One or Two Degrees of Separation: Celebrity by Proxy

Skip the B.S.

by Skip Eisiminger

“The celebrity is a person who is known for his well-knownness.”—Daniel Boorstin

“I was lucky enough to marry a girl who had been bitten by one of [Faulkner’s] dogs.”—Robert Canzoneri

CLEMSON South Carolina—(Weekly Hubris)—9/12/11—When an old poker buddy of mine was a sophomore in college, he telephoned T.S. Eliot’s home in London. Barry Hannah, later nominated for the National Book Award, just wanted to tell the poet how much he’d admired The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. Although Eliot was having his calls screened, Barry did get through to the great man’s valet, who promised to convey the acknowledgments and salutations “at the very earliest convenience.” Barry left his number, adding that Eliot could reverse the charges, but he never returned the call.

Often, that’s the way it is with celebrities: they percolate up through the folk but, when they’re charging four bucks a cup, they’re too good to return a call.

For several years, I have been using the same gym as a local novelist with a well-deserved national reputation. One afternoon, I entered the weight room to sign in and noticed that the attendant was reading the novelist’s latest. I asked the young man how he liked it, and he said, “It’s great!” I said I had enjoyed it as well and then went to receive my daily flogging. As I was mounting my machine, the celebrated writer walked by without looking up and headed for the exit. I’ve known him since his student days, but I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt—he just didn’t see me. After all, I had not seen him until he was almost past. As the belt began to turn beneath my feet, I watched the novelist leave right past the attendant without so much as a “See Ya.” When I left, I asked him if he knew the author of his book. “Oh, sure, he was here a short while ago,” he said.

“So you met him here?”

“Oh, no, he lives right up the street from us; he’s my best friend’s father!” The departure without acknowledgment didn’t seem to bother the writer’s star-struck admirer; indeed, the approximation of fame is often sufficient for the unfamous. I know it is for me.

I was primed for my role as a back-row fan by my mother. When I was just a few months old, Mother waved and held me up for President Roosevelt to see as we were strolling on Duke Street in Alexandria, Virginia. After all, she always maintained that I was the prettiest of her babies, so she was not surprised when the President waved back. Now this was April or May of 1942, and FDR had a lot on his mind at the start of a two-fronted war, but he was generous enough to wave.

When I reached the ninth grade in Columbus, Georgia and began to develop a sense of what “famous” really meant, I was delighted that my English teacher had also taught Carson McCullers. A few years after moving back to Northern Virginia, I found myself carrying the newspaper of the commercial artist who drew the famed Coppertone ad: the dog pulling down the swimsuit of the little girl on the beach. When I was old enough to drive into D.C., I took my girlfriend to, among others, a Harry Belafonte concert in Rock Creek Park. In college, I ordered a book from Vanderbilt on interlibrary loan and discovered that the check-out card had been signed by Randall Jarrell, Allan Tate, and John Crowe Ransom. Since the libraries were shifting to computer cards, I slipped the worn memento into my pocket. Until now, no one has ever been the wiser.

When Burt Lancaster came to town in 1973 to film “The Midnight Man,” my wife and I went up to The Clemson House one evening to dine. As luck would have it, the person before me in the cafeteria line was, you guessed it. Burt ordered the roast beef, and I ordered the same, so I could tell my grandchildren that I ate a slice of meat whose “twin” was eaten by one of Hollywood’s greats. It wasn’t exactly a laying on of the hands, but no piece of roast beef has held more significance for me. I’ve also derived some vicarious satisfaction from holding a baseball signed by Babe Ruth, riding my bicycle on some of the hills Lance Armstrong battled in the Tour de Trump, catching a whiff of Shawn Weatherly’s perfume before she became Miss Universe, and listening to Bishop Tutu bless our two children at their graduation from the University of South Carolina. “The God in me,” he said, “greets the God in you.”

While the amps vary, there’s no question that celebrities generate voltage. After shaking hands with a Roman Catholic priest, I realized that I had intruded into the line begun by Jesus’s apostles. Though history has taken no notice of my handshake, the apostolic succession I’ve joined is empowering.

My friend John Butler, who directed the Tiger Marching Band before retiring, once visited the White House after playing the Clemson-Maryland football game. Since John shook JFK’s hand, and I’ve often shaken John’s hand, there is some unspoken but palpable connection to a man I admire—akin to that of standing next to Beethoven’s piano or handling one of Emily Dickinson’s manuscripts.

I suppose the closest I’ve been to a celebrity for any extended time was the year I spent in four classes taught by the poet, critic, and novelist James Dickey. I owe Mr. Dickey a great deal; after all, he directed my dissertation. But most celebrities, I’ve learned, are very busy people, and that’s the reason they keep their heads down when there’s nothing to be gained by engaging in small talk with a weight-room attendant, even if he is a neighbor.

But, busy or not, one thing I cannot forgive Dickey for his distributing unsigned poems in class and pretending they were the work of students. “Hey,” the defender would argue, “Mr. Dickey needed some feedback, and he didn’t have time to read a bunch of lousy student poems.”

“But,” I say, “for five hours a week, he was paid to teach, not wax his résumé.”

Moreover, as soon as one of the “birds” in his singing nest made a name for himself, Dickey was quick to claim him (or more rarely her) as a writer he’d feathered. Every Wizard of Oz, it seems, is one-part hokum.

But back to the family: my reverend sister, who has meditated with the Dalai Lama, reminds me that our father helped build the floating bridge that General Patton peed off of into the Rhine, and our mother fed Cary Grant a deviled egg at a post-war picnic in Heidelberg, Germany. Our daughter wiped up some of Michael Jordan’s sweat from the floor during a nationally broadcast game. My wife once watched the future NFL star William “The Refrigerator” Perry eat a large box of Cheerios, walk outside the dining hall, and dunk a basketball. “It was,” she said, “a beautiful moment.”

And, many years ago, I gave a “D” to a future presidential candidate.

Bumping into the famous in a crowd is a pleasant coincidence, but I have no desire for fame despite the perquisites. Omar Sharif has reported that when he was still studly, naked women would come to his hotel room and beg to be rogered. Though it must have taken some of the sheen off the experience, one buff groupie held a pistol to his head while he serviced her.

But there are more subtle dangers: take Luciano Pavarotti. At the conclusion of one performance, he took 165 curtain calls over 67 minutes. The problem, of course, is that Pavarotti thought he deserved 165 curtain calls and a clown-car full of roses.