George Singleton. I’ve heard tales all of my writerly life. Bunyan-esque stories. A wild man. A giant personality. A trickster, a wise-ass, a snake-handler, a Guggenpulitzheimer recipient, a bawdy drunk, a newly avowed teetotaler, a genius, a madman.
I seemed to be literarily doomed to the role of following him. If I showed up to give a reading, invariably George had just blown through town. I knew that—by comparison—my readings were tame. It was like the audience had just been treated to the spectacle of a man-versus-bear wrestling match, and now I showed up with a tubercular parakeet in a cage who couldn’t much sing, what with its little parakeet coughs.
And so when I finally met George, I was immediately surprised that he wasn’t seven foot two inches tall. I was taken by the fact that he had no visible bear scars. I was most impressed that he had a significant other who was beautiful and smart and funny. Who could live with such a myth? I was surprised that George didn’t speak in tongues. I was surprised that—on the superficial level, at least—he seemed relatively normal (by writers conference standards of normal—which are not very normal—think weird homemade scarves, facial tics, Tourrette-like outbursts).
But is he really normal?
No. He is not.
What follows is mythology, eye-witness reportage written by fiction writers (who are unreliable at best when it comes to eye-witness reportage), and accounts various and sundry.
I will say, too, that there were many who refused to participate for fear of recrimination. Most who refused said that the incidents were so awful and regrettable that they could not be uttered at cocktail parties or backyard barbecues—and would have to remain the kind of dense and disturbing tale whispered from one young aspiring writer to the next—in the hushed alleyways of AWP.
We have invited George to respond to any such stories that reside here. He can disclaim them. Or he can shout out, “You lie!” in the privacy of his own home…
In any case, all of you are also invited to add to the lore.
And…before we begin, please read the WARNING.
WARNING: George Singleton stories, in roast form, may be dangerous to psyche, your sensibilities, your literary aspirations… If you do not like what you’re reading, stop immediately. If you have any adverse symptoms—nausea, dizziness—please seek medical attention.
Okay, everyone. How come y’all are writing this stuff instead of real fiction? Me, I just began a story in my head about payback payback payback…
Katie—A snake, or a live rat? I remember bringing a live field rat to the school and letting her loose near the administrators’ offices.
Julianna—I DO have a bear story, but it has to do with love, not wrestling.
Cool Breeze—oh, cool, breeze-breezy Breeze. When will you understand that, a week before any appearance out of town, I start hiring out people to pretend that they know me. I learned this trick from some pros: George Bush, Bob Denver, PeeWee Herman. I see, too, where you learned a little something from PeeWee, when, in Utah, somehow, we walked by that adult film venue.
Aaron—I’m so sorry that it didn’t work out forever. So I’m sending you a new woman’s name. She’ll be knocking on the door presently. I think she’s mostly going by the name “Octomom” these days, but she should provide you with some entertaining tales.
There are a few problems with your story, my dear Billy.
Firstly, we did not visit the liquor store first; our first stop was at a grocery store to get directions to the nearest liquor store. Nothing was purchased there because, like you said, there was nothing worth purchasing there.
Second. I think it’s poignant to mention that George had a whiskey on ice in hand while we were bopping around town. It adds to his character, both literally and metaphorically.
Third. I am always up for the communal lifestyle, and though I do love you, I must admit that it’s the Great Steed who I’m truly in love with. Workshirts made me fall head over satanic heels. Too bad the only bed he makes is with the stars.
What a nice adventure we had. Thank you Billy, George, and Lou. Reed, I mean.