don’t they realize that we bloggers NEED to take pics?).
I’ve seen Alexie read 2 other times— once for the Festival of the Book in Missoula, Montana (maybe 2001?), and once in Brookline at Coolidge Corner in support of “10 Little Indians.” He was great all three times. And that is an understatement. I left convinced that I had again been lucky enough to see one of the handful of people that will certainly be considered the best writers of our time (and I am hard-pressed to think of anyone who could compare), and in wonder at his gifts with words and storytelling.
I am not sure if it inspired me to write or to give up writing altogether. We will see.
This new book of his, “Flight,” from which I have only heard this piece of and haven’t read yet, has me thinking about Vonnegut’s “Slaughterhouse 5.” In “Flight,” the main character travels back and forth through time, while in “Slaughterhouse 5,” the main character does the same (albeit in one baody rather than several different). I think it is a little more than ironic that Vonnegut’s hero is a man named Billy Pilgrim, and Alexie is known for his being a Native American and writing on themes around this.
Maybe it is because I am reading a book right now, “Mayflower,” that describes the uncertain relations between Indians and Whites from 1620 through King Philip’s War, and maybe it is because I love both Vonnegut and Alexie, and maybe it is because I make silly connections between things, but I think it is great.
The only negative to the evening was a lack of poetry, something that your’s truly tried to remedy. During the Q&A at the end, I raised my hand amidst a crowd, and Alexie pointed to me. He could see I was uncertain about who he was motioning toward, and said, “You, the cute guy.”
Me: (looks back and forth over shoulders)
Alexie: “C’mon, you know it’s you.”
Me: (waits for laughter to die down) “Did you bring any new poems to read?”
Alexie: No new poems, but I will recite this one (and launches into a 6 line, maybe 12 word piece, about a fly in a Hyatt hotel.
The whole scene is a bit embarrassing to put down, but it felt like my brush with greatness. I couldn’t help but think of the Classic Coke commercial where Mean Joe Green tosses his jersey to a young kid after the game.
“Wow, thanks Sherman.”
But, I at least tried to persuade some Alexie poetic greatness out of him.
One of my favorite bits of trivia (true or not) about Alexie is that in the days where he would compete in the World Champion Poetry Bout, he would walk out with a boxer’s robe with “The Sherminator” written on the back. Again, I am not sure this happened, but
it is a great story.
“Wow, thanks Sherminator.”
I also should say that my ability to relate to the young kid could be that since I have not had a haircut in a while, my hair looks like it did when I was 7.
In other news, I today signed up for Health Insurance. These are the things that one might never think of in the lives of great ones like Pollock and de Kooning, but alas, a person needs Health Insurance these days. If nothing else, the whole episode was a brutal reminder of mortality and something like a snippet from that series of “Worst Case Scenario” books.
Me: So, if I get in three accidents in one year then I have to pay the deductible three times?
Agent: Yes, but again, the likelihood of that….
Me: I know, I will be careful.
I couldn’t help but imagine my fear of airplanes which always manifests itself this way. I writhe in terror on a cross-continental flight, my back and legs exhausted from the second-by-second bracing against the inevitable plummeting that I am sure is about to occur. I make it, and relaxed, get my bags, walk out the huge double doors, smiling, only to be mowed down by a runaway taxi.
In the vision, I always have a bag in each hang and a 1950’s style suit and hat (think: the husband in Bewitched), and I end up perfectly flat on the asphalt (think: the cartoon Tom and Jerry) just waiting for a spatula to carry me to the funeral home.
Agent: Well, let’s see, this one covers radiation treatment
Me: (nods)
Agent: And this one carries half-coverage if you go in the hospital for a gastric hemorrhage, inflamed bladder or (smiles) caesarian section.
Me: (nods)
Agent: But it doesn’t cover you for epilepsy or brain tumors.
Me: I’ll be careful.
OK, neither conversation happened, but you get the drift. Basically, getting your own Health Insurance is morbid. But, now that I have it, I am off to play chicken in the middle of the highway.
Happy Friday.
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