BELOVED AUTHOR OR NEW CATALYTIC CONVERTER? A Simple Choice If You Put It That Way.

I just received another rejection letter from a literary agent. I could say I’m surprised and disappointed, but that’s not true. I actually feel relieved. After some serious soul searching, I’ve decided it’s best I’m not an adored author. Being an icon would be way too much work.

If published, I’m sure my work would be an immediate bestseller. Literary critics would label my text transcendent and transformative. Thousands would gush at my sight and do anything to be in my presence. On my regular trips to the Home Depot, I’d be stopped by adoring fans. They’d launch into lengthy monologues of how my inspirational prose changed their lives. I’d grin and patiently listen while all I really want to do is get some 3/16-inch toggle bolts, deck screws and primer. Of course, my followers would insist on a selfie. Being unshowered and wearing my workshop clothes, I’d strike an unflattering image. My publicist (Enzo Antoine Prosciutto) would be aghast when he sees the shot burning up Instagram and Snapchat. 

Because of my newfound fame, Enzo would insist I get a posse because, “they’re chic and it could make you look taller.” Then I’d have to drag my vertically challenged crew to the dry cleaners, AutoZone and the Home Depot. The pampered leeches would moan about being in such gauche locales and none of them would know the PVC glue is in the plumbing section and yard waste bags are outside. What the heck good is an entourage if they can’t help with such basic tasks?

A-list celebrities would want to hang with me and sulk when not included in my outings. George Clooney would be inconsolable when I forget to invite him to a paintball excursion. Declining JT’s invitation to his Monaco villa because I need to change my old SAAB’s catalytic converter would leave him distraught. The Biebs would feel snubbed when I don’t go clubbing. He wouldn’t buy the explanation that my dancing is so horrible it induces motion sickness in others.

I’d need a personal assistant to screen calls from luminaries and admirers. However, Chuck Norris and Samuel L. Jackson (the only celebrities with a higher priority than a new catalytic converter) would still have my private number.

And that’s not even mentioning the ladies!

Imagine the tongue lashing I’d get from my lovely bride when Halle Berry invites me for a weekend on her yacht. Never one to turn down an opulently catered affair, Kate would insist we go, but she’d be watching Ms. Berry like a hawk. Finding a pair of presentable swim trunks that minimize my love handles would be an onerous chore. There would also be the awkward task of forewarning Ms. Berry, fellow guests and staff about my deformed ingrown toenail. I’d have to wear my goofy water shoes in the interest of health and public safety.

Lady Gaga would insist we do a duet for her upcoming album. Little does she know that I even drove Sister Mildred (my grade school principal) to wince at schooltime church services.

Television interviews would pose another challenge. Enzo would deem my “dad jeans” off limits for the events. Scouring the local bargain racks for reasonably priced interview clothing would waste a day where I could have aerated my lawn and worked on my deck.

The worst thing of my newfound fame would be if it went to my head. I’d have to be ever vigilant I don’t start wearing an ascot, talking about myself in the third person and insisting others use an eccentric pronunciation of my name.

Yeah, I’m convinced being an unknown author, a nobody, is best for me. I don’t understand the desire to be famous when you can never find the time to do regular chores, like changing spark plugs or finishing drywall projects. I don’t know how celebrities do it.