I had to wear this polyester uniform, and walk under these fluorescent lights, twirlin’ my baton, checking in every ten minutes: [mimes a walkietalkie] “All clear at this cubicle!” Like, every bad '60s novel about meaningless authority.
LIPSKY:
And were you thinking, “My God, I had two books come out when I was in my early twenties and here I am...”?
DAVID:
No. As a matter of fact, one reason I liked that job is, I walked around not thinking. In a really like, “Huh: there's a ceiling tile.”
LIPSKY:
And after the security guard thing?
DAVID:
This is the worst: I worked as a towel boy at this chichi health club.
LIPSKY:
A “towel boy?”
DAVID:
They called me something other than a towel boy, but I was in effect a towel boy. Who every once in a while was entrusted with the job of checking people in, having them show their i.d?
LIPSKY:
Uh huh.
DAVID:
Anyway, I'm sitting there, and who should walk in to get their towel, but this guy, this writer I knew.
37.
Who received a Whiting Writer's Award the same year I had, like two years earlier.
LIPSKY:
Oh, sh*t...
DAVID:
So I see this guy that I'd been up on this f***ing rostrum with, having Eudora Welty give us this prize -
LIPSKY:
Oh, God!
DAVID:
-And two years later, I'm like … It's the only time I've literally dived under something, to have somebody avoid seeing me.
