I woke up this morning and realized: I will never be David Sedaris. I was heartbroken. It was like that time in the 80s when I realized I would never be Mary Lou Retton. (I had the height, but I lacked the springiness despite the scores of Wheaties.)
I think I like springyness better than springiness. Doesn’t the ‘y’ make it seem more… jumpy?
I know. I shouldn’t want to be David Sedaris. The world already has two famous Sedarii.
Sedaris. Sedarii. Of the 3rd i-declension.
But who wouldn’t want that voice? That voice that is New York (even though he didn’t grow up there), or what I think of when I think of the kind of New York I could afford. It wanders around you, a guy asking for your number, which you never give out. And then somehow he gets it. And you don’t want to get excited about it (numbers are easy to lose, especially by guys like him), but you do it anyway because down deep you really do want to keep hearing him go on and on like that. That kind of voice — one that knows cold and dark and what to do there.
My voice knows the soft and the quiet, the warm (sometimes too warm), the particular engine of a fly (house flies sound like Kawasaki Ninjas), the start and stop (because it’s just too damn hot) of a place that is bright and hot (too damn hot).
No, I will never be David Sedaris.