Goldberg: Real people

By Tod Goldberg

I'm sitting in a chair talking to Byron Allen and I think, man, if this were 1979, this would be one of the biggest thrills of my life. I'd be peppering Byron with questions about Sarah Purcell and the rest of the "Real People" cast and digging for info about his stunning turn on "Battle of the Network Stars" alongside Greg Evigan and Fred Willard. Instead, it is 2004 and I've spent the past two days walking among the broiling multitudes at the L.A. Times Festival of Books, the largest literary gathering in the universe (400 authors and upwards of 140,000 people attend over two days) and though Byron Allen is preparing to interview me for a new show called "The Writer's Hotlist," the biggest thing burrowing in my mind is that I think, though I'm not positive, that I can smell my own groin.

"Hot day," Byron says.

"Yes," I say, shifting in my seat, trying to figure out if it's a smell or just a sensation, the idea of a smell as it were. Byron smiles and tells me it will be just a few more minutes before I'm up to bat and then explains to me that he won't actually be interviewing me, that one of his producers will and then, in post production, they'll cut him in. I imagine shots of me pontificating about the virtues of being Tod spliced with shots of Byron nodding pensively and it seems like about as close as I'll ever get to being on "Oprah," which is okay when you really think about it. Byron steps away, which is nice because we've already run out of things to say with the scintillating conversation about the heat done with, and I'm able to think about the last weekend of my life.

The Festival of Books is like Christmas for writers and readers, minus all that Jesus vs. Santa stuff, and serves as something of a convention for the authors, a chance to see your friends from all literary genres in one place. Last year, I was up for the L.A. Times Book Prize, an award given out during the Festival, which made the event a bit more stressful, as I was forced to pretend I didn't care about anything and was just happy to be nominated (vomiting all over myself might have proven to onlookers otherwise), but this year I was just here as a panelist and book-signer, which meant the only stress I had was of the "Should I go up and introduce myself to Sherman Alexie?" variety. The year previous, I'd shared a table briefly with Mr. Alexie while we both tried to wake up over fruit and coffee in the green room, but I hadn't gathered the gumption to actually speak with him. This year, I would (and did...comporting myself nicely, thank you). I also decided I was going to have Elmore Leonard sign the 10 first editions I'd brought along, and, if given the chance, speak directly to Christopher Hitchens about something really dumb, like cheese. The cool part of becoming a published novelist is sometimes, just sometimes, you get to do the things dreams are made of...or nightmares.

Hitchens turned out to be like shooting hawks in a barrel. When I first arrived in the author green room, he was making his way around the buffet in concentric circles, looking resplendent in a pale-colored suit that smelled of cigarettes and hard nights. Well, okay, it didn't really smell like hard nights. Anyway, I sidled next to him in line and planned my attack...and it came swiftly, when he paused to look at the fruit and cheese display.

"I hear the cheese is very good," I said.

Hitchens raised his eyebrows and nodded without making eye contact. We then talked extensively about Iraq, or, well, we did in my head, and that, pretty much, was that. Across the room, I could hear a rather conservative TV/radio doctor woman getting angry about the lack of the word "doctor" on her nametag, and decided to get out before the egos in the room crushed me.

Getting Elmore Leonard to sign my books would be a breeze, especially since we were doing a book signing together. I had it all planned out: I'd hand him my books at the conclusion of the signing and then say what an influence he was and he'd say, hey, call me Dutch and we'd laugh like old friends and he'd buy dozens of copies of my books to give out as presents to friends and family alike and it would be a real special day for all involved. Instead, I only got a few moments with Mr. Leonard, time enough to tell him that he's influenced me and time enough to feel like I'd really made a connection with the man. He signed all of my books and then bid me a fond farewell. I said goodbye and then opened my books, half expecting to see his phone number, really, but only finding that he'd inscribed the books to...Tom. All 10.

"You ready?" Byron says.

As I'll ever be, Byron.