I Interviewed Cormac McCarthy About Turkey Wattles. This is My Story.
Some facts still matter.
I was fresh out of journalism school when I was assigned to write an in-depth profile of celebrated novelist Cormac McCarthy.
I wasted no time in discarding with the “profile” idea and refocusing my piece to center on McCarthy’s thoughts and opinions (and possibly dreams) concerning turkey wattles.
Note: I had no interest in asking him about the turkey snood; please do not make the mistake of thinking I was interested in interviewing Cormac McCarthy about turkey snoods.
I was bright-eyed and bushy tailed (I’ve since had it removed) and full of curious glee as I knocked upon Cormac McCarthy’s thick, wooden door for our scheduled appointment to discuss turkey wattles.
I heard some ruffling from within; then a shriek; and then what sounded like a fish tank being thrown out the window (I’d forgotten to heed warnings that the author of The Road startled easily).
“What?” a gruff voice piped from inside. “What the devil is it?”
“I’m here for our scheduled interview,” I deadpanned.
There was a long pause from inside, and then what sounded like a pig being slapped on the belly.
Another few minutes passed before the intimidatingly large door finally creaked open, and there stood what I presumed to be Cormac McCarthy. He was dressed as a Ninja Turtle (Donatello) from the waist down, and had a paper bag over his head with the word “Loser” scrawled on it with what appeared to be green crayon.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” he said churlishly.
“Yes, but you don’t know what I have to say,” I clucked, changing into a spare pair of pants I had brought along in case I soiled myself. “It may just change your life.”
Another pause. I like to think he half-smiled beneath his “Loser” bag, perhaps in recognition of a younger version of himself.
“Enter,” he finally said. “But don’t ask me about my writer’s block and don’t step on any of my corncob pillows.”
I exhaled my relief; I was in. Since for some reason he didn’t move out of the way, I crawled between his legs to get inside. There were indeed a surprising amount of corncob pillows in the room, all of them scattered around the floor.
“I enjoy your writing,” I said, carefully sitting down on a red velvet recliner as he laid down in front of the fireplace. “Someday I hope to read it.”
“It’s all garbage,” he said, suddenly angry. “It’s putrid, disgusting. I hate it. It makes me want to tear my eyeballs out of my skull and shove them down my throat.”
“Well, enough small talk,” I said. “Let’s cut to the chase.”
I reached into my duffel bag and pulled out this picture:
I held it up to him, real close.
“Anything you’d like to tell me, writer-boy?”
He studied the image for a long time, running his fingers along the wattle. He handed the picture back to me dejectedly.
“I like it,” he said. “Wish I had one myself.”
I shut off my tape recorder.
“I think we’ve got a front pager on our hands here,” I said as I stood up to shake his hand.
“Don’t you wanna stay awhile longer?” he said. “I’ve got half a cantaloupe in my closet.”
“Raincheck, Mac,” I said. “Raincheck.”
Then I stepped out into the night, my future lighting the way.
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Epilogue
The article never ran, as later that night a piano fell on my head and knocked me down an open sewer drain that was filled with dynamite. I just woke up from a 29-year coma this afternoon and had to push my wife and children out of the way with a sofa cushion in order to get to this computer and post this account before the Times got ahold of it.
