Free Lust & Wonder by Augusten Burroughs Page A

hit the spot, and it was shocking to realize that I saw it would not. I did not want to drink. I mentally rummaged through my internal minibar: Jack Daniel’s, Bombay gin, Absolut vodka, beer, chardonnay, crème de menthe; I didn’t want any of it. And instead of finding this comforting, I found myself feeling abandoned. I had never before considered the possibility that I might never even want a drink yet still be left with this horrible, throbbing vacancy in the center of my being, right where my mental health and contentment were supposed to be.
    On the floor of my closet was a box George’s mother had shoved into my hands when she demanded the key to his apartment the day after he died. The box contained things she assumed were mine but which, in fact, were not. In it was a book, though, that George and I had bought together at the Barnes & Noble on Astor Place. We bought it because George’s brother had worked for the publisher. I pulled it out of the box, which I now saw also contained the contents of the junk drawer from his kitchen, and carried it over to the bed.
    It made me laugh. Kept Boy by Robert Rodi.
    Something about it reminded me of my own novel. It was a satire, over the top, a little bit caustic around the edges but bighearted. It was a much more carefully crafted book than my own, that much I could see. But wasn’t there some kind of kinship between them? Wouldn’t a person who liked Kept Boy also like my own little Sellevision ?
    I e-mailed the author—this time without invoking Kathy Bates—and told him how much I loved his book. Then I admitted that I’d written my first novel, and because in spirit it was somehow similar to his own, I asked if he would mind telling me the name of his agent. Robert wrote me back right away and thanked me for praising his book. He also gave me his literary agent’s name and e-mail address.
    Unlike the other agents, this one replied to my query instantly, an amusing response that included the line, “Feel free to send me your manuscript at your earliest convenience.”
    I wrote back that my “earliest convenience” involved a wig, a revolver, and a stolen FedEx truck and I messengered the manuscript to his office on Eighth Avenue in Chelsea.
    Several days later, he called and asked to meet for lunch at a restaurant near his office.
    I was prepared for him to say, “What you’ve written isn’t a novel. It’s a cry for help.” I remembered that was something Mitch’s editor had told him about his last manuscript.
    I did not expect this: him walking west toward me on Gansevoort Street, backlit by the sun as though he’d just stepped out of it, his thick, shoulder-length blond hair whipping around his face, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a manila envelope tucked under one arm. His smile was almost too much.
    â€œYou must be Augusten!” he shouted from twenty feet. “I’m Christopher!”
    In my mind, I chanted, “You will either be my agent or my boyfriend. You will either be my agent or my boyfriend.”
    I called out, “I hope I’m not late! It’s great to meet you!”
    He wore black-and-white checkered pants and a white shirt with no buttons and blue stitching. We sat at a narrow banquette in Florent, a cool downtown bistro, and we both ordered cheeseburgers, which came on English muffins. I eyed the envelope he’d slid beside him and wondered, did it contain a contract? Was he going to be my agent?
    Lunch was going so well. He dipped his fries in mustard, and when some of it dripped onto his white shirt, all he did was laugh. “Oh my God, I’m such a pig.”
    He laughed almost constantly, nearly to the point of choking several times, banging his own fist against his chest. The tall, slender waiter refilled his glass with ice water, which he chugged as though it had been days since he’d had anything to drink.
    He told me he loved my