Chapter 15

He who would be famous
must lack shame.
Anonymous

A lot of strange people hang out on Chicago streets and not just Bears and Bulls and Cubs fans. Street people point fingers of cardboard at us while we wait in line for the tickets that are going to take me on to fame. The finger sign reads “will eat for work,” making me wonder if there are jobs where you get to eat as work. I might need to look into that.

Bette’s purchased multi-colored goggles better worn by kids in wading pools on hot summer days than by twenty-something women edging into old-enough-to-know-better, but people who came really early as we did notice and smile. It was still dark when we formed the line with only two people in front of us. Ho-Bee and John remain at the condo. I hope my dog isn’t cluster-bombing their apartment. I’m grateful he isn’t tangled up, running circles around my ankles. It’s been a chilly wait but we bought cups of coffee and now that the sun’s up, someone will surely come soon to open the ticket booth. We’re not the first in line so I hope we get in. The couple in front of us are friendly but they’ve brought lawn chairs to sit on and they doze.

Chef Art Smith is actually Oprah’s former chef. It’s such an ordinary name for such an important position. Everyone knows his name. I’ve prepared a few of the recipes included in O magazine that Chef Smith contributed. While I’m not much of a cook, this effort to research and know a little about Oprah’s meal tastes has increased my interest and my skill. I fixed chicken breasts with lemon and carrots that I didn’t overbake so that’s promising. I wish I had a piece now.

Darlien has her arms crossed in her policewoman stance.

“What’s that?” I ask Darlien, pointing to a black cylinder in her pocket.

“A toothbrush. The one British Airways gave us. Along with the eye patches so we could sleep. Remember?”

“You brought your toothbrush along?”

“I’ll want to be sure I have fresh breath,” Darlien says. “In case we get invited to the table.”

“I brought mine too,” Bette says.

“Really. I never would have thought of brushing my teeth.”

“Does Oprah have a dentist?” Misty asks. “She must.”

“Oh, I can see me trying to talk to Oprah’s dentist about my book,” I laugh.

“It’s hard to talk to any dentist,” Darlien says. “You can listen. But they put those things in your mouth and then ask you questions. It’s crazy.”

“As a profession, dentists have a high depression rate,” Kari tells us.

“I’d be depressed too, if no one ever answered me.”

“Think of how Irving must feel that you don’t answer his phone calls,” Bette reminds me.

“You think I’m responsible for my editor’s depression? How much more responsibility can I handle?” Actually, it is possible I am or will be depressing my editor if he doesn’t approve of my revisions. I really ought to be writing now instead of standing in line to get tickets for a class that has only marginal make-my-book-a-bestseller possibilities. At least we’ll have something interesting to taste when it’s over. And of course, we’ll have another story if nothing else.

“You didn’t bring a pet?” the man says, handing me five tickets for Chef Smith’s afternoon taping. “Chef Smith is making canine cuisine today, dog biscuits and whatnot, so most of the guests who bought advance tickets will also bring their dogs today.”

I look at my watch.

“Clint will bring him,” Kari volunteers.

“Swell. Remember to have your IDs with you,” the ticket master says. “Be back at two o’clock. Taping starts at three.”

We call Clint, who says he’ll bring Ho-Bee. Since we’re down town, we decide to shop and I find myself buying both cat and dog toys. After all, Ho-Bee is so charming he may well attract special attention by Chef Smith. Clint meets us for lunch at a nearby tapas bar. I think he misses the fun we gal pals have together. He smiles, hanging around while girls talk of shopping, music, books, and parents.

Parents! I tell Darlien how Mom thought I’d met Jaime at a “topless bar.”

“You have to enunciate with Mom,” Darlien says. “Her hearing is going. And she’s probably never heard of a tapas bar.”

“What kind of a breed is that dog, anyway?” a pleasant-looking man at the table next to me asks. We sit outside under umbrellas sporting the names of fruit drinks served inside. Little bottles of scent effusions sit on each table and lavender floats over us.

“A Jack Russell,” I say. “I think.”

“Ah. With a long tail. Interesting.”

Interesting. A word used when you don’t have something kind to say.

“Do you have a dog?” Misty interjects, then slips right over into promoter mode. “This is Annie Shaw. She’s a very successful writer.”

I feel my face grow warm.

“Congratulations. I’ve always wanted —”

“To write a book,” I say. “I know. I think you should. Everyone has a story worthy of telling.” I really believe that.

He frowns. “I could never write a book. Way too hard. No, I’ve always wanted a dog. But I travel so much. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Unless you had friends to look after him,” Misty says. “Or a wife.”

“I have the former, not the latter, but none who wish to look after a dog. I don’t believe I’ve heard of your work, Miss Shaw, was it?”

Already embarrassed by my own poor listening skills, I say, “Don’t feel badly if you haven’t read anything I’ve written. That puts you in a select group of millions who have never read anything I’ve written.” He laughs at my disarming line to help people feel comfortable for not knowing who I am.

“We’re making that select group smaller though,” Misty adds.

He laughs. “What kind of books do you write?”

For the first time I don’t say “kindling books meant to build a fire in your heart.” I say instead, “They’re stories of the human heart in conflict with itself. William Faulkner said that’s what a writer ought to give their blood and sweat and tears to, when he accepted the Pulitzer Prize in 1954.”

“Give him your card,” Darlien urges.

I feel embarrassed but hand him the card Mavis has made up with both The Long Bad Sentence and Miranda of La Mancha on it. He looks at it. “Thanks. I like to travel, so a story set in Spain appeals to me.” Mavis says we have to promote the current release and the promised next one, too.

The man has deep blue eyes and a voice that sounds like an old Robert Pattison might, though I wasn’t sure the Twilight vampire would ever grow old.

“That book isn’t out yet,” I say. “And we’re not sure of the title but —”

“I’ll look for it,” he says as he stands to leave his tip.

“Wait, here’s her latest,” Darlien says handing him a book. He accepts it, looks at the title. “Is it about grammar?”

“No,” I tell him. “See the correctional patch on the man’s shirtsleeve?” I point it out. “It’s a light romance, set in a prison.”

“Interesting,” he says. “Well, I’ll take a look at it. Thanks. It’s nice to meet you, Annie Shaw. I’ll try to remember your name.” He nods to us all and walks down the street.

“Don’t do that, Misty,” I hiss after he leaves.

“What? He asked about your dog, started the conversation. You don’t have to be ashamed to talk about your books. Besides, he wasn’t married; he likes to travel. You have to take advantage of these moments of connection.”

“It feels so … commercial,” I say.

“If you don’t love your story, who will?” sings Misty.

“Mom.” I say. “Mom will love my story even if I don’t. If and when I get a good review it means that someone besides my mom thought it was a good read. But I don’t want to foist my books onto total strangers!”

“Of course you do! That’s why they’re published. You definitely want strangers, many, many strangers to know your work,” Bette says. “Where’s that confidence?”

That sounds like something my story would say to me, chastising me about my worries over being commercial and about how I demean my own writing.

“Success is when planning and opportunity meet up; that’s what Oprah says. We’re just looking for that invitation.”

But I’m starting to think that the invitation that matters most comes from finding a true calling and not writing to chase the fleet-footed twins of fame and fortune.

The line moves quickly, with people at the door checking both our ID and our dogs. It’s a suburbia zoo with every imaginable breed carried, leashed, and led. I don’t see any poodles with bad trims or half-furminated dogs that I’d left at Élan-Canine Salon. Bette’s talking food but I don’t think she’s heard that the only recipes today will result in dog biscuits and treats, because she keeps saying she can hardly wait to see what the chef has on the menu that she might adapt for her residents. I don’t see how I can work a dog recipe into Miranda’s life—or how Bette would take that recipe back to her assisted living cherubs either.

“Wait here a moment,” the ticket taker says when he sees my ticket. “You’ve got a labeled one. Means you’ll get to sit up front at the counter where Chef Art will be teaching.”

Misty squeals in delight. “That’s wonderful! You’ll get to eat what’s served right away,” she says.

“Ho-Bee will,” I say. “I’m not eating the dog treats.”

“Oh, they’ll surely have something more than that,” Darlien says. “I hope.”

“There’ll be at least a little conversation time during the commercial breaks,” Bette says. “Who knows what connections an enterprising person like you can build that into? You have books to give away, right?” I nod and she gives me a hug. Ho-Bee fidgets against my chest as Misty shuffles quickly to her seat beside Darlien, Kari, and Misty. They sit around little tables with a single iris centered in a vase. Ho-Bee and I are directed to a lovely granite counter with what looks like hand-joined oak chair backs and seats that swivel.

Dog in arm, I maneuver around cords and electrical outlets and step in front of cameras. I wish my T-shirt had the book title on it. None of us is now wearing the brightly colored kids’ sun glasses. But maybe when we’re introduced on air I’ll have the chance to turn toward the camera, say my name and occupation, and mention The Long Bad Sentence. Surely the producer will ask.

Chance. It’s all about making my own chances and not being ashamed of my story.

A make-up assistant puts a tiny touch of powder on my nose to take the shine off, I guess. The production assistant introduces himself. He asks our names and occupations and cuts me off before I can say anything about my book. He makes notes, then tells us where to sit, seating us not at the granite counter but at a table. He places me beside a college student with eyebrows that run together. He wears a “UNLV” label on his shirt. His Boston bulldog wears a matching white shirt. Good idea! The UNLV guy nearly slobbers with a Pavlovian response to a girl with hair so flaming red it looks like it could combust, and a smile as charming as chocolate. She sits diagonally across from me. Her dog is a teacup poodle, pink as bath suds and smelling just as sweet.

Another assistant comes in and lights fragrant candles at each end of the counter.

The chef stands behind the granite along with his French briard, a dog weighing at least 100 pounds and wearing what could only be described as dreadlocks covering his entire frame. The chef introduces him as Bruno as the dog behaves beautifully, sitting at the end of the cooking area.

Chef Art shakes my hand when I answer his question with my name and Ho-Bee’s. “And I’m an author,” I add.

“Are you now,” he says. My heart pounds.

“Yes I write —”

“Words to treasure I am sure,” he says. “I’ve written this book about —”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” he says, kissing my fingertips to the swoons of the crowd and the barks of the various audience dogs.

Thank goodness I’ve polished my nails. They look good with the glitter on the tips sparkling against the table candlelight.

“I write, myself,” he says and holds up his own cookbook that the camera shifts to.

“Oh, I know,” I gush. “I love your cookbook!”

“Which recipe is your favorite?” he asks, and I’m suddenly appalled at what I’ve said, because I’ve never even seen one of his cookbooks before. The presence of greatness has caused exaggeration-itis. If I actually did meet Oprah, what disorder would I contract to steal the rest of my integrity?

“I love them all,” I respond, grateful that he’s moved on to meet another of the labeled people getting to sit close to him.

Ho-Bee puts his paws on the table, which is allowed, because I see the poodle doing the same. The tablecloth shifts a bit. Ho-Bee’s attention shifts when he hears a deep bark in the audience. His back feet launch against my slacks and his paws grab into my shoulders as he yips at a Jack Russell in the third row table behind us. His action pulls my T-shirt up a little further on my belly than even a passionate Ardor author should expose. I yank it back and nearly lose my hold on Ho.

Chef Art chatters to each of the other tablemates, gives his French herding dog the command to “stay,” then steps behind the granite counter stove top, sizzling garlic into hot olive oil. He chatters as he works, mixing flour and milk into a roux, but I think he should be checking what’s on the stove because it smells hot.

We pull up our chairs to watch the chef at work. Applause breaks out at various times, as he adds some new ingredient the audience approves of. “All organic,” he keeps saying. “Your dog deserves the best. All ingredients properly grown without pesticides or chemicals. Green indeed. So safe you can eat it yourself.”

He has little cookie cutters in various shapes, including bones and little birds. Something that he used smells like a hot sauce with cayenne pepper laced with jalapeno, but I’ve not seen those ingredients anywhere on his cooking space. Dogs do like intense tastes, I guess.

Chef Art fixes an entrée that smells of catfish, with colorful side dishes of okra and a fine fresh doggie salad he says will be served last, “as in France,” all the while joking and even delighting me by using my name once or twice, then my dog’s. “Ho-bee, Ho-Bee,” he says. “Such an unusual name.” The camera pans on me and I mouth, “I’m a writer,” all shame vanished. But the camera stops on Ho-Bee. He’s getting the attention. I wish then I’d flirted a little, with the camera man if not Chef Art.

“Such an unusual name,” the UNLV T-shirt says to me at the break.

“He’s named after Brian, one of the Chicago cows,” I say. “And that he’s so happy he makes me think of Santa laughing. ‘Ho, ho, ho.’ “

“You like unusual food?” Chef Art asks. “I’ll fix for you and your little Brian.”

“Ho-Bee,” I remind him.

“Don’t forget us,” UNLV says. “Our pooches love your recipes. We do too. In fact, we’re both culinary students.” Suck-up!

The chef brings a big spoon of okra-like food over and holds it for Ho-Bee to lick, saying my name again. He winks. He’s flirting! What do I do back?

It would double my chances to get a mention of my book if I have a relationship with Chef Art. Is he married? I haven’t researched that! But to have more than a momentary glance, this is fate. I can see it now: He’ll invite me to Oprah’s for dinner he’s prepared himself. I’ll meet Stedman. Gayle will call me and ask for book recommendations. My life will —

“Taste,” he orders. I steady the Chef’s hand with my own, gaze at him, and smile. “Take a taste of the okra dish.”

It’s awful, organic or not. A texture of slugs mixed with slime. It must be what I smelled. Ho-Bee licks the okra from the spoon, devouring it as though it were yesterday’s garbage. I hate okra, but Ho-Bee apparently loves it. My stomach convulses.

“You will make this dish for him again, won’t you, Annie Shaw?” Chef Smith says. I’m impressed that he uses all our names as though he’s known us forever. Maybe he wasn’t flirting with just me. The Chef’s gotten another spoon and now offers it to the teacup while the bulldog slobbers. The bulldog drops a blob onto our tablecloth, and Ho-Bee thinks it must be for him so catapults from my arms and scrambles across the table, laps up the blob, then leaps to the counter.

“He loves this dish, your dog,” the chef says. The audience applauds as my dog licks the spoon in the pan. “You will make this again, yes?” I nod agreement to the lie.

No. This is fiction. I swallow what I feel moving back up. “Of course. Whatever my little Ho-Bee wants.”

Ho-Bee has hopped back onto our table. UNLV glares as Ho-Bee leaps up and down, four-footed. I give out a little groan, wanting to go to the green room because that’s the color I know I am.

The audience gasps. Did I say my wish out loud?

I reach for the dog leash and tug. But I also pull the candle that tips precariously before catching the tablecloth on fire. My shirt feeds the flames and I bat at my stomach as the polyester melts. Ho-Bee chooses this moment to yank the leash from my hand and now takes the flame trails toward the counter. A smoldering smell morphs into smoke. I bat at the tablecloth while attempting to shorten the leash to pull Ho-Bee back, my belly stinging. Teacup Poodle Lady screams and points; UNLV grabs the pitcher of drinking water and douses my shirt, which smells like old ashtrays. But it’s too late. With no more smoke than a toaster gone bad, my shirt and the tablecloth are apparently enough to turn on the sprinklers, which every dog in the place takes as a sign that they’re loved since it’s like being allowed to run in the rain and they squirm and bark to do just that.

“Pardon, pardon,” the chef shouts and flaps with his waist apron to shoo the smoke away while camera people rush to remove their equipment and someone shouts to get the sprinklers off. The blond girl squeals and backs away, holding her poodle, literally in a cup now. UNLV hisses at me. “Celebrity stalker,” he says as he and Teacup’s mother leave. This part will be cut from the tape, I’m sure.

I stand with a charred hole in my T-shirt, wet pants, and Ho-Bee lapping at my cheeks as an escort at my elbow leads me away to the green room, I suppose, to tend to my scorch and keep me from considering a lawsuit. Fortunately, they’ve shut the sprinklers off — but not before the audience was bathed.

“What is your name?” the producer asks me. I hang on to Ho-Bee, who lies still in my arms as though the okra is a sedative.

“Annie Shaw,” I whisper. “I’m a writer.”

“Aren’t we all?” The producer writes something on his clipboard.

“Really, I’m fine. I’ll be happy to join my friends.”

In another room, a man blinking away water dripping from his hair paws through the show releases we all signed before they started taping. “Ah yes, here it is. Annie Shaw. Well, we won’t need your release for this tape. We’ll have to chuck this entire show.”

“There might be a clip for KGW news,” I suggest. “You have a hero who saved a writer and a young woman and their pets and kept the studio from being consumed by flames. People love hearing stories where animals are saved. We all survived a close call. No dogs were hurt. You might need the release. And here,” I pull a copy of my book out from my back pocket and hand it to him. Bette would be proud.

He stares at the book, looks up at me. “Good idea.” My heart soars. I’d make it on the news! My book will be on the news!

“Bob. Get the UNLV kid in here. We’ll make him a hero for the five o’clock.” To me he says, “Your stomach, where you’re burned. Is it —”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Good. Make sure miss — what’d you say your name was again?”

“Annie Shaw. It’s right there on the cover.”

“Right. Make sure Miss Flaw here is seen by the physician for that burn.” He’s ripping up my release as he talks, put the pieces like little bookmarks into my tome, then sets it down in a puddle of water pooling at my feet. “Then get an interview on tape with the kid and the flashy redhead in the wet T-shirt. With their dogs. Good copy. Might make a nice lead-in for the chef … clumsy woman rescued by a young student while dogs eat Italian cuisine. Yeah. People will love it.”

“Won’t you need my name … and consent for that?” I ask.

“There was so much smoke no one will see your face. We’ll call it even by providing you with medical care for your scorched belly and not asking you to repay us for the fire and sprinkler damages. Sound okay with you, Miss Flaw?”

“It’s Shaw,” I say as my gal pals appear at my side. “My name is Annie Shaw.” But maybe I should think about writing under a pen name.

Back at Kari and Clint’s we hover around the eleven o’clock news. We wait through national events, the weather, and the latest sports news, including NASCAR updates and pictures of cars with sponsoring brands written all over them.

“Maybe they won’t cover it,” Bette says.

“They always close with some light local news,” Clint says. “Your escapade will likely be next.”

“Shh, there’s the building!” Misty says.

“Guests of Chef Art Smith’s culinary class today had quite a surprise,” chirps the perky announcer, “when they attended his downtown restaurant class. Canine cuisine was on the menu, with dogs of every stripe present to share in the excitement as Oprah’s former chef prepared gourmet dog food for dozens of his furry friends. In the midst of the festivities, a rambunctious Jack Russell terror known as Ho-Bee—that’s a strange name, isn’t it, Bill—ruled.”

“Jack Russells always rule, Monica.” Bill smiles.

“This Jack Russell toppled a candle that caught a tablecloth and his owner’s T-shirt on fire and apparently burned a bit of her belly, or so we heard.”

“Ouch!” says Bill.

“But culinary student John Stevenson, of Las Vegas, Nevada, saved the day. He tossed ice water on the woman while her dog consumed the okra delight.”

John Stevenson, NLV, smiles into the camera, with his bulldog slathering beside him. Laughter in the studio causes the announcer to catch her breath.

“How embarrassing,” I say.

“Quiet. She’s not finished,” Darlien says.

“The fire set off the sprinklers at Harpo Studios. Unit 550 of the Chicago Fire Department responded to the call,” the announcer continued. “Oprah is said to have sent her condolences for the smoke-filled studio and the unexpected bathing of all the audience dogs too. She’d planned to join her old friend as a surprise, but the fire department sent her away.”

“What! Oprah was going to come?” I gasp.

“At least they didn’t use the hero’s dog’s name,” Kari says. “Ho-Bee got noticed.”

“She was there!” I wail. “If only I could have kept control over my dog I might have met her! In the flesh.”

“At least they didn’t show your face, so we won’t be stopped when we go to the taping of Oprah’s show on Monday,” Darlien says. “There’s always a silver lining—even if it did get a little wet.”

From: Website Contact Form
To: Annie Shaw
Name: Charmaine Brotsky
cbrotsky@bandit.net

My daughter is in prison. I wanted you to know that the only thing we can talk about when I visit her that doesn’t get us into some terrible argument is your books. We can share something that doesn’t have a hard memory attached. We talk about the women and the trouble they get into and we talk about the adventures they have. I have your publisher send them directly to my daughter; I can’t bring them into the prison, of course. But I thank you so much for giving us a subject that helps us care about each other and brings moments of true joy into our visits. Thank you so much.

Charmaine Brotsky, Deadwood, Oregon