In which Bonnie discovers one of her favorite science fiction authors tied down in the Bloodmobile, corners him and demonstrates her stunning lack of brain power.
I’m a good coward but a bad liar. I failed to convince the woman on the phone that I was NOT Bonnie Wren, Type O. Or maybe she’s just the best Red Cross bounty hunter there is, raking in huge commissions on quivering noodles like me.
Whatever. Thanks to her I was on my back in a Bloodmobile in Encinitas, visualizing a safe and uneventful bloodletting when I overheard an interesting conversation:
NURSE: Who was in the movie about your book?
MAN: Kevin Costner, playing the postman. It was abo —
NURSE: Kevin Costner! Really? Did you get to meet him?
MAN: I, uh… (sighs) No. I did not.
NURSE: Oh, too bad. Kevin Costner is a very handsome guy!
Now, I may not be able to remember what I made for dinner the night before, but right away I knew the man who didn’t get to meet Kevin Costner was David Brin, because:
- Kevin Costner + postman = movie The Postman, based on the novel by David Brin
- David Brin lives in Encinitas.
Besides, he looked familiar. I’d met Brin once before at a university panel discussion on Ronald Reagan’s Strategic Defense Initiative—which tells you exactly how long ago that was. So he had to be David Brin.
Not that I’d point this out to him or anything. One thing I learned while growing up in L.A. County was to avoid making a big deal about celebrities, unless they were on a red carpet outside the Dorothy Chandler Pavillion. Asking for an autograph in the supermarket qualified you as either a tourist or a stalker.
And even then there was a caste system that regulated your response. Popular movie stars ranked up there with rock stars and the Lakers, while most authors were farther down, below cast members of hit TV shows, but higher than, say, Mayor Tom Bradley.
By the way, that’s how I pegged our nurse as a former L.A. resident, too.
NURSE: Did you meet ANY movie stars?
BRIN: I, um…
When I first met David Brin I was a student, waiting in line with other nerdy collegiates who knew science fiction authors were way cooler than any of the Lakers. Brin shook my hand and even signed the three softcovers in my backpack, which I thought was rather nice of him.
Unfortunately, being nice doesn’t do a thing for your celebrity ranking.
NURSE: Did you write anything else that got turned into a movie?
BRIN: Well…
I was squirming by this point. Partly because I wanted to say hi, and partly because I had a needle in my arm, but mainly because I wanted him to know I thought he was Somebody, even if he didn’t get to meet Kevin Costner.
ME: I know you! You’re David Brin. I’ve read your books!
BRIN: Yes, I am! Hello!
ME: I met you once before, at a university lecture.
BRIN: (regretfully) I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize you.
ME: (embarrassed) Heh, it was a long time ago!
Yeah. Way back when I was a lot thinner and he had a lot more hair, but the nurse didn’t need to know that.
Brin seemed pleased to have at least one fan in the Bloodmobile, and he courteously kept up our conversation. It was actually kind of cozy, Author David Brin and me, chatting, both of us with holes in our arms and dripping blood into our respective plastic bags.
Then I ruined it.
ME: I’ve seen your byline in the Union-Tribune.
BRIN: Really? Did you read what I wrote in the Books section?
ME: Sorry, no. I don’t like the books reviewed in the Books section.
What I meant to say, DUH, was that I missed it because I rarely make it all the way THROUGH the Books section. I unerringly stumble into the most disgusting review and end up flinging the whole section into the recycle bin.
Like this one from last Sunday (July 24, 2005):
Kathryn Harrison is best-known as the author of The Kiss, which sparked countless articles—some enraged—because the memoir chronicled her seduction by, and four-year affair with, her father. Appalling, yes, but compelling as well. —Martin Zimmerman
Dear Mr. Zimmerman: I don’t care what your English Professor told you, incest is SO NOT compelling. Off to the recycle bin with you.
Luckily the nurse interrupted our awkward silence to hand us our free Red Cross Blood Donor T-shirts, after which my brain went even further offline and I REALLY embarrassed myself.
ME: Would you sign my t-shirt, please?
BRIN: Certainly! (to the nurse) I have the nicest fans!
Yes. Dorky as hell, with a flickering brain the size of a walnut, but still one of his nicest.
NURSE: (whispering) Just exactly who was that, again? Did he do a mini-series?
ME: Are you from L.A.?
NURSE: (surprised) How did you know?