Cormac McCarthy, center, holds his son at a party in Santa Fe, hosted by the actor Ali Macgraw, to support a good cause c. 1988.
A Story We Tell
(The Cormac One)
The brilliant writer Cormac McCarthy lived in El Paso back when he was writing his Border Trilogy. Almost everyone who met him back then has a Cormac Story, and this is mine.
We knew Cormac in the way many of the local art types did back then: notoriously reclusive and unapproachable, he was the dignified and handsome fellow sitting alone, eating and reading, at Luby’s near the campus. We were invited to a big To Do for the national prize his latest book had won, and his current girlfriend was a friend of ours. But we’d never actually talked to him.
That changed when James and Colleen invited us to dinner. Cormac was the only other guest so I sat on the patio and visited with the men while Colleen worked in the kitchen. I knew I should’ve been helping with the dinner prep, but I was determined to bond with the genius and to charm him with my smarts and humor. Around the patio table we talked about ordinary things, where we’d like to travel (Cormac: Antarctica), that sort of thing. Of course I wanted to impress him - he was a superstar - so I turned the personality on High and tried to be memorable.
We had a great dinner, with lots of stories and jokes and Colleen’s fabulous food. Over dessert, Ray and I were talking about who-knows-what when we disagreed about the location of a business near our house. Two things should be mentioned here: Ray and I almost never argue, and 2) this particular subject was neither important nor interesting. But that night, in public and in the shadow of Cormac’s brilliance, we really had it out. We drew competing maps on napkins and stood our opposing grounds. Finally, sorry to eat and run, we excused ourselves to drive home and resolve the argument, with its Loser promising to call in a final verdict. Lovely time, thanks so much, goodbye, goodbye.
Our friends took bets after we were gone: Becky is usually right, one said. Yes, but Ray doesn’t speak up unless he knows what he’s talking about. (They know us awfully well.) And Cormac? He told us later that he’d refused to choose a side since he might have to testify in divorce court. We drove home, Ray was right, again, so I made the conciliatory phone call. I’m often adamant and sometimes wrong, I said, but rarely at the same time, and everyone laughed.
Well, I thought, we did make an impression.
One day a few months later, I had to do some mailing in town. I was dressed in my off-duty clothes, I hadn’t put on makeup, and I could’ve used a shower and shampoo. Who cares, I thought, it was just a quick errand, and who would see me? On the road, I realized I was starving, so I stopped to gobble down a quick sandwich and then head off to do my chore. At the shipping place, wouldn’t you know, there was Cormac ahead of me in line. He greeted me with great enthusiasm; I’d just had a book accepted for publication, and word had gotten around. Let me shake your hand, he said, and I let him. He was full of questions - how many copies, that sort of thing - and I was in one of those rare conversational zones, saying the right thing, making him laugh, being totally at ease. Like George Castanza in a Seinfeld episode, I was mellifluous.
Yes, I knew I looked... well, natural: my clothes didn’t flatter, my face was plain and blotchy, and my hair was in greasy strings. But for some reason none of that mattered, and I oozed charm and wit. I asked the right questions, smiled and laughed in the right places, had immediate and appropriate verbal comebacks. I was feeling confident, hilarious, spontaneous, cute. Cormac offered his hand another time, congratulations, he was so happy for me, and I was gone.
Before I cranked the car, I sat for a while to replay and savor the conversation. I wondered if I really looked as bad as I thought, surely I didn’t, I couldn’t, could I? So I flipped down the visor to check myself in the small mirror. Perfect: centered on my left cheek was a greasy yellowish zit, a puffed pimple, a shiny pustule, a repulsive canker of mayonnaise!
I’ll bet Cormac still remembers me.
We knew Cormac in the way many of the local art types did back then: notoriously reclusive and unapproachable, he was the dignified and handsome fellow sitting alone, eating and reading, at Luby’s near the campus. We were invited to a big To Do for the national prize his latest book had won, and his current girlfriend was a friend of ours. But we’d never actually talked to him.
That changed when James and Colleen invited us to dinner. Cormac was the only other guest so I sat on the patio and visited with the men while Colleen worked in the kitchen. I knew I should’ve been helping with the dinner prep, but I was determined to bond with the genius and to charm him with my smarts and humor. Around the patio table we talked about ordinary things, where we’d like to travel (Cormac: Antarctica), that sort of thing. Of course I wanted to impress him - he was a superstar - so I turned the personality on High and tried to be memorable.
We had a great dinner, with lots of stories and jokes and Colleen’s fabulous food. Over dessert, Ray and I were talking about who-knows-what when we disagreed about the location of a business near our house. Two things should be mentioned here: Ray and I almost never argue, and 2) this particular subject was neither important nor interesting. But that night, in public and in the shadow of Cormac’s brilliance, we really had it out. We drew competing maps on napkins and stood our opposing grounds. Finally, sorry to eat and run, we excused ourselves to drive home and resolve the argument, with its Loser promising to call in a final verdict. Lovely time, thanks so much, goodbye, goodbye.
Our friends took bets after we were gone: Becky is usually right, one said. Yes, but Ray doesn’t speak up unless he knows what he’s talking about. (They know us awfully well.) And Cormac? He told us later that he’d refused to choose a side since he might have to testify in divorce court. We drove home, Ray was right, again, so I made the conciliatory phone call. I’m often adamant and sometimes wrong, I said, but rarely at the same time, and everyone laughed.
Well, I thought, we did make an impression.
One day a few months later, I had to do some mailing in town. I was dressed in my off-duty clothes, I hadn’t put on makeup, and I could’ve used a shower and shampoo. Who cares, I thought, it was just a quick errand, and who would see me? On the road, I realized I was starving, so I stopped to gobble down a quick sandwich and then head off to do my chore. At the shipping place, wouldn’t you know, there was Cormac ahead of me in line. He greeted me with great enthusiasm; I’d just had a book accepted for publication, and word had gotten around. Let me shake your hand, he said, and I let him. He was full of questions - how many copies, that sort of thing - and I was in one of those rare conversational zones, saying the right thing, making him laugh, being totally at ease. Like George Castanza in a Seinfeld episode, I was mellifluous.
Yes, I knew I looked... well, natural: my clothes didn’t flatter, my face was plain and blotchy, and my hair was in greasy strings. But for some reason none of that mattered, and I oozed charm and wit. I asked the right questions, smiled and laughed in the right places, had immediate and appropriate verbal comebacks. I was feeling confident, hilarious, spontaneous, cute. Cormac offered his hand another time, congratulations, he was so happy for me, and I was gone.
Before I cranked the car, I sat for a while to replay and savor the conversation. I wondered if I really looked as bad as I thought, surely I didn’t, I couldn’t, could I? So I flipped down the visor to check myself in the small mirror. Perfect: centered on my left cheek was a greasy yellowish zit, a puffed pimple, a shiny pustule, a repulsive canker of mayonnaise!
I’ll bet Cormac still remembers me.
