Spalding Gray

In 1992, I think, I took a cross-country drive with my college roommate, S. Our first, though I took another every summer until I was pregnant, which ended, for me, the marathon drive era. God, I loved those drives. Time to unravel into random, unconnected pieces--into pure chaos. The monotony of the road--the inching of the landscape--that's enough structure for a life, for a while.

In 1992, though, we hit a crossroads in Colorado, and went left, not sure where we wanted to end up, but certainly not wanting to end up where we did: the touristy, overdone main street of Taos, NM. I know, I know--people love Taos; it's liberal, it's artsy--good things. But we were unraveled, see? You don't want community when you're unraveling--when it's a planned unravel. You want the desert. We wouldn't have had to even discuss it--we would have turned the car around at that first gas station--but for a banner stretched across the street: "Welcome Spalding Gray!"

Now, S knew that Spalding, to me, was an icon. If you've ever seen Swimming to Cambodia, then you've been transformed by--and maybe even fallen a little in love with--Spalding Gray. Those lips, those eyes--that obsessive-compulsive paranoia, that musical, hypnotic cadence. If you know him, you know what I mean. We stopped at an inn and asked about this performace he was giving that night: how much, how long, etc. I'm looking in my wallet, calculating what I need for gas to get us through Death Valley the next day. "Well," the guy said, "if you can't stay for the performance he's over at the bookstore doing a signing right now." Holy mother of God.

He was hiding in the back of the store, clutching a telephone; in my memory one hand was cupped over the receiver, like he was whispering in full panic to someone. Whether he really was or not, his discomfort was palpable. I wondered why on earth he'd let his publisher put him through it. The signing began, and I was third in line, behind some guy who recited a Wallace Stevens poem while Spalding was autographing his book. I would not be so idiotic--I would not beg so baldly for his approval. Had these people no pride? Spalding's voice was small--small and flat. Small, flat, and miserable. It was my turn. "I have all your books, but they're in Baltimore. Would you sign this for me?" I'm stammering. I was so aware of how UNRAVELED I appeared: sunburned and wind blown. Some way to honor the guy--to reflect the respect I had for him. Some way to shine with Buddhistic love. I hand him the flyer promoting the signing. He says nothing. Takes the paper, writes, and gives it back to me. I turn and walk out of the store, fast.

Outside, with S, my hands are shaking. We look at the paper together. On the bottom he'd written, "Thanks for buying all my books." And over a xeroxed headshot of him he'd scrawled "Swell Guy."

Swell Guy?? SWELL GUY?? I had just put myself through that embarrassing moment--humbled myself like an idiot before celebrity--to get THIS piece of self-adoration?? I crumpled the flyer and tossed it in the trash near the bottom step. S retrieved it. We left Taos. Later, in Baltimore, I found it in my bag and tucked it in a book. What the fuck.

Nothing, in my view, lived up to Swimming to Cambodia. None of the books, none of the flicks, certainly none of the minor parts he took in other people's movies, presumably to pay the rent. But one masterpiece--how much can you ask from a person? One day, a few years ago, I found that flyer again. Looked at it carefully, and this time saw that he'd written "Spud Gray" over his face. He'd just signed his name, but I--expecting something else from the encounter, shaken by his frailty in person and my own absurd awe--couldn't even see straight when we left that bookstore. I felt I needed to apologize. But of course, I couldn't, and wouldn't have, and didn't.

I was so sad when he disappeared. So sad when he turned up in the waters off Staten Island, though it seemed almost inevitable, I guess. His poor kids. He was something.