Janet Berliner

Unless something miraculous occurs, this is likely to be my last SU blog. For many months, I have been suffering intense chronic pain. In addition, I have the tremors. My hands hover over the keys like anxious hummingbirds, which makes writing well nigh impossible.  This blog came about because, this week, I was asked to write an Author’s Note for my Crichton Book.  Somehow, I did it, thus I have it to post for your interest-or not.  Be happy.

The house was parked halfway down a Santa Monica side street, close enough to the beach that, at seven in the morning, I could smell the December fog coming off the ocean.  I was an hour early. I sat on the concrete front step, watched a jogger sweat his way down the street, and lit a cigarette, reminding myself that I had better make sure to bury the ash and the butt.

Only hours before, I had finished the last of my preparation for this extraordinary assignment-a one-week interview with Dr. Michael Crichton-by reading his Master’s Thesis in anthropology.  The thesis explored the possible relevance between the size of the brain and other physical parts in man and animal against IQ and ability, demonstrating that a popular racist theory of the time-that the Egyptians were descended from Europeans, not Africans, since Africans could not have had the brain capacity to build such a great civilization-could not stand up to scientific examination.  The thesis included a photo of a male Jew’s nose being measured by calipers. I had read six million words of Michael’s work, including twelve drafts of Jurassic Park.  The first several of those used the children as the major protagonists, that being what Michael truly wished to write. Nobody had told me to read everything, but I was almost as OCD as Dr. Crichton.  Turned out to be a good thing, since I was quizzed mercilessly before he accepted me as worthy of doing the work I had set out to do.

Judging by the exterior of the house, this was to be a less-than-exciting week.  There was no flower to be seen, no name above the mail slot.  The grass was so well trimmed it looked as if the blades had been measured to make certain they were all the same height.

It all looked so ordinary that it felt institutional.

Half an hour into my wait, a car drove up.  My heart bounced, but three women climbed out. They introduced themselves as his staff.  One offered me a cup of coffee, which I gladly accepted.  She brought it outside along with her own and lit a cigarette. “No lectures,” she said.

I lit one of my own.

“How long you hoping to be around?” she asked.

Hoping? A strange choice of words, I thought, and said, “All week, early morning until dinnertime.”

She choked on a mouthful of coffee.  The other two women came out to see if there was a problem.

“This poor young woman thinks she’s going to interview Michael all day, every day, for a week.  Anyone for odds?” She looked at me with pity in her eyes.  “Twenty minutes is his max, Girl.  You’ll either run out in tears or he’ll get busy or bored and tell you to leave.”

“Oh well.” I dug a small grave for my butt. As long as I could ask him about the calipers and the weak endings and the lack of interest in characterization, my homework would have been worthwhile.

An SUV drove up to the house and parked.  The girl with me whispered good luck and made a rapid departure as Michael Crichton strode toward me.  He was six foot nine; I’m five two on a good day. I reminded myself that intimidation was not an option.

“You’re early,” he said.

I stood up. My nose was on line with his belly button. “One of my greatest failings,” I said.

He smiled.  For one, fleeting moment, he looked like a little boy. I would learn that he doled out smiles like bonuses. Most of the time his body language was arrogant and said, “I’m a big man, rich and famous.”

We entered the house. Like the garden, it was perfect, neat, spare. I sat down in the corner of a large, expensive leather sofa and placed my microcassette recorder between us. He took an armchair and stretched his legs along the coffee table. His feet made it perfectly to the end.

“How much of my work have you read?” he asked.

“All of it.”

“Really?”

The tone of his voice annoyed me.

“Yes,” I said. “Really.”

He began to grill me, in true professorial mode.

“Which one did you like most.”

“Travels.”

He looked surprised. “Why?”

“Because it’s the only one written in your true voice and because I’m a gypsy.”

Without further comment, he said, “Let’s get started.”

I hesitated.  He looked annoyed.

“I’d like to talk for a while first,” I said, trying not to sound as nervous as I felt.

“I’m a busy man,” he said. “Don’t waste my time.”

Was I closing in on twenty minutes? I glanced at my watch. “That’s more likely to happen if we don’t talk first,” I said.

A week later, we closed up shop.  I’d been presenting drafts daily. The big man was happy enough to send me flowers in ICU, where I lay after 7 days and nights of work. He said he looked forward to doing updates every few years, and then he took off for Hawaii.

Clearly, given where this book ends, the updates never happened. His life became additionally complicated by lawsuits, a divorce and remarriage, and a move to New York. He dealt with the book and movie sequels of Jurassic Park and with ER, and was increasingly involved with the Press as his novels began to deal with major political issues. As for our book, it had an ISBN number and was in the catalogue, but there was always something that stopped the process from reaching completion.

He returned to Los Angeles, remarried, was the victim of a home invasion in the little sterile house where we’d worked. The years passed, the wall around him, literally and figuratively, grew higher.

Only those closest to him knew that he was dying.

I hope, wherever he is, he’s writing Travels II.

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