Chapter Seven

BecoolBecoolBecool.

Finally, finally, finally, another piece of the publishing glacier broke free and washed my quest for fame and fortune a tiny bit forward: Allison, the publishing company’s publicist called.

Not the “director of communications,” or the “PR director,” but the publicist. As in, it is her profession to blatantly seek publicity for me and my book.

Why did this titillate me so? Because back in the ad agency world we danced around the word “publicity” as if it was obscene. Of course, my clients wanted publicity—regular, old, cut-it-out-for-the-scrapbook, hey-I-saw-you-in-the-paper publicity-- but we buffered them from the “crudeness” of actually stating this desire by sitting in meetings and discussing strategy, positioning, and editorial calendars.

And now, the shoe was on the other foot. Now I’d become Narcissus, seeking my own reflection in the pool. Kindly, however, sweet Allison spared me the embarrassment of double-talking my way around the need for publicity by introducing herself as “a Publicist.” Sweet.

After she identified herself her first few sentences blew past my ears for no other reason than the volume of my self-lecture-- Dude! Be cool! She can either do a lot for you, or very little. So be cool. Be cool. Be cool. Sound appreciative. Sound informed. Sound excited, but not giddy. Sound like a professional. Be cool.

After managing to clue back in, she was talking about the book tour.

“Initially,” she said, “we want to commit to Miami, Palm Springs, Raleigh-Durham, Atlanta, and a good bit of South Carolina.”

My mind once again stepped out for a quick fantasy as the most important conversation of my life faded off into Charlie-Brown-Teacher-speak. I was gone, baby. Wasn’t within a twelve hour drive of that conversation: Location, Miami-- no, South Beach-- gliding onto the patio of a bookstore bar (in slow motion) for a signing event, as anorexic models with boob jobs swooned and dropped all around me.

I gleefully ignored Al Franken, who stood grumpily about thirtieth in line. Carl Hiaasen and Tim Dorsey bullied there way to my side, and wished me well.
I generously offered little air kisses to ex-girlfriends, and nodded with Clintonesque understanding as they slashed their wrists, and begged for one more chance. I high-fived with Shaq, then busted him about the majesty of all his gold bling, and his decision to leave the Heat. Even that astronaut-in-diapers chick was there, yearning to tell me my book gave her hope as she prepared to enter the world of minimum wage herself.

“So, I’ll email you this document, and you use it as a reference,” Allison said, employing that universal gotta-go, end-of-the-conversation lilt. “Do you have any questions?”

“No, this is great,” I said. “Just great. Really great. This is great.”

“Well, uh, great,” she said. “Email me the document when you’re done, and be sure to let me know anyone you want Galley Proofs sent to.”

“Galley proofs?”

“Yes—those are the uncorrected proofs we make from an early version of the manuscript. Just cheap paperbacks. It’s what all publishers send out to reviewers, and other VIP’s we want to see the book in advance.”

“When do the Galley Proofs arrive?”

“We have them already,” Allison said.

“Will you send me one? I’d like to try and sell it on Ebay.”

Okay, I didn’t say that. Didn’t even think that. In reality those words didn’t come to me until a couple weeks later, but—well, as a writer I’m granting myself the creative license to “exist in the eternal present,” so I can move stuff around if the need arises. The real end of the conversation went more like this:

“Any questions?”

“No, but thanks—this is great!”

“Okay. Now listen, we printed a very respectable printing for a first time author, but you’ve only got 90 days before bookstores start sending them back. So you’ll need to hustle. Cool?”

“Cool.”

“No questions?”

“No questions.”

“Okay. Bah-bye.”

Click. Dial Tone.

So not cool. So not, not cool. 90 days, and you said you had no questions?

How about, “Is gas money provided for a book tour? Air transportation? Coach or business class? Food per diem? Lodging? Ritz, Holiday Inn, or Rut n’ Come Inn? When will these tour dates be? Why did you pick those cities? Can we add more cities? When is the book coming out? Will you send me some galley proofs? When do the actual books arrive? When a friend hosts a function for me, are books sold on behalf of the publisher? Or am I selling books bought at the author’s discount? Are you doing any marketing? Where are you sending books? Who is doing the follow-up on the books you send out? And who, dammit, who among us doesn’t love Nascar?”

I stood and looked at the phone with self-loathing. The phone just sat there, offering nothing. I walked (in slow motion) to feed the dogs.

Doing my homework

For the next couple of days I waded through my homework for Allison, which entailed essentially the building of a data base of affinity groups that might be pre-disposed to buy my book, then tracking down the appropriate point of contact for their magazine or newsletter.

In my case, those groups included the Marines, Auburn University, Kappa Alpha Order (my college frat), my hoighty-toighty high school Porter Gaud, and all my contacts within the South Carolina media. Doing this work was almost as boring as reading about it, thus the quick demise of this particular section.

Who is Navin R. Johnson?

Everyday we read about celebrities imploding.

They seem to have it all, but somehow manage to put on the helmet and hop into the tank alongside Michael Dukakis, time after time. Drugs, alcoholism, car crashes, arrests, overdoses, out-of-wedlock kids, tantrums, tirades, nervous breakdowns, depression—their bios read like the notes from a Kennedy family Christmas dinner.

At the risk of sounding French, I do confess to a petite nugget of empathy for their madness. This empathy doesn’t surface as a result of any great wisdom, but instead from morbid fascination, and some deep thinking (by my standards) about the world where they live.

Consider their lives: All gravitational norms that ground us as humans have ceased to exist in their world, and thus the darker side of their human nature is free to go Trumponic—after all, who needs God, when you are a god?

Imagine a life where you could simply banish anyone who makes you in the least bit unhappy. No, forget that—you could banish anyone who dared even look you in the eyes: Sounds savory, no?

But, here’s the rub—before you even realized the negative effects of all this banishing, a new inner circle of bon vivant yes-men would step in to “help” you.

Bowing and scraping, they’d gently lift those heavy reigns of banishment from you, and assume for themselves the task of monitoring your posse-- ensuring only their circle of remora be allowed to feed on your scraps.

Why? Self-preservation, of course. If they can fashion a world where you are right/smart/perfect/funny 24/7/365, then it stands to reason that you will be happy in this new world. You following me? And if you find yourself happy, then you are going to try to maintain the status quo… a status quo that includes them inside your inner circle. In medical terms, you’ve contracted a deadly virus, but you love the feeling the virus causes.

Next stop, Perfectville—inhabited only by folks that think you are the Sun King, no matter what you do. And since you haven’t personally banished anyone in quite some time, this would feel strangely natural, this Perfectville. You haven’t hand-chosen these people who surround you, ergo the world revolves around you because… the world revolves around you.

Every joke you tell is funny, every insight you have is brilliant, every cause you back is righteous. Wake up at 2pm from a horrific three-day bender, and drag yourself to the bathroom to die, and—tada! There’s a living room full of “friends” telling you how awesome and funny and cool you’ve been-- for three straight days. The best! Everyone loves you! Want a Grey Goose Bloody Mary (that you paid for)? How about a valium? It’s right here, sayth the parasites of Perfectville.

Now, let’s consider the unthinkable: What would happen if a couple of Joe’s like you and me got an invitation to move into our very own Perfectville?

Would we take it? What about if the invitation came with you already understanding the pitfalls described above? Would you be willing to forfeit your spot as a face in the crowd? Take the risk that you could supervise the sycophants and rebuff the bootlickers?

Now, consider the phone call that came in today:

Allison: Prioleau? It’s me, Allison. Uh, you’re not going to believe this, but I just got a call from a producer at Oprah. They want to know if you have any photos of yourself working these jobs.

(Insert sound of crickets)

Allison: Hello?

(More crickets)

Allison: Prioleau?

Me: Oprah? As in talk show Oprah?

Allison: That’s her.

Me: Gave away 50 million dollars last year Oprah?

Allison: You got it.

Me: Well, uh, I took some snapshots—but nothing fancy.

Allison: That’s okay-- this is just an inquiry, so there’s no way to know if it will pan out.

Me: Probably for the best if it doesn’t work out. My book makes A Million Little Pieces look like a deposition given by an Amish Elder on sodium pentothal.

(Insert more crickets)

Me: Ha! That’s a joke! Aren’t I funny?

So, Oprah. Now just uses one name, Oprah. Harpo spelled backwards, Oprah. The undisputed heavyweight bookseller, Oprah. The spiritual advisor to more Americans than the Pope-ah, Oprah.

How big is Oprah in the literary world? If The New York Times Book Review printed an entire edition exploring the brilliance of your book, sales would be gentle summer rain compared to being smacked by Hurricane Oprah.

Now, how on earth does some yo-yo-yokel from Charleston, SC contend with an invitation to appear on Oprah? If such an invite transpired, many issues would demand consideration-- but first things first: I’d need to decide which me Oprah would meet:

Oprah: So, Pree-law, let’s skip the story behind your stupid impossible-to-spell name-- what inspired this book about minimum wage jobs?

Bookselling me: I felt the story of the underprivileged needed to be told.

Christian me: It was a God thing.

The me I try not to be: I’m an idiot and I quit my job because I’m an idiot, and out of desperation wrote the book so it would seem like I was poor on purpose.

Oprah: What’s been the best part of the experience?

Bookselling me: Raising awareness.

Christian me: The tithe.

The me I try not to be: The money.

Oprah: What’s been the worst part?

Bookselling me: The feeling that I’m not doing enough.

Christian me: God uses hard times to refine us in his image, so it’s all good.

The me I try not to be: Easy. The thought that one of the bastards who rejected my earlier writing won’t see this interview, remember me, and cry.

Oprah: What’s your hope for the future?

Bookselling me: There are a number of important social issues I’d like to explore, and I’m hoping my publisher that will give me the creative freedom to do just that.

Christian me: I have a book about Christian issues I’d like to see published.

The me I try not to be: I’d like to get Oprah rich, move to Perfectville with my wife and dogs, and build The Great Wall of Eat Me around it.

Which you would you use? Which one would go over the best in Oprahoma? I decided there was only one person mean enough to set me straight… my agent.

Me: Dude, Allison called. She got an inquiry from a producer at Oprah.

Agent: %&$y… Don’t $!+, M^* joke with me:…{+%$*”!!!

Me: I’m not joking. She just called, and they asked for some photos of me sweatin’ for the big bucks.

Agent: Sweet! Well done, Pray--

Me: Do you think I’ll get sued by one of my subjects if I go on Oprah, and the book makes it big?

Agent: I think you’re gonna get sued by all of your subjects. Whether you go on Oprah or not.

Me: If I get sued, will you accept 15% of the liability? Hello? Hello?

I can feel my head swelling already.

As I write, it’s been a week since Oprah’s producer called Allison, which then begat my day of running around getting the photos scanned, burned to a disc, and fedexed off.

Here’s how many phone calls and emails I’ve gotten from or about Oprah this week: Zero.

Here’s how many people I’ve killed as a result: Zero.

Here’s how many I’m going to kill if I don’t hear something soon: A lot.

Two Weeks post-Oprah, no word…

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

CSI Miami Moment

Horatio: Looks like our victim was dreaming of an Oprah shortcut…

(Puts on glasses)

Horatio: And instead, he got his dream… cut short.

YEEEEEEEAAAAAWWWWWwwwwww.