It is Wednesday, and I’m in Savannah. This morning I’m in the sleek, now empty bar at the TRYP Hotel. I’ve got a cup of brewed-in-the-room coffee and a six pack of Oreo cookies removed from the self-service pantry next to the front desk.
Susan and I came to Savannah yesterday to hear the writer-humorist, David Sedaris, read his essays.
I realize that many readers won’t recognize the name Sedaris. Some will think, “Why bother with a comedian who is not named Chris Rock and who doesn’t speak rap?”
Sedaris is gay, has a high-pitched voice and often reads his writing out loud. His ironic, sardonic, self-deprecating voice is an important part of his humor. And his humor is almost impossible to explain unless you’ve heard “Santaland Diaries” — a 1992 essay about his part-time job as Santa’s elf at Macy’s Department Store.
Last night I sat with a couple hundred people in the thinly carpeted, cavern-like Johnny Mercer Theatre. The venue was simply too large and I felt embarrassed by an audience that barely filled one fourth of the red, velour-covered seats.
I had hoped that places like Sun City Hilton Head and Latitude Margaritaville, near Hardeeville, would send small busses filled-up with arthritic, stenotic, soon-to-be-deceased residents.
But I was mistaken in this belief.
David Sedaris’ first essay dealt with an “Asian woman” and her forthcoming prostate examination. If you have trouble putting “prostate examination” and “Asian woman” into the same sentence you will know a little something about this man’s humor. From there he moved to a town called Uranus; and from there to an essay about using self-service scanners (when paying for toothpaste) at CVS. Eventually Sedaris got around to his father, Lou Sedaris.
Some years ago my wife’s mother, Jane, was a resident of a well-maintained, red-brick retirement community in Raleigh, N.C. My wife and I spent weekends — a great many weekends — at Springmoor. It turns out that this sprawling, well-carpeted community was the very same place that Lou Sedaris spent his final days on earth. In his signature essay David Sedaris told the story of being with his father when he died.
In the telling of that story we got the visual of Sedaris and his siblings, standing around their shrunken, skeletal, heavily sedated father who is entirely unaware that his children had flown-into Raleigh for a final vigil.
Sedaris has them talking about themselves and their unhappy, unfortunate relationship with their father. This is not the usual sad-but-hilarious moment when old chestnuts are revealed and re-examined. Rather the kids talk about how their father used his power and his position to make them miserable.
David Sedaris has written about this scene before; and it would be uniquely and unbearably painful except for the fact that it is also funny and (for some of us) familiar. In this connection Sedaris reminds me of Pat Conroy and his relationship with his father, Donald.
Pat’s relationship was often violent with Don Conroy delivering inebriated punches to Pat’s person after basketball games. With Sedaris, the relationship was not violent, but his father’s disappointment and constant verbal criticism was often creative. Sedaris tells of giving the commencement address at Princeton.
Sedaris had asked his father to come along with him and they were having lunch with Princeton’s President when Lou Sedaris said, “You know, Madam President, you got the wrong person when you asked David to speak. My daughter, Amy, is a much better speaker. You really missed the boat with this one.”
Last night also featured several wonderfully concise stories using nouns and descriptors like “spittle,” “semen,” “open-casket” and “multi-state death tour.” His talk reminded me (again) of Pat who could put “Kristallnacht” and “Chrysanthemum” into the same sentence.
Before we went to the show, Susan and I had drinks (French 1875s) and pate’ at Circa 1875 on Whitaker Street. At a nearby table there was a young, attractive couple with an infant and a toddler — both adorable. While they tried to eat — and perhaps reignite the passion that had produced the two children — the children were restive, impatient, wanting the undivided attention of their parents.
As I sat and watched this tableau I imagined that these adorable children would eventually morph into resentful teenagers; and then into pissed-off adults who would, no doubt, tell stories about their imperfect father and their distant, distracted mother.
Scott Graber is a lawyer, novelist, veteran columnist and longtime resident of Port Royal. He can be reached at cscottgraber@gmail.com.
