Benny Jay: New Trier Literary Man

November 11th, 2009

It’s Literary Fest at New Trier High School, and I’m dashing up the stairs to tell all the kids who have come to hear me speak – and I just know there’s a multitude of them – all about this great thing I do called journalism.

So here I come – through the halls, past a security guard, and into the library, where I see….

Two girls and one boy sitting around a desk.

The door slams shut behind me. “This is it?” I ask.

“This is it,” says the boy.

I look at the schedule of speakers. They’ve got quite an impressive list of writers on tap for the festival and I’m up against the most impressive of them all: Harold Ramis, who’s speaking in the auditorium. That’s Harold Ramis as in the big-time Hollywood director, actor and screen writer who’s written such classics as “Caddyshack,” “Groundhog Day,” “Stripes,” “Analyze This” and – oh, you get the picture.

Basically, the kids had a choice: Me or Harold Ramis. I feel like a re-run of MASH on Superbowl Sunday.

“Maybe we should just go to the auditorium and hear Ramis,” I suggest.

“Can we?” asks the boy.

“Okay,” I say. “That was a joke….”

I sit in a chair at their table. They’re smiling – good, at least they’re cheerful.

“Do any of you ever read a newspaper?” I ask.

They shake their heads.

“Do any of you want to be journalists?”

More head shaking….

“So why did you sign up for this lecture?” I ask.

“We didn’t,” the boy explains. “A teacher told us to come here.”

It hits me – they were dragged here so I would have someone to talk to. As opposed to, you know, sitting in an empty library for the next hour or so, talking to myself.

I sigh, take a deep breath and launch into a rambling oration about journalism. As I talk I see from the glassy glaze in their eyes that they couldn’t care less about anything I have to say. It’s not that they’re disrespectful – they’re not. Just bored out of their minds. I might as well be talking in a foreign language for all they’re retaining. In fact, I’m thinking of switching to Flemish — just to see if they notice.

Mercifully, I stop. “Let’s try something different,” I say. “Lets’ play the question game. You’re the reporter and I’m the subject. You’re interviewing me to gather information for a story. Okay?”

They nod.

“Only here’s the thing. You have to ask follow-up questions that play off my answers, which means you have to listen and think at the same time. Get it?”

They nod.

“Okay — go!”

One of the girls asks: “What’s your favorite band?”

“The Beatles….”

The boy asks: “What’s your favorite Beatles song?”

“`In My Life.’ I love that song. Do you know it?”

“No,” he says.

“Oh, my God — it’s a great song.” I clear my throat and start to sing: “There are places I remember….”

“Oh, I know that song,” says one of the girls….

Which is a miracle considering how I sing it.

“But these memories lose their meaning….”

I can’t remember the words — I never can remember words — so I’m winging it….

“When I think of love and what remains….”

Here’s the thing – they’re bobbing their heads. You know, like they’re into it.

“In my life, I love you more….”

Done.

Silence.

“Yeah,” I say. “Great song….”

More silence.

“Anyway, next question,” I say to one of the girls.

“Why do you like it?” she asks.

“It reminds me of John Lennon. I love John Lennon. After he got shot, my sister and I went to Lincoln Park for a memorial service. We stood on Cricket Hill at Montrose with a bunch of other people and we lit candles and everyone sang `In My Life.’ Every time I hear it, I think of John Lennon. It’s been twenty-eight years, but I still can’t believe someone shot John Lennon….”

And I can’t believe this — I’m getting all choked up. In the New Trier library at the New Trier Literary Fest, no less. My God, please don’t let this get around.

“Ask me another question before I start to cry….”

“I can’t think of a follow up,” says one of the girls.

“Any question then….”

“Okay,” she says. “what’s your favorite animal?”

“A dog,” I say. “Next question….”

“What kind of animal would you like to be?” asks the other girl.

I think: What the fu – where did that question come from?

I say: “I don’t know. What kind of animal would you like to be?”

“A wolf….”

“A wolf?”

“A wolf….”

“Why?”

“Cause they’re kinda brave and – I don’t know. I just would want to be a wolf….”

“Well, I’d want to be a bird….”

“A bird?”

“Not just any bird. But a high-flying one, like an eagle. The funny thing is I don’t like heights. I won’t even go up on a ladder to change a light bulb. But I want to fly. Maybe I want to fly cause I secretly want to overcome my fear of heights….”

My God, I’m baring my inner soul to these kids.

The bell rings — time to go.

“Good job,” I tell them. “You got enough stuff to write a story.”

And so do I….