In Pursuit of John McNally

This is what it must feel like to be a stalker: nerves fire from every part of your body; your muscles quiver randomly like dandelions; your tired, blinkless eyes are like marathoners in the final mile, surging forward. There's a dry, brassy taste in my mouth, like deodorant or metal polish. I make a mental note to remind my boyfriend Brian to buy a different brand of metal polish – there must be one with a more pleasing scent – strawberry, perhaps.

I'm at the Book Cellar, a genteel little bookstore in Lincoln Square, hiding behind the greeting card rack, like a lion waiting for my prey, the famous recluse, author John McNally, who was scheduled to do a reading and book signing. I scan the racks, hoping to find John an appropriate card for the occasion, one that says 'Congratulations!' or 'Good luck' or ''Til death do us part.'

"Hey, No Milk," a man's voice behind me said.

I turned around and it's John himself. He's tall, taller than I've imagined him to be from the picture in the back flap of his books. I imagined he would be, at most, six inches tall, with his lower body uncropped. But here he was, normal-sized and talking to me.

It was a couple of seconds before I was able to respond with a weak "Hi!" I was amazed he even recognized me. The only explanation was that he must've read my blog and seen my pictures. But even that is surprising since I only post pictures of myself that are unrealistically attractive. They bear no resemblance to me in real life. In real life, I cannot hope to show only my 'good side' like Barbra Streisand. In real life, no cosmetic can cover up blemishes like Photoshop can.

We spoke awkwardly for a few minutes. Our conversation was like a fish flopping about on dry land, gasping for a topic. I thanked him for sending me a copy of his book and he thanked me for posting my interview of him on my site.

"Brian, my boyfriend, was saying that we should take a trip out to Duke's Italian Beef, out in Bridgeview," I said. "Is it like a Portillo's?" Portillo's is like the McDonald's of Italian Beef sandwiches in the Chicago area.

"Nah," John said, "Duke's is more like a hole-in-the-wall."

Article Author: No Milk

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