I wake up intensely thirsty, gulp down a glass of water, give a brief interview to Conan O’Brien, brush my teeth, and get ready for my day. It’s Sunday, which means my primary pleasure for the day is sleeping in, and that’s already behind me. So it’s all downhill from here.
Conan looks particularly sharp today in a glen plaid blazer, a cream-colored shirt and a thin checked tie. His hair is perfect, that dynamic swoop that simultaneously conveys movement and stillness, like a great work of art. I feel sorely under-dressed by comparison, but Sunday is my cleaning day, so I do the prudent thing and just wear a pair of old gray jeans and a torn PJ Harvey t-shirt. “Are you a PJ Harvey fan?” Conan asks excitedly. “She was on my show a few years ago. In 2011, I think? I didn’t get a chance to sit down with her, but she’s really very sweet.”
“I know, Conan,” I say with a grin. “You’ve told me this story before.”
“You have a mind like a steel trap,” he says with a wink.
“Thanks,” I reply. “Now grab the Swiffer.”
Conan has been staying with me for about three weeks, ever since my return from a family trip to the Philippines, and has been an ideal house guest. I have never met anyone so interested in me. Conan regularly sits me down in the living room, sips his coffee, and asks me questions about my life. Two nights ago we had a lively discussion about my travels, and when I mentioned I lived in Bakersfield for a few years, he raised an eyebrow. “Bakersfield,” he said. “I don’t mean to spotlight your poor judgment, but what brought you to Bakersfield? The good weather? The meth?”
“My friend Jen lived there,” I said with a chuckle. “We’ve been friends for many years. I’m sure you’ll meet her eventually. But Bakersfield has its own unusual beauty. It was the ruined beauty of a place that was once great but has since fallen into disrepair.”
“Ah, ruin porn,” he said brightly. “Did you move to Coney Island next, or …?”
I think about this conversation as I clean a mass of cobwebs off the stairs. I’m always so impressed by Conan’s ability to make acerbic statements in a way that comes across as companionable, even supportive. I wish I had that skill. I attempt similar humor with him on occasion, but it usually doesn’t go well – he’s too quick to be impressed by my ham-handed attempts at wit. If I ever leave the house again, I’ll have to practice his style of humor on someone less clever.
By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, he is nowhere to be found. “Conan!” I shout. “Where the hell is the Swiffer?”
“Still in the closet,” he yells from the living room. “I’d give you a hand, but it turns out I’m not the help.”
“You do you,” I shout back.
“Done and done,” he says, and “Norwegian Wood” blooms out of my stereo speakers until the entire house resonates with sitar.
I quickly tire of cleaning, my knees aching from the effort. The only effective way to scrub the kitchen floor is on my hands and knees with a sponge, but I find it harder and harder to stand from a kneeling position. “Time for a break,” I say as I wander into the living room. The music stops, and Conan smiles up at me from the couch. He is sipping coffee from a mug that says, “Don’t Bother Me, I’m Having a Sexual Fantasy” in a comical pink font.
“Welcome back,” he says, gesturing to the other end of the couch. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“Thanks,” I say as I shake his hand and sit. “It’s good to be seen.”
“So you’re a writer,” he says. “You got your start with poetry. Were you encouraged to write from a young age?”
I scratch the back of my neck thoughtfully. “Interesting question,” I say pensively. “I wouldn’t say encouraged, per se. I didn’t grow up in a literary environment, but I always had the mind for it.”
“A literary mind,” he offers.
“A poetic mind,” I reply. “I don’t mean in a sentimental, romantic way. I mean in a symbol-making way – the people, objects and events surrounding you are saturated with meaning in a way that most people don’t experience.”
“Interesting,” he says. “You know, comedy is kind of the same way. You discover little insights that most people miss, connections between people and events that are funny, sure, but also profound. It takes a certain level of patience and bravery to share that with others. There’s always that fear that you’ll be eaten alive by your audience, but, you know, in my experience, falling flat can be really liberating. If you accept your misfortune, you can really grow and thrive in some unexpected ways.”
“Yes!” I say a little too enthusiastically. “That’s my experience too. I think of every poem and every story as its own little universe, and every choice I make is a branch in the timeline. So every story is a universe surrounded by countless parallel universes, other ways to tell it. Failure just means you chose the wrong universe.”
“Do you think you’re in the right universe now?” he asks, giving me a pointed, comical look.
“Well, you’re here, so it must be the right one,” I reply with a wink.
Conan flashes his bright smile. “Our special guest, everybody!” he exclaims, gesturing warmly.
Whenever he does this, I feel like the king of swagger. Conan’s constant encouraging presence has become so central to my sense of well-being. We might never leave the house, but within the scope of my personal kingdom, I’m a star.
But the feeling doesn’t last.
Conan helps me to my feet. “Nap time?”
“Nap time,” I confirm. “Sorry, I’m wiped out.”
“No worries,” he says. “Having your brain picked can be pretty taxing.”
I follow the wall of the living room into the kitchen, fish a bottle of water out of the fridge, push through a smoke-colored cloud of cobwebs, and slowly climb the stairs. I gulp the water, and by the time I get to the bedroom, the bottle is empty and my shirt is soaked. I collapse in bed unceremoniously, plummeting like a felled tree.
“Don’t we want to hear more about his writing?” Conan says. It takes me a second to realize that I’m dreaming. I’m in bed with the covers pulled up to my neck, my arms crossed over my chest. Conan lies on his side next to me, and for some reason he’s wearing a tuxedo. Right, I think, the interview isn’t over.
Conan props himself up on one arm. “So tell us what you have in the pipe. Are you working on anything interesting?”
I look up at the ceiling. It’s a foggy dark mass now, and beyond it I can feel the eyes of the audience. There are so many of them, thousands maybe, watching and listening with genuine curiosity.
“Well, I’ve been working on speculative fiction and horror, and I’ve been doing a lot of research into Filipino folklore.”
He perks up. “Oh, why Filipino?”
“My mother is Filipino.”
“Ah,” he says with a knowing nod, “that explains why you’re so arch.”
“It explains why I’m such a pain in the ass,” I reply, and I feel the audience’s silent laughter emanating from the dark.
“Are you planning on doing some writing about Filipino folklore?”
“I’m not sure. I spent a few weeks in Manila visiting family and collected a lot of interesting stories about monsters and such while I was there, but I’m not sure if anything good will come out of it.”
“Oh, you actually went to the Philippines to do research.”
“I did.”
“And while you were there, did you actually encounter any monsters?”
“Just the monster of jet lag.”
“So no blood suckers or face munchers or Japanese zombies or anything?”
“Not that I know of, Conan.”
“Nothing tagged along in your luggage or hid out in your rectum?”
I look at him for a long moment. I’m beginning to feel like I’m the butt of a joke I don’t understand, and because I don’t understand it, I’m not sure how to play along. I can do nothing but lie here and let him milk me for all the laughs he can.
“My rectum is Japanese zombie-free,” I say finally.
He chuckles encouragingly, a laugh designed to remind me that he’s on my side. “Once you’ve had a chance to digest all that research, I’m sure you’re going to produce something great.”
“I certainly hope so!”
“Our special guest, everybody!” Conan says, but before the euphoria takes hold, something strange happens. The room falls away, the bed tumbling through space. I feel my heart banging against my chest, loud as gunshots. When I wake, Conan is nowhere to be seen, and I realize someone is knocking on my door.
I make my way downstairs to find Conan sitting in the kitchen, sipping coffee from a mug emblazoned with the word BALUT and a picture of an aggressive-looking featherless chicken emerging from an egg. “Why didn’t you answer the door?” I ask.
“Not the help,” he says. “See above.”
The knocking continues, a persistent, police-like pounding. I can’t help myself – I stop at the sink, shoving my mouth under the tap and gulping lukewarm city water. “Coming,” I call out, but my voice is a cracked whisper. When I finally get to the door, I find Jen standing on my front steps, her face full of worry. “Hey,” I say.
She stares at me. “Are you okay?”
I smile. “Fine,” I say. “Great, actually. Come in – there’s someone I want you to meet.”
“You were supposed to call me when you got back from Manila,” she says.
“I know, but I can’t get a signal here. It’s – look, come in and I’ll tell you all about it.”
She grabs my arm and looks at me closely. “You’ve lost weight,” she says with alarm. “Are you sick? What are those marks on your neck?”
“They’re nothing, just – “
“They look like leech bites. Did you go swimming in the Philippines?”
I take her hand and smile reassuringly, leading her into my house and closing the door. “Come on,” I say. “I have a surprise for you.”
She immediately puts her hand over her mouth. “Jesus,” she says. “What’s that smell?” She looks at the bottom of her right shoe, now encrusted with gray silk from some cobwebs I missed in the entryway. She slowly turns, eyes wide as she glances at the ceiling, the corners. “What happened to this place?” she says quietly.
I put my arm through hers, leaning on her. She feels so much stronger and more solid than I do for some reason. “Jen,” I say as I lead her into the kitchen, “I’d like you to meet – “
As soon as she sees Conan O’Brien smiling back at her in an elegant dark gray mohair suit, everything about her face goes wide. Her eyes bulge. Her mouth drops open in a perfect, silent O. She presses her back against the stove, creeping along the counter. “Hey Jen,” Conan says as he stands and offers a hug.
She gasps once, then twice, then lets out a long, ear-crushing scream. Her web-caked foot sticks fast to the side of the counter, and she yanks off her shoe, screaming as she hobbles frantically up the stairs.
“Conan mania,” Conan says with a shrug. “It happens. Think Beatlemania, then aim lower.”
Conan leads me upstairs. Jen is in the bathroom with the door locked, and we can hear her crying. “Come on,” she says, “why don’t I have a signal?”
I knock gingerly. “Is everything okay?”
“What is that thing!” she shouts. I hear the window open and imagine her trying to wriggle through it.
“Jen,” I say, “it’s just Conan O’Brien.”
“That is not Conan O’Brien!” Conan gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Let me take a crack at it,” he says. He crouches by the door, resting his cheek against it. “Jen,” he says firmly, “Jen, this is Conan.”
“You are not Conan fucking O’Brien!”
“Now listen,” he says. “I know this is upsetting to you, and I’m sorry. It can be pretty bewildering when you encounter something you can’t explain. Like, for example, Conan O’Brien hanging at your friend’s house. It can feel like your world has been turned upside-down, like you’ve lost control. But believe me, this is the first time you’ve ever really had control. This is the first moment you really get to be honest about yourself.”
“It’s true,” I add.
“See, there,” he continues. “One of your best friends thinks this is a good thing. A great thing, in fact.”
Jen is silent. I imagine her holding her phone out the bathroom window, trying to find bars.
“When was the last time you were celebrated?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” she says. Her voice is tremulous, congested from crying.
“I mean truly celebrated,” he says in a honeyed voice, with just a hint of pleading. “People with your wit, intelligence and creativity are rare. Exceedingly so. I bet almost no one in your life appreciates it. Not your husband, not your kids, no one.”
“Well I do,” I say.
“Okay, that’s one, but how long can you take compliments from that guy before you want them from someone with actual taste?”
She laughs despite herself, a chuckle of reluctant agreement.
“Think of all the things you’ve held close, the visions and reveries that embody your genius. All of that will be lost if you never share it.” He places a hand on the door. “You could share it with me,” he says in a low voice, “and through me, you could share it with the world. Don’t you want that?”
I start to chime in, but Conan raises a hand. He is so good at making you feel like you belong, like you’re important. Just the sound of his voice elicits a yes from some childlike part of your brain. I can feel it building in my chest, and I know Jen can feel it too.
“Maybe,” she says finally.
“Think of all the things that make you who you are. What it felt like to have a child. How awkward you felt as you discovered your beauty. Remember how your mother would scold you with that gentle Tennesseelilt? Or how when you couldn’t sleep, your father would bite a Valium in half for you? Remember that old print your mother had, the wooden frame of a snowy Russian forest – how it lived in you as a secret place you’d revisit in your daydreams?”
I hear Jen slide down the door and sit on the bathroom floor. “It was a big part of my childhood imagination,” she says slowly. “It was basically the set design for most of my forest folk horror ideas.”
“Oh, you’re writer too?” Conan says. “That’s fantastic. Do you also write poetry?”
“I used to. I write fiction now, mostly speculative fiction.”
“I love that,” he replies. “Why did you stop writing poetry? Or did you stop? Maybe it’s something you still do when you’re feeling – what’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Emo,” I say.
“Emo! Exactly. So is it still a genre you work in?”
“Good question,” she says. “I guess I outgrew it? American poetry these days is really lyrically driven, and I’ve always been a narrative writer.”
“That makes sense,” he says. “Just from our brief meeting, you definitely feel like someone with a strong storytelling vibe, more narrative and less – what’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Emo,” I say again.
“Precisely.” He stands and smooths his hair with a slow, methodical hand. “You know, I’d love to have you on the show to talk about your writing. We could chat, have a few laughs, maybe have the two of you on at the same time. It’ll be fun! Would you like that?”
Jen sniffles. “Yes,” she says. She sounds surprised at her own response. “Yes, I think I would.”
“Fantastic! I’ll leave the two of you to work out the details. Jen, so nice to meet you – I’m really looking forward to it.” He nods at me and walks jauntily down the stairs.
“You too,” Jen says. “Or me too. Or whatever.” She unlocks the bathroom door, and when I open it, she’s touching up her makeup. “I can’t believe I’m going to be on Conan,” she says.
“It’s a dream,” I say.
“Right? Total dream come true.” She straightens her cardigan. “How do I look?”
“Great,” I say with a smile.
“Even with one shoe?”
“You’re going to be great.”
I lean on her as we walk down the stairs. “Your place looks wonderful,” she says. “I mean, really, really good. Did you get a decorator or something?”
I shake my head. “That’s just … the Conan effect, I guess.”
“Wow. I need to get him over to my place.”
“That’s next week!” Conan shouts from the living room. “Can’t wait to meet the kids!”
Jen stands at the entrance to the living room, breathing deeply, trying to get herself psyched up for her first Conan interview. I open the fridge and hand her a bottle of water. “In case you get thirsty.”
The living room is well-lit and inviting. Conan sits on the couch, his hair a Brancusi, his smile a slice of moonlight.
“It’s nice to see you again,” he says, gesturing to the other end of the couch. “Welcome back.”