Philip Roth is checking me out on the corner of 80th and Columbus and why should this matter? He’s America’s greatest living writer. He’s handsome. I write too and couldn’t dream up a better publishing connection than a Pulitzer winner. And I grew up with him. Philip Roth lives in the bookshelves at my parents’ house in New Jersey, frowning at us from back covers of uproarious novels about success, failure, Jewishness, and sexuality.
I attempted Portnoy’s Complaint when I was 16, and my takeaway was that Roth used too many exclamation points and seemed like a pervert but looked good in his author photo. Now I’m 33, springtime is blowing in on the Upper West Side, and Philip Roth is across the street from me, also waiting for the green light. He’s just outside Andy’s Deli, where I get my cigarettes, tuna sandwiches, and Diet Coke. He’s dressed in olive, navy, wool, wide wale. He’s watching me! I gasp, but quietly. I glance away, then back at him. His famous scowl relaxes into wolfish appreciation.
I haven’t lived here long. Shortly after 9/11, I was laid off from my job and moved to Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, the only neighborhood whose rent my unemployment checks would cover. The people who lived there never seemed to leave the block. Within the first two months, some guys in a car rolled down their windows to shout, “Go back to your country, fucking towelhead!” My first-floor neighbors were drug-dealing brothers who spent their days and nights leaned up against their glossy red Mazda, a baseball bat propped between them like an extra sibling. The corner bodega sold six-packs that had expired three years prior.
So the moment I got another job, at a lifestyle magazine, I moved to the block where Nora Ephron rom-coms are set and shot. Meg Ryan meeting cute was not a selling point for me, but it’s safe and clean here. My neighbors’ racism is so genteel, I almost appreciate it. And my dad, who’s also my guarantor since my new job pays a pittance, told me, “I think Philip Roth has a place on the Upper West Side. You might run into him one day, Cathy! He’d be lucky to have you as a neighbor, ’cause you’re such a wonderful person.”
It’s my dad who should be here — all those Roth novels in our living room belong to him. The sight of his favorite writer would have him crossing Columbus, calm but delighted, to introduce himself and his daughter. He’d tell Roth he was from Newark, too — a cold-water flat on the other side of Park Avenue—and that “Cathy works as a copy editor, and she lives down the block.”
If he’d had his way, I would have grown up a city kid. When I was six, Dad proposed a move to my mom after he’d secretly lined up a job for himself in the city. “Over my dead body,” was her reply, and that was that. To her, New York was the gateway to all manner of fantasy, folly, and vice. Their daughter would grow up in a house with a backyard. If Dad wanted to get away from the squares of New Jersey, he could take the 50-minute drive in himself.
Off he went, eventually opening the passenger door of his silver Volkswagen Bug so his adolescent daughter, already displaying an interest in fantasy and folly, could get in. He drove us to A Chorus Line, after which I wanted nothing more than to audition, for anything, because it seemed more profound than actually getting the part. We saw Heathers at the Angelika, Dad guffawing nonstop. At piano bars in the West Village, I was the youngest in the audience by 25 years.
My mother is no more approving now that I live here — “It’s like you’re on the other side of the world,” she mourned over the phone the other day — but Dad is all for it. I’m his stand-in, though as such, I’m sinking. I share a sidewalk-level studio with mice who look healthier than I do. The view from my windows is of people’s feet. It’s a forty-minute walk from the office, which saves me subway fare. But it’s torture taking in all that grandeur before returning to a hovel where everything is necessarily small, from the refrigerator to the bookshelf.
It’s Sunday and I need fresh air and my own kind, so I’d planned on going to the East Village. Though maybe I should stick around. Philip Roth is looking me up and down, attempting to decipher my body through the gray herringbone pants, white button-down shirt, and navy velvet blazer covering it. If our courtship lasts long enough or the sex is good enough — or on the off chance that he simply enjoys my company — I bet he’d agree to meet my dad.
“Why don’t you give it a try? I think you’d really like it, Cathy,” my father said. It was summer 1997 and we were in our living room in Maplewood, a half-hour drive from Newark. I was still living at home after college, working at a bookstore, and saving up to move to New York. Dad was in his armchair enjoying his afternoon repast of black coffee, Parliament Lights, and Philip Roth’s latest, American Pastoral. The book rested between his hands and lap like a spoiled cat.
“Yeah? What’s it about?” I asked him.
“It’s about a guy from Newark—”
“Like you! And Philip Roth.”
“Yup, and it’s about leaving Newark for the so-called American Dream, which is eluding him in pretty unexpected ways.” Dad examined the cover as if for the first time since he’d brought the book home from the library.
“That sounds interesting,” I said noncommittally. “Where does he move?”
“The suburbs.”
“Of New Jersey? Doesn’t sound like the American Dream to me.”
He laughed.
“How far into the book are you?”
“A little more than halfway through.”
“I guess Philip Roth is your favorite writer, huh.”
“Yeah, he is. He writes about the human condition, the idea of family, the ups and downs of life so directly. And he’s funny! Though less so in this book.”
From my dad’s lips to Philip Roth’s ears, through my body. I am but a vessel. A pretty one. Another one. There’s a glut of attractive and talented writers in this town, and no doubt Philip Roth has bedded many of them. No problem here! I work at a magazine chronicling the travel, homes, second homes, and weddings of wealthy Americans, and I’m paid $700 a week to make sure words like “toile de Jouy” and “pied-à-terre” are spelled and styled correctly. At home, I sit in a flappy canvas collapsible chair, reading Edith Wharton’s cautionary tales of stepping outside one’s station, and think better watch yourself! until I remember I’m station-less. I’m playacting and can’t remember what I was trying to accomplish by moving here.
But since I am here, I want to see a pied-à-terre. I could benefit from a hushed atmosphere. I want to discuss books and writers with Philip Roth. I want Philip Roth’s hands all over me. And I want to say to my dad, “Guess who I met?”
WALK, blazes the streetlight, but I don’t move, and neither does Philip Roth. I look at the sidewalk, pocked with burnt cigarette butts and old gum, and groan, but quietly.
Dad finished American Pastoral from his plastic chaise longue in the backyard, then came back inside. He looked dazed and singed, as if our own house were on fire.
I joined him at the kitchen table one night and asked how he liked the book. He’d been quieter than usual and seemed to survey every room in our home with unease. “It’s powerful writing,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “A sad story.”
“Oh. So the title is ironic?”
He nodded grimly. “It’s a tragedy.”
“I’m — sorry,” I said helplessly. “I hope you’re happy with your life.”
He smiled and covered my hand with his. “Oh sure, Cathy,” he said, “starting with being your father.”
“Aw, well I’m the lucky one. Once I live in the city, mi casa es tu casa.”
He laughed. “New York is where you belong — hanging with other writers, seeing plays, catching bands.”
“Yeah. But New Jersey isn’t so bad. It’s all Philip Roth seems to write about.”
“Well, Newark had a lot to offer everyone. Branch Brook Park, movie theaters, hot dogs at Louis and Ting-A-Ling. I went to the public library so often, I ended up working there. Not much work, plenty of time to read. It was my best job ever.”
It was a relief to see him pulling himself out of the wreckage of American Pastoral. “Are you going to write him a letter?” I asked.
“Yeah, I think I will. To show my appreciation and say his writing has never been better. What talent.”
Dad writes letters to people whose creativity leaves him incredulous. And they write back to him. He’s maintained a friendly correspondence with the New Yorker writer Brendan Gill, and Harold Nicholas of the tap-dancing Nicholas Brothers. Even Seymour Masin, the beloved athlete from Newark and unwitting protagonist of Roth’s American Pastoral, wrote back to my dad, and they ended up meeting for lunch.
“Nice guy,” Dad remarked years later. “And his life, his real life, was much less turbulent than in the novel. If you haven’t read it yet, Cathy, you can borrow my copy. I bought it at Barnes & Noble and read it again. It was even better the second time.”
We were at Arturo’s, a pizza joint and jazz club in the West Village where we met at once a week. He drove in from New Jersey and always managed to find public parking nearby. I’d arrived before he did and watched him cross the street and shake hands with Ansel, a blues singer who’d drop in to do a song before returning to his bouncer job at the Zinc Bar, a couple doors down. When Dad walked in, a couple offered their prized corner stools to us. New York always seemed to be on its best behavior whenever he showed up. It wasn’t as jovial when I was on my own.
Dad thanked the couple, hugged me, and shook hands with Tony, the bartender. “I was talking to a friend of mine from Newark, and we started talking about the slang we picked up from the Italian guys in our neighborhood. Ever heard of a woo-lee, Tony?”
“Woo-lee? No, I don’t think so,” said Tony, grinning at us.
“No? It means a strong desire.”
“Oh yeah? So, do you have a—woo-lee for a Bud Light? Red wine for you, Cathy?”
“How about gavone?” Dad continued. Tony shook his head. “It’s someone who eats to excess. Seems like your parents were trying to shield you from your Mediterranean background, Tony.”
“I’m from Massapequa, remember? We used some different words out on the island.”
Dad laughed and tapped his fingers along to the three-piece band, which was playing “Blue Skies.”
“Hey, did Philip Roth ever write to you?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said.
“Jerk.”
“He’s still a great author.”
“But no idol.”
“Idol?” Dad stopped tapping and looked at me as if I’d beer-burped in his face.
“You don’t have any idols? James Joyce?”
“No.”
“Count Basie?”
Impatient with my name game, he said, “All I want is for Philip Roth to keep writing.”
“Well, it’s tacky of him not to write to you. I respect him less now.”
He smiled, easing my rage. “I hope you’re still writing, Cathy,” he said.
“Yeah, I am, when the muse is upon me.” We laughed. “Which isn’t very often,” I added.
“The muse is having a snooze.”
A barrel-shaped man in a cook’s apron emerged from the back of the club and cleaved the crowd to reach us. A thin black mustache gleamed above his gigantic jaw. He and my dad shook hands. “Hey, how’s it going?” Dad said. “This is my daughter, Cathy! Cathy, this is El Jefe.” We shook hands.
“Your dad gave me the name!” said El Jefe. Even his grin was huge.
“It’s a good one!”
“Well, you always look so impressive!” Dad said. “You could be anywhere and look like you run the place.”
“I love your dad,” El Jefe told me, and for the second time that evening, my father disappeared, this time into El Jefe’s meaty side hug. Dad wore the gray high-waisted pants, white button-down shirt, and gray tweed blazer he’d had in his closet for decades, but when I hugged him at the start of the night it took a little longer to find his shoulders through all that material.
“He’s the best,” I croaked.
“I gotta go. Remember the bathroom, OK? Your daughter can use it, too. Anytime. Nice meeting you, enjoy!” El Jefe glided away as if atop a military float. Dad watched him disappear into the pizza prep area while I blotted my eyes with a cocktail napkin. “What bathroom?” I asked.
“He told me I could use the one in the kitchen. I’ve met a couple of the cooks back there—such hardworking guys.”
“So you don’t have to wait in line for the regular bathroom?” My dad nodded and applauded the band, which had launched into “Just One of Those Things.”
“Isn’t this great, Cathy?” he yelled over the din. “Being in the Big Apple, the music, everyone having a good time—it doesn’t get better than this.”
Maybe it could, starting now. Ten years of living here and my own American dream — of getting published, of having an apartment with corners to turn, of not living hand-to-mouth — has started to curdle. I wouldn’t be the first or the last to pillow-talk my way into a meeting at Simon & Schuster. And if I were to tell my dad I’d had a date with Philip Roth, he’d say, “That’s exactly who you deserve, Cathy: someone as bright and interesting as you are.”
The desire is as potent as the gravitas. I’ve read five or six of Roth’s novels by now and admire his writing, even if it leaves me simultaneously worn and wired.
“Simultaneously worn and wired.” There’s my lead-in.
Intrigued, Philip Roth invites me to his place for more conversation. We exchange greetings with his doorman, all of us admirably straight-faced, and take the elevator to his pied-à-terre. He shows me around, starting with the standing desk where he writes all his first drafts in longhand. He has a capacious Eames chair and ottoman for watching Central Park from above. His built-in bookshelves hold thousands of titles, and we flirt over Edna O’Brien, murmur about Saul Bellow.
The seduction is highbrow and imminent. Philip takes Humboldt’s Gift from my hands, sets it back on the shelf. We grin at each other. He puts a hand on my shoulder. I could float out of his building or into his bedroom, it hardly matters which.
As his hawkish face draws closer, I tell him: “My father wrote you a letter, and you didn’t write him back.”
Surprised, charmed, and only slightly less hard, he says, “Your father reads my books? Oh yeah? Has he read the latest one? It’s called The Plot Against America. What did he think? That’s very kind. Why don’t I write him now? I’m sorry I didn’t before—I don’t usually, you know; I have an agent who handles my correspondence. Come to the desk, we’ll take care of it now. What’s your father’s name? What is that, Irish? So you’re Irish? And Black, how wonderful. You’re a beautiful young woman. You’re from New Jersey too? You’re from Maplewood?”
I watch Philip write the letter. He watches me lick the envelope.
Shortly after I left my job for a marginally better paying one, my dad learned he had cancer. I visited him at home every weekend until he died, a year later. I brought him books, we listened to jazz on his radio, and he showed me the letters he’d gotten from El Jefe and the Arturo’s regulars who’d asked me why he hadn’t been there lately. Someone sent him an Arturo’s cap, which he refused to wear. “Even The Little Rascals look more mature than a guy in a baseball cap,” he said. I told him about my new apartment in Washington Heights, where I did all my reading on my living room rug, its 6 by 9 feet feeling like an acre.
Not once did we talk about cancer or chemo or death. But one afternoon I asked him, “Do you feel OK, Dad? I hope nothing’s hurting you.”
“You know, the worst pain I’ve ever had was from a toothache,” he said.
I started laughing. “Come on!”
“I’m serious! I couldn’t think or read—just couldn’t get comfortable. Really, nothing bothers me more than a toothache.” He laughed too, and I reached for his hand. I considered finally telling him about my encounter with Philip Roth that Sunday morning. But then Dad said, “I’m going to get some rest now. Thanks for coming over, Cathy,” so I didn’t.
Philip Roth died 11 years later, and the contents of his writing life were bequeathed to the Newark Public Library, where he and my dad had both worked. I visited the Philip Roth Personal Library one morning and had it all to myself. I smiled at the sports pennant from Weequahic High School, where Dad had graduated four years before Roth, and at his yearbook photos, in which he looked no less serious and important than on his back book covers. I read his editors’ comments and marveled at his 7,000-title library. I wiped my eyes a couple of times. Philip Roth didn’t write back to my dad, but at least he did this.
I spent the most time looking at his manuscripts. Even his handwriting was forceful, and I was attracted to him all over again.
His Eames chair could certainly accommodate two, and let’s not forget the ottoman. His writing desk was tall, plain, and sturdy.
Go talk to him! See his pied-à-terre! This is the best publishing connection you could ever hope to make! At least tell him Dad loves his books!
So I smiled at Philip Roth from the corner of 80th and Columbus. And he smiled at me. My back straightened. Then it turned.
“Hello, Columbus” is Catherine Lowe’s first published nonfiction, and she’s thrilled and grateful to Hippocampus Magazine. She is a copy editor and writer who also publishes SMOOCH, a digital zine, and sets her photographs to music on internationalpajamas.com. After 22 years in New York and four in Spain, Catherine, her husband, and their dog now live in the Pennsylvania mountains. To keep the bears away, she stomps, slaps, claps, and snaps while she walks.
