After my (brief but brilliant) acceptance speech, Sarah got all loveydovey. This was a moment of happiness I wanted to savor. But then, the press reps converged and pulled me out to do a photo session and interviews. Of course, during the press conference, all the questions were directed to Timothy Egan, who had won the nonfiction prize for his research on the Dust Bowl. The press had heard of the Great Depression. The press had not read my book. Yet.

As Leon hugged me close he cooed: “Next run, fifty thousand. And there will be more, my friend, there will be much more. Gold seal on the cover, the works. Oh, did I mention we’ll be republishing your entire backlist with new cover art in the spring?”

We exchanged conspirator’s grins, as if this had been the plan all along. That we both saw this coming. Hard times are necessary to build a dynasty. Fuck Leon’s other authors. I was the one.

Friendly faces crowded toward me. Someone was snapping my photo. Sarah was holding my hand. But my middle-aged bladder got the best of me and I excused myself. I slipped past the reporters double-teaming Thomas Friedman for quotes on the Iraq War. As I entered the men’s room, my cell phone rang. It was Theo. Somehow he had already heard.

April 24, 1978

I live the life everyone else wants to live. I am supercharged with the excitement of my work and my writing. And I am living life to its fullest here in New York. I am out every night, I have a wonderful lover and good friends, in fact everyone I meet in the streets, at parties, in the subway, every bum, every shop owner, every cop, hooker, hot dog guy, flower lady they are all my friends.

I am like a tenth-century Persian poet, sipping the nectar from the many flowers. Wine, women, song. Delicious.

Discipline is the key. I am not hanging with Zim anymore. He is too distracting. He leaves messages on my answering machine, taunting me. He says I have no guts. He whispers accusations that I am a “schoolboy.” Fuck him.

Katie encourages me. She helps me focus. She is my muse.

And I have been spending time with that Esquire editor, Leon. I entertain him with stories about John and the various street people I’ve hung with. He loves to laugh this guy. Laugh and sniff enormous volumes of cocaine. He’s teaching me about vintage wines and fine brandies. He respects me as a writer.

November 20, 2006

Why can’t I have a moment to enjoy my victory? Insane week. I’ve had to return to Boston. Dad was reencased in his hospital room suffering from some sort of problem with his bowels. The surgery did not go well and he was on a morphine drip. How did it come to this so fast? And why did it have to happen now?