Professor Yeti

My story begins several weeks ago, when I heard that Gary Snyder was going to be on a radio program, Talking Volumes, and that the show would be recorded live, in front of a studio audience at the Fitzgerald Theater. Being a fan of Snyder’s, I decided to buy a ticket and go. I met a friend for dinner and then we arrived early at the performance — if we got there just when the doors opened, an hour before showtime, we could sit near the front.

Everything went to plan, and I enjoyed the show from the second row. Snyder was humorous and kind, it was entertaining to see (rather than listen to) a radio program, and there was a full and appreciative audience. Once the performance was over, I was reminded that there would be a book signing afterwards. I figured I might as well take advantage, since I had brought the only Gary Snyder book I owned, Riprap, & Cold Mountain Poems.

I assumed I’d be near the front of the line to get my book signed — the line was to start at the stage, and well, I was in the second row. But by the time I made my way out to the aisle, I found I was already behind twenty people, and that there were, oh, a hundred fifty behind me. Gary Snyder had already walked off stage and we were told that he was taking a rest and that he would be coming back on stage to sign books in several minutes. I speculated that he was going to the bathroom and getting a sip of wine. But, wherever he was, he wasn’t there.

Mostly, everyone stood in silence, staring at the empty stage as though looking at it would make him appear. Before long, a table was brought out, and a glass of water and some pens were placed on it. A chair was set behind it. There was a general murmuring — if the autographing table and chair were in place, Gary Snyder would be back soon. A woman standing next to me pulled out about eight Gary Snyder books from her backpack. A bespectacled man behind me produced a stack of hardbacks, seemingly out of thin air. I felt a strong desire to edge myself nearer to the front of the line, especially because things were starting to get moving: a woman from backstage (and who was therefore associated with Gary Snyder) came to the front of the line and started handing out sticky notes and some of those little stubby pencils that are commonly found at golf courses and libraries. We were told that if we wanted the book dedicated to somebody, we should write exactly what we wanted Snyder to write on the sticky note. That way there would be no spelling mistakes and we would be able to move quickly and smoothly through the line.

We weren’t greedy, exactly, but we did seem to expect something from Snyder, as if, because we had watched the performance, we were owed a signed book (or, in many cases, a stack of signed books). The whole thing seemed sort of empty: What did we expect would happen when Snyder signed our books? Why did people need so many of them signed? Was everyone really so desperate to have fifteen seconds of face time with a famous poet? I didn’t know, but when Snyder came out on stage, I saw him take a little peep at the line that stretched all the way from the stage to the lobby and I detected a faint grimace of resignation as he sat down and began signing.

The process worked like this: You handed your book to a man standing next to the autographing table. This man opened your book to the title page and placed your personalized sticky note (if you choose to have a dedication) prominently on the top of the title page, where Snyder could easily read it. Then he foisted the pre-prepared tome in front of Snyder (who resembled an autographing-machine on an assembly line) and Snyder signed away. If you made a comment while getting the autograph, Snyder would respond politely, but would not take any extra time talking — once you got your book handed back, you were expected to walk offstage and go home.

But we didn’t want to go home. We were in line because we wanted his attention, his appreciation — we wanted him to remember our names. It wasn’t that we would steal anything tangible, it was more like we wanted to take away a little bit of his fame, as if, because he had written the poem, “Mid-August at Sourdough Mountain Lookout,” we expected him to make time for each of us. Many of us were probably secretly hoping for dinner invitations, for elaborate conversations, for life-long acquaintance. But, at the very least, there were two hundred people in line, and all of them wanted Gary Snyder to say just the right thing, to be congenial and friendly, and tell them a joke.

He took another peep at the length of the line — even though he’d been signing for ten minutes, it didn’t seem to be getting any shorter, and it was the first time I’d really, truly understood the hell that comes along with being famous. By this time, I was standing on stage, only a few people away from having my book signed. I had chosen not to get a dedication — I would simply have him scrawl “Gary Snyder” across the title page, thank him, and be on my way.

But, before I could get to the front of the line, there was a snag — one man getting his book signed nominally knew Gary Snyder. They didn’t know each other very well, but the man did know Snyder just enough that Snyder couldn’t avoid having a brief conversation — a conversation that, as it continued, didn’t seem at all to reduce Snyder’s latent weariness at having to glad-hand so many people. I began regretting my bad luck at having gotten stuck behind this hold up when one of the handlers leaned in and said to those of us about to get our books signed: “After he’s done with this person, Gary’s going to thank the musicians from the performance. It will only take a second, so don’t worry.” I looked, and, sure enough, the musicians were standing next to the table, waiting for their chance to talk to Mr. Snyder.

When Snyder was done talking with his nominal acquaintance, he turned to the musicians and began a conversation. Almost immediately, he was happier, lighter, and it seemed clear that he actually knew and liked the musicians. It put his interaction with the autograph-seekers in stark relief. I looked back at the line of fans waiting for their shot at an autograph, and saw that many of their faces were contorted in rage: Gary Snyder was holding up the line to have a conversation with his actual friends! The gall! The nerve! their faces seemed to say. There was noticeable tension in the line as the conversation continued and when it was done (it lasted no more than a minute and a half) one of the musicians turned to us: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry for the delay,” she said, and I couldn’t believe we’d put her in a situation where she had to apologize to us.

But that’s how it was, and so when I got my autograph, I didn’t say anything but “Thank You,” and left, and vowed to never get an autograph again — not because the experience was all that horrible for me (though I didn’t like waiting in line for fifteen minutes) but because sometimes, if you really like somebody, the nicest thing you can do for them is leave them alone.

Alex Starace (alex@professoryeti.com) will autograph baseballs, newspapers and envelopes upon request.

This entry was posted on Monday, May 30th, 2005 at 10:45 am and is filed under Columns. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Responses are currently closed, but you can trackback from your own site.