The other night I went to hear Martin Amis, one of my favorite authors, read at a Washington bookstore. hoping I would be able to suppress my inner stalker. I admire his novels, his cultural and literary criticisms, his examinations of history, and of course his contribution to Mars Attacks!, one of the most brilliant movies of the ‘90s not disgraced by the later atrocities of O.J. (“Nordberg”) Simpson. The reading began Friday at 7 p.m., and I made my way to it with the excitement that once gleefully carried me to the Batman 2 premiere.
The Metro Center Olsson’s Books was surprisingly crowded, another sign of Washington’s cultural desperation post-Michael Jordan. I settled for a seat on the floor. Amis approached the makeshift podium, clad in blue jeans, lace-less loafers, and an oxford shirt, suitably leisurely. His attire was a contrast to the joyless suits around me and a one-up of my own appearance, with its glorious carefree student exoskeleton but soft Stafford Loan underbelly. His hair seemed a bit thin at the temples, but long enough on the top and sides to vindicate my own ten-week abstention from the barber. Amis opened with a charming anecdote about the typically sparse attendance at such readings, and he thus managed to win over a D.C. audience without resorting to a joke about the French. As he opened up his novel to begin the reading, a man slid to the podium and placed a glass of water in front of him.
“Is that Christopher Hitchens?” I thought to myself.
I lurched uncomfortably for a better view; this was potentially exciting. Hitchens, like Amis, is a polymath writer who alternates between literary criticism and political commentary. He became a regular contributor to Vanity Fair, after his stormy much-publicized departure from the more liberal, less fashionable The Nation. His book The Missionary Position: Mother Theresa in Theory and Practice bashed Mother Theresa, establishing him as a contratrian extraordinaire; his book-turned-documentary The Trials of Henry Kissinger provided a cinematic war crimes trial of Kissinger for the legions who pine elusively for a real one. He crassly refers to the Clinton years as “the interlude between the bushes,” and his combination of British humor, libidinous bravado, and learned intelligence has won him a loyal (mostly male) following, which includes many of my (entirely male) friends. I listened to Amis read from his latest novel, Yellow Dog, and pondered my approach shot.
When Amis finished reading, he took questions, and it was clearly for this portion of the evening that the audience had shown up. Never have I heard questions asked with such naked sycophancy. (“I thought that Time’s Arrow was brilliant, may you tell me how …”; “Will you act in any of the upcoming adaptations of your novels-I’d love to see you on screen,” and so on). Amis had to fight off an absurd blush or gag each time. I made a mental note: excessive flattery degrades us all. To Amis’s credit, his off-the-cuff answers were consistently thoughtful and amusing, and he slipped in a few gems, such as a description of ‘70s bell-bottoms as “hose pants that drool onto your shoes.”
He then moved to a chair in the middle of the store to sign books, and a long line of fans quickly assembled. I skipped my chance for an autograph: I am still bitter that I once chose to humble myself for the soon-to-be commercially irrelevant Tyus Edney and Ed O’Bannon, and I will never ask for one again. Instead I sought out the otherwise ignored Hitchens, who hung around in the now empty seats.
Whereas Amis was rather stylish and well put-together, Hitchens’ shirt was unbuttoned, his hair scraggly, his eyes bloodshot. As I was wearing a flannel dating from sometime around my junior year of high school, and hadn’t showered after a bit of early-evening basketball, we deserved each other.
I [hand extended, curious, a little tickled]: Mr. Hitchens?
He [hand extended, apparently always up for a bit of slobbering admiration from his plebian fans]: Why, yes.
I: Thanks for the debates you staged with Mark Danner [liberal New Yorker writer] at Berkeley; I enjoyed the first one very much.
He [still limply shaking my hand]: Ah yes, I have enjoyed them, and we’ve done four altogether, including the few in LA.
I [quickly becoming comfortable and conversant]: Do you find the audience any more open to your argument? It’s a brave man that takes your position in Berkeley. [I, hoping he would make a clever pun on the phrase “takes your position;” afterwards realizing that an ego the size of Hitchens’ did not need affirmation of its supposed bravery.]
He [with a self-satisfied grin]: Yes, the audience is becoming a bit more open, and Danner’s argument keeps getting worse.
[Enter an uninvited, obtrusive English whore in black knee-high fuck-me boots and a black Elvira mini-skirt]
Chris, want a fag? (British slang for a cigarette)I [Instantaneously invisible]
Hitchens then asked the woman for a moment to get Amis a (hard) drink “before he dies,” promised to join her outside for a fag, and headed away.
And that was it. I don’t think I unduly bothered Hitchens; I don’t think I embarrassed myself. I imagine my friends will be amused that I met the man, knowing that they too would ditch me for a skirt and boots.
Jason Maurice is a first-year graduate student from California. He writes for the fans, not the critics.
