MEETING AUTHORS #2: CHUCK PALAHNIUK, CONFESSOR

It takes a lot for me to call in to work pretending to be sick in order to meet an author, but when I found out a few years ago that Chuck Palahniuk was going to be signing at the Barnes and Noble up in Skokie, I had no choice. I called in to the library, told my boss I was bedridden, and I started making my way out to Skokie with every one of Palahniuk’s books that I could find (except I wasn’t able to find my copy of CHOKE) in addition to the issue of PLAYBOY in which his short story, “Guts,” appeared.

When I entered the store, I was given a sheet of paper with a number on it: 269. Not bad at all, or so I thought at the time. This is not an uncommon practice, and considering how popular Palahniuk is, 269 did not sound too outrageous.

I was directed to where the signing was to take place, and I was slightly amused to find that he’d been situated near the kids section. What really surprised me, however, was that Palahniuk was already there. I glanced at my watch to make sure it hadn’t stopped, but sure enough, the author was early.

For those who have never been to a signing, the author is NEVER early. In fact, very few of them are on time. The signing had not started, of course, but there was Palahniuk, meeting his fans, letting them take pictures and everything.

I had heard many wonderful stories about Palahniuk’s signings—-anyone who has ever been to one says it’s like a show—-and I would not be disappointed. He started out by answering questions, mostly about what was going to be filmed next. At the time, CHOKE had just finished photography, and he told us that all of his other work had been optioned. He also talked about his next book, RANT, and that is when the gift giving began. He literally showered the audience with presents, starting with giant rubber rats followed by gelatinous eyeballs and hearts. I tried desperately to catch something, but my arms simply weren’t long enough, and I was too far back.



Then, it was story-time. He told us he planned on reading “Guts”—-to which my heart thrilled, as I had heard that at many such readings, people became so nauseous that they fainted—-but he changed his mind and read to us a then-unpublished story, straight from the manuscript. It has since seen print (I believe in ESQUIRE), but it was a real treat for his fans. Just before he started reading the story, he passed out scented roses, enough so that everyone—-including me—-received one. He did this so “it will smell just like your grandmother’s bathroom in here,” he said. Never let it be said that Palahniuk isn’t a giving, caring writer when it comes to his fans.

After this, he started talking about how signings are always interesting to him because his readers tend to look upon him as a confessor, especially after “Guts” was published. He thought this might be because if he had written something so grotesque, then whatever his fans had to say would not be judged by him. He told a number of such confessions to us, but my favorite was when he told the story of the man who came in with a Hefty bag full of Polaroid photos. This gentleman started flipping these pictures out on the table as if he were dealing a hand of poker, and as Palahniuk looked at them, he realized they were a bunch of old people . . . naked and apparently sleeping.

No, according to the fan, these people were dead. This fellow worked at a porn shop, in which a customer could sample the wares before purchasing them by going into a private booth to view them. Part of this man’s job was to check the booths at the end of each shift, and every once in a while, he would find that an elderly customer had died while masturbating.

Before calling for an ambulance, he would grab the Polaroid camera they used to take pictures of banned customers, and he would pose the bodies and take a few “candid” shots.

Palahniuk went on to mention that as a promotion for one of his previous books, he went around the country throwing out plastic severed hands to the audience. He bought them in bulk and shipped them out to the bookstores he was going to be at the following week. It turned out that his agent also represented another writer who was following the same route. What had this other writer written about? His experience in the wilderness, when a boulder had fallen on his arm and the only way he survived was by cutting off his own hand and hiking back to civilization. The managers at the bookstores receiving the severed hands thought it was a horribly sick joke, but as it turns out, the writer in question thought it was kind of funny.

Now, it was finally time for the signing to begin. They asked for numbers 1-50 to line up in order, and the waiting began. I found a comfortable corner and started reading one of his books that I hadn’t yet read: SURVIVOR. Let me tell you, by the time I walked out of that Barnes and Noble, I was finished with the whole thing. It’s not a long read, but the fact that it took so long for the signing was a bit crazy. (It is also now my favorite of his work. If you haven’t read it, you should. You’ll learn a lot about the world, and maybe, if you’re lucky, even yourself.)



An hour passed before they called the next group, so I decided to investigate. I looked down into the kids section to see that he was spending quite a bit of time with each fan, signing everything in sight and taking a variety of pictures. Some of the fans had the severed hands from previous signings, and he was autographing those and using them to pose with fans in compromising positions. The whole time, he was grinning, and it was very clear that he was actually happy to be there. Most writers get tired and take breaks, but he seemed to be full of energy, and he kept going.



He spent so much time with his fans that it was obvious that Barnes and Noble employees were getting tired of it. By the time they called 200-250, they were telling people to be fast, and that he was only going to sign books from here on out. However, I was at a good vantage point by then, and I hadn’t seen ANYONE from B&N approach Palahniuk. This was an executive decision.

I kind of wished I could have gotten that PLAYBOY signed, but oh well.

Soon, my number range was called, and I got in line. As I slowly approached, I decided that I was going to be one of those memorable confessions, but I didn’t know what the hell I was going to tell him. I engaged in conversation with a few other fans around me as we waited, but it seemed that they were just interested in meeting him . . . again. That’s right, it seemed like I was the only one around there who was meeting him for the first time.

Finally, it was my turn, and I stepped forward with my stack of books balanced in one hand and my other hand extended in greeting. He was very polite, and he looked me in the eye when he asked for my name. His handshake wasn’t strong, but it was firm and excited.

And then, it hit me. “You know,” I said to him, “I have a confession to make.”

His eyes lit up. “What’s that, John?”

“Have you ever seen Kevin Smith’s movie, MALLRATS?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Oh.” I deflated a little, but not too much. “Are you familiar with the term, ‘stink-palming’?”

“No,” he said as he signed.

“It’s when you stick your hand in your ass and clench tight until the stink latches on to your hand, and you then shake hands with your enemy. The stink transfers to him, and he’ll spend the rest of the day trying to figure out where the smell is coming from. It won’t wash off for at least that long, you know.”

He raised an eyebrow, and then smelled his own hand.

I laughed. “Don’t worry, I didn’t do it to you.”

“That’s a relief,” he said.

“But I did do it to Oliver North.”

He broke out into laughter. “You met Oliver North?”

“At a book signing,” I said.

“And you, what is it, stink-palmed him?”

“Yep.”

“I have to give you kudos for that,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve heard a confession like that before.” He handed over the final signed book, LULLABY. “It was nice to meet you.”



I reached out to shake his hand again, and he glanced sidelong at me. “I promise, I didn’t do it to you.”

“Okay,” he said, and he shook my hand.

When I got back to the car and looked at the signed pages, I noticed that he’d signed LULLABY in an interesting way: “To John—-I wash my hands! Chuck Palahniuk.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. If you ever get the chance to meet him, I suggest you do. He really is the nicest writer you can ever meet.