Sapphic Voices Romance

The Reading

by Mary Dawn
Contact The Writer
Copyright © by Mary Dawn, 2006

I'm always surprised by the applause. How many of these women have actually read anything I've written? I don't know. All I know is that I feel like vomiting. I've tried everything to manage the growing panic over this event, but nothing has worked. I paid $150 bucks for hypnosis, and still visited the bathroom to pee a dozen times before entering this ballroom packed with festive women. Dear Lord, help, I pray. Help me to read this smutty story to this crowd. Let me say the nasty words and maintain some semblance of professionalism. I don't like to read; I like to write. I'm a writer. What the publisher needs to do is get themselves an actor. They can pay her from my royalties. I refuse to do this again.

I'm afraid to open my mouth, and certainly don't want to look into the sea of expectant faces. I've already chosen my landmark, the sunburst decorating the back of the hall. I look out to it, thank it for its generous welcome. That's the first thing. I ignore the fact that my voice is wavering. Claudia tells me it sounds like I'm excited when one is listening from 'out there' in the audience, not to worry about it; I'm great on stage. Claudia is a liar, and I intend to remind her of that fact when I refuse her next request for a public appearance.

The second thing is to 'chit chat' about how thrilled I am to be here, about to pass out, throw up, and die of humiliation. I organize my 'space'. I adjust the podium light and make sure the water bottle is within reach, cap loosened. I breathe, pray, ask for help from the Gods, whatever it is I need to get through the next minutes. Claudia advises that this is my time, the moments before reading, to engage my audience, to make them want what I have to offer, to enjoy my success.

I consider blurting out that I'm unable to read my selection, that I don't know why I allowed myself to be talked into this, to explain that I really don't mean it. I want to warn them that what they are about to hear could change them somehow. Honestly, what I'm about to read could change the way they see me. Claudia, as my publicist, says it's time to let these particular demons out. She says it's my best work.

I introduce the title of the piece. It is really too late to do anything but dive in. I open the pages that are so new, I had to crack the bound spine to lay them out flat. The books are being stacked in the foyer as we speak, ready for their premier, waiting for my signature should anyone want an autograph afterward. I'm getting ahead of myself; I still have work to do here, now. Read it like someone else wrote it. That gem of advice from Claudia is the absolute best. It was what made me trust her in the first place. I begin to read.

My mouth pretends to be unfamiliar with the words I chose. They are too big. There are too many commas to get the phrasing right. I know how I'd like the dialog and narration to sound, but then again, who do I have to blame for it coming out wrong? I stumble along, pacing myself according to Claudia's strict guidelines. Slow and steady. I'm supposed to give the listener time to appreciate the vocabulary, to find the humor, build expectation.

When catcalls and whistles break out in pockets around me, I look up quickly, surprised. I've lost myself in the damned tale. I'm disoriented by the change of scene, and perspective. A few scattered applause encourage me to get back to my grossly deflowered heroine. I'm transformed into a minister of the pulpit, my twisted congregation egging me on to greater and greater violations of propriety. They ask, and so shall receive.

It takes more self control not to rush the last two paragraphs. I'm not nervous anymore, just excited, relieved to be almost done. The last words gracefully slip from my tongue. I close my book on the lectern, say thank you, seductively, my trademark flourish. This the only part of the reading I really enjoy.

"Encore!" A salt and peppered matronly woman in the front, yells out to me. The applause is deafening. I hadn't really wanted to know how many people were here, but it is the biggest crowd yet. People are standing up, my signal to let the next entertainer do her stuff. Claudia is striding toward me on stage , her hands held up to stop me. She is beaming; she yells in my ear, "You're getting a standing ovation girl! Get back up there!" She backs away from me, clapping exuberantly.

Claudia has not provided me with instruction for this scenario. I know what an encore is at a concert, it means keep playing music. We are on a schedule here, so I can't just read another piece, besides I don't have one prepared. I make my way back to the podium; my listeners regain their perches, quiet themselves.

"I must apologize." I say. "I was just informed that you all are standing in appreciation, not standing to leave, or pick up stones." Laughter. "I've not had such an enthusiastic response before, so I'm a bit overwhelmed. If I thought I would have actually survived this reading, I would have prepared another piece. I was sure I'd faint before I finished!"

We'll catch you! Someone from the back hollers to the group's amused laughter. "Well!" , I say, "on that note, I'll be available to interview all 'catchers' at the table outside!" I kiss my fingertips and throw them all a kiss, "Goodnight!" I feel like a rock star.

Claudia links her arm through mine as I descend the stairs, ushering me through the throng of rowdy, clapping women, and out the door behind the stage. The hallway is quiet except for the noise fading from the ballroom as the door closes on its pneumatic hinges; someone else is speaking, introducing the next entertainment for the evening. The crowd looses it mind, begins stomping, ready for more.

Claudia, gives me a big hug, claps me on the back. "Awesome, girl, absolutely fantastic!" She always says this afterward, but tonight she is grinning from ear to ear, her color high. "Let's get you freshened up, something in your stomach, are you okay?" She gets me to the restroom, where I pee yet again, and wash up. I need these moments of silence to get myself together. A standing ovation.

I emerge from the privacy of the restroom. Claudia takes my book, hands me a sandwich. I take a test bite, careful not to drop anything on my suit. It is delicious. I haven't had solid food since last night. I take two more mouthfuls , wash them down with water. I pop a breath mint in my mouth and we head out to the signing table.

We turn the corner into the lobby, and I almost choke on my candy. A line of women, with books, my book. Some of them spot me, greet me with whistles and whoops. I hastily crunch my mint; it's show time again. I shake a few hands before getting to my seat. Claudia hands me my pen, the one that won't smear, or smudge, and that dries quickly. It is purple, another affectation.

I have to remind myself to smile and relax, give myself a pep talk. They just want to talk to you. Pretend you're standing in line at the grocery store passing the time. "What's your name?" I say to the first woman, pen poised.

"Janice." she says.

"Any special requests, Janice?" I ask.

"No", she replies, shly.

"Do you have a favorite story?" I write, Janice, enjoy being bad. Wait for her response.

"The one about the strawberries." she smiles. I smile back and wink. Thank you, I mouth. She thanks me. One down, and by the looks of it, fifty to go. I can't engage everyone personally, but I try to do more than just sign the book. I'm having fun misbehaving, flirting.

Leia, whose name I have to write on a separate piece of paper to get right, slips me a note with her book, an invitation to join her later for a drink. I smile at her, motioning for her to bend down closer, "I'd love to, but I'm flying out this evening." It is my standard, and often true response. I write something special for the brazen ones that come bearing gifts, invitations, especially those with copies of anthologies where my stories have been published before, those willing to give me insight as to what they liked and why.

I get someone to find Claudia for me. When she appears, I ask her for something with sugar in it. The next dozen women in line overhear the conversation. I am offered several interesting proposals for getting something sweet. Each of them gets some word play about sugar in their copies along with my sloppy, but artistic initials.

Claudia returns with a smoothie. I wonder, briefly, how she found a smoothie so fast, and where did it come from? She sits beside me, chatting with the women in line, until she's interrupted by business, and hurries off. "Was that your girlfriend?" The beautiful woman I've been watching in line is now in front of me. "No, I say, giving her my best sly smile, "she's more like my pimp." Everyone within hearing laughs at my joke. "Actually that is Claudia, my publicist. She's single ladies, a dollar for her number!" I now have something to write for those who participated in that little joke.

The line is winding down, and so am I. The last stragglers get thank you for coming, always. Claudia re-appears with my half-eaten sandwich, a candy bar. "Before you crash, " she draws diet cola up through the straw, her drink of choice, "I have taken the liberty of arranging a reading in San Francisco for you next week. Will you be on the plane?"

I really can't believe her. We've talked about this. She's seen what a basket case I am. "Claudia! What do I have to do to get it into your head that I don't like this?" We are interrupted by a throng of women, fresh from intermission, books in hand. Where are they all coming from? I go through another round, a much shorter round of signings, banter, flirtation. I'm distracted for sure, but I know Claudia is watching me, perhaps taking notes on areas I need to address the next time she convinces me to read.

I finish shaking the last soft, lovely hand, one that presented me with a rose of all things. I wonder, too, where this woman found a rose on such short notice, perhaps in the same hidey hole the smoothie came from? I'm very flattered; I give the woman a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I collapse into my chair; the lobby is nearly empty, the ballroom thumping with the concert in full swing inside. Claudia folds her arms, critically assessing me, and my rose. Her look says it all.

"Okay, dammit, I'll read in San Francisco next week, and wherever else you send me, but I'm not going alone. You hear me?" I stab my index finger at her, making my point clear. I need her to be there or else I won't show. I fold my arms too, giving her the look she's giving me, or at least trying. I'm not the professional; she is.

Claudia offers her hand; I shake it. "Deal." she says. "We make a great team." She resumes sucking on her straw. "By the way," she says. "You're already on the program. You need to rest up that hand. The crowd will be at least twice as big." She winks.

"Pimp." I accuse, not having anything better to throw at her. My sandwich is gone; my smoothie is gone; I'm a writer. I have words.

She shrugs her shoulders, unimpressed. She works for the publisher; she is a publicist. She has powers of persuasion, keen insight, a critical eye and ear, "Whore." She raises an eyebrow suggesting she's hit her mark without breaking a sweat.

We ride up together in the elevator, me to call home and explain my schedule has been altered yet again. She to report to her superiors the days' events and assure them I will be in San Francisco, sweating and vomiting profusely in a week. I'm saving the invitations and phone numbers in my jacket pocket for my scrapbook. I note Claudia's puffed up pocket. I've never asked what she does with her offers.

"See you." I say, wiggling my fingers in her direction as I get off the elevator.

"You bet." she says, her classic no frills good-bye. "Hey", she adds, holding the elevator, " You really don't even need me anymore, but I'll be along for the ride as long as they let me." She gives me her best business smile, "You're going to make a lot of money, honey." She mimics my finger wiggle, allowing the doors to close on her performance.

If you have enjoyed Mary Dawn's "The Reading", then please be certain to Contact The Writer and thank her for posting this Story.

Click here for a list of all of Mary Dawn's Stories at Sapphic Voices Authoresses.

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