Serendipity and a chat with Philip Roth

In 2009, Philip Roth, who lived and worked at his home in Warren, received a Connecticut Governor’s Award.

The West Street Grill, a restaurant in Litchfield, displays the statuette in its main dining room. One of the restaurant’s more desirable tables is positioned below the sconce on which the trophy stands. One evening — after a day filled with attorney-enriching lurching toward the climax of my protracted divorce — a friend and I sat at that table.

The day before had been my 51st birthday, so we ordered Champagne. My friend had made it her mission to introduce me to a world where I might meet interesting men. And, to her mind, there was no better place to start than one of northwest Connecticut’s bestknown hangouts for celebrities and wealthy, unattached men whose age was usually described with a word ending in –genarian.

The restaurant owner, whom my friend knew well, greeted us as soon as we walked in. After some chitchat — which included my friend revealing the impending change in my marital status — I asked about the statuette perched a couple of feet over my head.

“Philip comes in often,” the owner responded energetically. “He couldn’t go to the ceremony and he asked me if I’d like to go in his place. Of course I said, ‘Yes.’ When I gave him the statue the next time he came in, he glanced at it and said, ‘You want it?’

I was shocked. He said, ‘Least I can do.’”

“Wow,” I said, a bit too impressed that he actually knew the Great Man. “He’s, like,” and I used the platitude, “the greatest living American author.”

“Ooh,” he said. “He hates that. Both the ‘American’ and the ‘living’ parts.”

Well, there is Shakespeare, I thought. Instead, I said, “I love everything I’ve ever read by him. I got “Indignation” a few days ago. I read it immediately, and then went right back to page one and read it again.”

The owner smiled. “Well …” he teased, “would you like to talk to him?”

I was equal parts dumbfounded and disbelieving.

My friend, who apparently knew something I didn’t, said, “Of course, you would.”

The owner left briefly and returned with his cell phone.

He seemed almost transactional as he handed me the phone.

I didn’t care in the least. In fact, what I was really thinking was, “Me too!”

Nervously, I took the phone. “Hello?” I said. My friend and the owner walked over to the bar.

“Hi,” he answered. “Charlie says great things about you.”

I wasn’t at all cool. “Wow!” I said. “I’m speaking to Philip Roth.” Yup. Out loud. Then, “You’re not screwing with me, are you?”

He chuckled, I think. And maybe said, “Not yet,” but probably not.

And then I told him how I found my sister’s hidden copy

The owner smiled. “Well …” he teased, “would you like to talk to him?”

I was equal parts dumbfounded and disbelieving. My friend, who apparently knew something I didn’t, said, “Of course, you would.”

of Portnoy when she was at college and I was 14.

And I read it every night — and started wondering about Jews; and The Monkey utterly fascinated me, so when I got to college, I fashioned myself something of a Shiksa Goddess and hung around the ZBT house, somewhat successfully. So, thanks for that, Mr. Roth.

All this — combined I suppose with the introduction Charlie had probably given me — got his attention.

And then we talked about “Indignation” a bit. I told him Olivia Hutton — the unstable, dazzling, carnal central female character of the book—haunted me. I didn’t answer when he asked me why.

After a brief silence, he asked where I had grown up — New Jersey. But nowhere near Newark — and a lot of other interview-type questions I don’t remember.

Except for the last one, which seemed innocent enough.

“And where do you live now?” he asked. I told him, and added, “with my 12-yearold daughter.”

To which, abruptly, he responded, “Good talking with you. I have to go now.” And hung up.

It took a couple of minutes, and a bubbly refill, to get over the sharpness of the dismissal. My friend returned.

She looked at me inquiringly. I pointed to the statuette above us and said, “Well, maybe I could get some sort of participation trophy. Think we could steal that?”