Why Sedaris is not to be read in public
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MANILA, Philippines - Julie Ann Ensomo is working as a graphic designer in a small design agency. She regrets not taking up journalism or literature in college, and to compensate she maintains a blog, joins forums, and participates in writing workshops and competitions.
I first read of David Sedaris on a website I frequently visit, where a fan said that the author signed his book with the line, “Bawal umihi dito.” There was something about urine prohibition and that it was written by a man who apparently didn’t understand a word of Tagalog that made me naturally curious about his books, so I decided to buy one to see what the fuss was all about.
The first book I saw on the shelves of a local bookstore was When You are Engulfed in Flames, which I immediately bought and began to read as I sat comfortably on a bus. The first few lines of the book were tolerable, until the part where I wanted to slap my seatmate’s arm as you would when you are with a good friend watching a comedy, except that I was sitting alone in a three-seater on a public bus. So instead I resorted to having an occasional giggle and the frequent mini-seizure, just so the bus conductor wouldn’t shoot me with a tranquilizer.
It is one of the worst books to read in public, especially when surrounded by people who look ready and able to call the police anytime. The other passengers were clearly giving me looks of concern and bewilderment, and I even thought of making a fake call on my mobile phone, to tell no one in particular how funny the book that I was holding was, just so I could somehow give them the assurance that I was not insane.
I thought Bob Ong’s books, Bridget Jones’s Diary and Jessica Zafra’s would be the death of me but this book taught me the art of silent laughter, which I had to immediately acquire so as to not to be labeled and treated as one of the crazy ones. Which was ironic since I was reading a David Sedaris book.
When You are Engulfed in Flames is a collection of personal essays about the author’s life and one would assume a dramatic story set in a slum neighborhood with David Sedaris doing drugs and guns, maybe prison for some time, until he took a change for the better and finally managed to write a book about it. But no…well, yes, he did take drugs but mainly for recreational purposes; he’s a faithful supporter of the smoking section in every country; he did live in a small, cheap place — a dump — as his father lovingly described it; he once had a roommate who was schizophrenic. I can go on and on, but what struck me the most was how he was able to live such a seemingly simple, normal life and turn and write it into the most extraordinary situation possible.
You’d think taking up a course in patricide would scare the bejesus out of his parents but he took a course on matricide as well so as to stop his mother from sulking and getting jealous. A few months of living in Paris with basically the word “d’accord” (which means “okay”) as his only vocabulary cost him the clothes he was wearing, along with his dignity, while sitting naked in a waiting room. Not complying with a stranger’s request meant that he was an a-hole or, more descriptively, he wouldn’t be able to get back his cough drop, which accidentally landed on that stranger’s lap. Buying a meaningful gift for his longtime boyfriend meant scouring the flea market for an authentic human skeleton. Padded buttocks are the right thing to wear, especially for a person who doesn’t even have an ounce of the natural ones but summer comes and the author has to refrain from putting it on unless he wants to sweat away what little ass he has. When times are hard and water is cut off without any notice, being cold and resourceful is necessary even if that means throwing away the flowers that his boyfriend picked — to get the water from the vase just so he can make some coffee.
It isn’t the usual happenings in everyday life that make this book wonderfully hilarious, but the author’s unusual way of seeing things — from a lunatic’s perspective — that makes for epilepsy-inducing laughter. Take, for instance, this incident in which the author, God knows why, names each and every one of the spiders living peacefully in his domain. He also catches flies on a daily basis just so he can feed and fatten up the deprived, poor little things. You’d think the logical step in seeing a tenement of spiders living inside your house would be to call the bug killers or to purchase an insect repellant but instead he brings April (its name), which eats flies as a meal, to one of the most romantic places in the world. We might have some spider fights here in our country but I have yet to hear of a grown man standing beside a used diaper or beside rows of trash cans, waiting for a crowd of flies to hover on it and then to catch and imprison some of them as a treat for some clueless arthropod. Normandy might have some festive offerings of all sorts of juicy and delectable flies, but Paris was a bitch to those flying insects, especially in the cold months. And David Sedaris apparently did not know that until then.
The author might have no idea why a certain stranger who offers him a ride would suddenly ask for oral sex or why a Stadium Pal, a catheter that you can discreetly use and wear in public (and by discreet, he means you can attach it to your calf and unless you’re wearing shorts and you’re inside a closed, small room, you’d have no serious problem with it) is not a wise decision when it comes to accessory choices, but he nevertheless knows how to tell the simplest of stories in a manner that will leave the reader losing what little poise and self-respect he or she possesses.
Making a fool of yourself in Japan, in a country that is not your own, like Sedaris experienced, is one thing; but chortling and having shoulder spasms on a very public bus ride alone in Manila while reading a book with the cover of a skeleton head on it is another.
