Chapter Thirteen

Tim Dorsey

If you haven’t read any of the novels by my Auburn classmate Tim Dorsey, put him on your list.

As a crime-humor novelist exploring the insanity of life in South Florida, he is in the top five fiction novelists in America today—a list completed by Carl Hiaasen, Christopher Moore, Pat Conroy, and Terry Pratchett.

Yes, these writers all include humor in their writing, but that’s why I rank them so highly-- they are novelists and humorists, a combination of skills that both evades me, and holds me in awe.

The story of how I met Tim during college is pretty typical. After dropping my girlfriend off at her dorm following a TriDelt sorority social, the ensuing silence in the car inspired me to sing along to The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald.

When tears began pouring down my cheeks when Gordon and I sang, “7pm, the old cook came on deck,” it occurred to me exactly how hammered I was— I decided it would be a good idea to park The Shark, and stagger the rest of the way back to the Kappa Alpha house.

As I worked my way past the Chi O dorm, a face came into view, walking towards me.

I knew the face.

I knew the face.

I knew the—then it struck me: It was Tim Dorsey, the guy who wrote a column for our school newspaper, The Plainsman. Prior to reading Tim’s column, I didn’t know that out-loud laughter could be generated by the written word.

Stand-up comics? Sure. But prose? Not witty or cute, but laugh out-loud funny? I just didn’t know there was such a thing. And here he was. Walking towards me. A great writer in the making.

I had to tell him I was a fan. Had to. Running… out… of time!

“Holy crap!” I shouted. “You’re Tim Dorsey!”

I think I was his first full-volume fan, and it scared him a bit. Also, this was the Big Hair 80’s, and I had a Marine ROTC haircut, at that point shared only by fans of The Sex Pistols.

“Dude! I’m totally serious! You’re Tim frickin’ Dorsey!”

At this point Tim stopped walking. He wasn’t saying anything, but I’m pretty sure he was contemplating his fight or flight options.

“Huge fan!” I shouted. “Huge fan. Huge frickin’ fan. Dude, you’re awesome! Love your stuff! Laugh my ass off! Where do you come up with it? Huge frickin’ fan! Let me buy you a beer!”

“Hey, normally, count me in,” he said, “but I’m, uh, thinking through a column and I’m headed home.”

“Awesome! We can drink beer at your house!”

As you can imagine, Tim was giving me a very strange look. I didn’t know what to do—he was Tim (frickin’) Dorsey, and if there was one fact I knew it was that we were drinking a beer together.

Then, it struck me. I knew exactly what to say.

“Dude, I’m totally not a homo! I just dropped off my girlfriend!”

Tim’s look got even weirder.

“Come on, Dude! One beer!”

My next cogent memory has me and Tim climbing out the window onto the roof of the three story house where he and ten other guys lived. I don’t know why the roof had such appeal, but who was I to complain? Who among us doesn’t enjoy roof drinking?

One beer turned into six, and we discussed majoring in journalism versus English, my decision to go into the Corps and his decision to be a newpaperman, and at some point I recall telling him about my recent near-DUI on my K-Mart bicycle. I also remember telling Tim he was way too talented to write for a mere newspaper.

Fade. To. Black.

20 Years Later

I was in a bookstore in Charleston, SC, looking to see if they had any more books from one of my new, favorite authors—a guy named Tim Dorsey.

His books centered around the adventures of a lovable psychopath named Serge A. Storms and his stoner buddy Coleman, and easily qualified as some of the funniest books I’d ever read. I looked through the paperback section and found nothing new, and was on my way out when I saw a hardcover titled Hurricane Punch by none other than Tim Dorsey.

I picked it up, and flipped to the inside back of the dustcover, and discovered a little bio information: Wow, this dude went to Auburn. I knew a guy who went to Auburn named Tim Dorsey, didn’t I? This Tim Dorsey was a former reporter for the Tampa newspaper. Didn’t the Tim Dorsey I knew plan to be a journalist? Tim Dorsey… Tim Dorsey… Tim Dor—Holy crap! This guy was Tim (frickin’) Dorsey!

Back at home, I googled Tim, and found his website—and it was then I realized how big time he’d gotten. He had an e-store full of Serge Storms merchandise, several other books out—hell, he was a famous author, and everything.

I decided to email his site, in hopes he might remember me. So I wrote: Tim, I doubt you’ll remember me, but we met one night at Auburn when I was on the way home from a Tri-Delt party. We ended up on the roof of your house, and I drank so many of your beers I almost fell to an untimely end. If you have any recollection of that fateful night, shoot me an email!

Three days later, a reply: You mean the night you told me you almost got arrested for drunken biking? Wearing a cape? That night?

I promptly placed an order direct through Tim for a hardback version of every one of his books. I would have liked to stay in touch, but—hey, the dude is famous. He’s a successful author. I figured that if I pursued a friendship, I’d end up asking him to read a manuscript… and I just couldn’t do it to him.

Current Day

I’d emailed Tim about once a year, just to let him know that I’d read his latest book, or seen an article on him, or had encountered a big Tim Dorsey display in some far away airport. I asked him once about struggling author stuff, and he responded that struggling was the life of a published author, too—and not to quit my day job.

Then, one day I felt overwhelmed by my cluelessness. And the futile nature of the book tour. And the fact that there’s not exactly a community of published authors down at the local bar you bitch with. So, I emailed Tim:

Dude,
You totally failed to tell me about signings/events for First Time Authors.
I was in Chicago for an event on Tuesday, and the manager had the wrong date posted.
I gave my dog & pony show to three people in Palm Beach.
In Westland, a crowd of 20 showed up, and I had them all rolling in the aisles, then took about 15 questions... and sold zero books.
Do you still drink? I do.
Throw me a frickin' bone here, Man. Any wise-old-successful-writer-man nuggets are appreciated.
War Eagle,
Prioleau

Hey, Man. It’s Tim Dorsey.

It was a week later when Tim called.

Here at last was a battle-hardened veteran who could provide me the answers I so desired. With ten books under his belt and the most recent one on the New York Times bestseller list, I just knew he could pull me aboard his vessel, issue me my own lifeboat, and set me sail towards the shores of riches, guided by fair winds and following seas. What would his first words be? What choice motivational nuggets would he offer that would give me the encouragement to stay afloat—

“Welcome to hell,” he said.

We talked for about thirty minutes, and Tim told me my trials and tribulations were the same experienced by every first time author. Concerning his first book tour, he stated flatly that he felt “like someone in the witness protection program.”

With Tim on the phone, I ran through some of my remaining questions about the business. Let’s see: Will I make any money? Can’t ask that. When do I get find out how my book is selling? Can’t ask that. How long before I should submit my next manuscript? Dumb question. Wait! I have a question I can ask!

“It seems like the publisher just kind of flings the book out there and hopes it will stick, doesn’t it?”

“That would be,” said Tim, “because that’s what they do.”

“Any promotional advice? Ideas that worked for you?”

“Here’s the deal, Prioleau. Most writers that get lucky enough to be published are two-and-out. Some get really lucky and are four-and-out. If you want to make writing your career, you’ve got to suck it up, knock on doors, promote yourself and your book, and do all the stuff you that’s the exact opposite of your nature as a writer.”

“Bringing back fond memories, eh?” I asked.

“I’ll never forget,” Tim replied, “After my very first book got published I stopped by a big box bookstore to introduce myself to the manager and give her a signed copy of my book—you know, make a good impression, schmooze a little. So, I track down the information desk, and asked the lady there if I could speak to the manager.

The lady asks, ‘And you are?’

I tell her I’m Tim Dorsey-- a new author, and my first book has just shipped. I just want to introduce myself to the manager, and tell her a little about the book.

She disappears for a few minutes, and comes back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says ‘but the manager is unavailable to meet with you right now.’

‘No problem,’ I figure. ‘It’s lunch time, and she probably wants to enjoy her sandwich in peace.’

So I tell the lady, ‘Look, I don’t have to be anywhere. I’ll go grab some coffee in the café, and read a book until she gets back from lunch.’

‘Oh, she’s not at lunch,” the lady says. ‘She’s in the children’s section fixing a shelf.”

I had a few more laughs with Tim, and before long we rang off.

But I will confess to feeling a little conflicted. This is because I felt encouraged by Tim, as he had “sucked it up for a bit,” and his labors had resulted in his fantastic successes.

The sad truth in my case, I feared, was that the flame required to act on his advice had burned out with my career in advertising. I thought that writing was a career that would allow me to disappear into the shadows, and the truth was emerging as something very different.