![]() With the studied briskness of an executive concluding a meeting, Sawyer uttered the unredeemable words: "Mike is expecting me. "I've got a great ass."Īfter that our conversation never regained its rumpled intimacy. What a horrible remark! She took it well, but her mask of geniality did not prevent me from glimpsing a moment of wounded vanity. "You know, Diane, you have a flat ass," I said. Miraculously, she stood up and turned around, looking tolerant and bemused, as if she were humoring a drinking man, which, in fact, she was. I was not unaware that this might sound a trifle perverse to Sawyer but, after all, she had always been allowed to ask the tough questions. "Diane," I croaked, "would you mind standing up and turning around?" In a nervous euphoria compounded of vodka and desperate admiration, I decided to take a flyer. She was there in the room with me, she had stepped through the screen, she was flesh-and-blood, not merely skittering molecules in a TV set! For the next hour we discussed the state of television, the state of politics, and the state of New York, everything, in fact, except my first novel, A Fan's Notes, which she claimed, in other company, to have read.Īs one might expect from the Wellesley-educated daughter of a Glasgow, Kentucky, judge, Sawyer carries with her an almost southern-belle graciousness, as well as the dimpled luminosity of America's most suave TV interviewer. Beautiful, oh yes, in her sorority-girl plaid pants and white sweater, she nevertheless entered shyly, like someone whose reputation had spent more time at parties than she had. The doorman announced her arrival over the intercom with uncharacteristic tremulousness, prompting me to pour a fresh vodka. She showed up in the midevening at the eastside high-rise where I was a guest. A childhood buddy who had risen through the buzz-sawed branches of CBS - not just clinging but prospering - agreed, after much browbeating, to introduce Sawyer to me. I was in New York then, going over the final galleys of a novel that, for eleven years, had weighed my spirit like a cow carried on a peasant's back to market. In an era when I would have been more than happy to receive the acclaim of my peers - no matter how astounded - I became a hero, albeit briefly, for sleeping with Diane Sawyer. Originally published in the December 1989 issue ![]()
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