“Literary fraud is a terrible thing,” agreed Clifford Irving, sitting on my sofa, sipping a caipirinha through a mauve opaline straw. “That’s why when one contemplates it, one must think big. This is so … small.”
My longtime pal Cliff — that him above in younger days — and I were talking about Matt McCarthy’s Odd Man Out, a book about his one season as a minor-league pitcher in Provo, Utah. It’s a memoir.
Make that “memoir.”
The New York Times says McCarthy “writes about playing with racist, steroids-taking teammates, pitching for a profane, unbalanced manager and observing obscene behavior and speech that in some ways reinforce the popular image of wild professional ballplayers.”
But, reports The Times, many of the people McCarthy writes about say the incidents never happened. In some instances, McCarthy quotes teammates spouting incorrect facts — about their own lives. Better yet, McCarthy “recalls” events involving players who either hadn’t yet reported to the team or were long gone.
Oh, and he even gets obvious details about games wrong.
“Aren’t box scores available?” Cliff asked, exasperated. “You can’t believe the amount of research I did when I concocted the Howard Hughes ‘autobiography.’ ”
“McCarthy says he took detailed notes,” I said.
“But he wouldn’t show them to The Times reporters,” rejoined James Frey, entering the room carrying a plate of exquisite, Vietnamese squeasel, my favorite since my days traveling the globe with Anthony Bourdain.
“You’re a fine one to talk,” Cliff said to James. “Didn’t you know jail records existed when you wrote A Million Little Pieces?
“Those made-up months in jail were absolutely necessary to the authenticity of my story!” James shrieked, ready to dump the tray on Cliff’s head.
Konrad Kujau, who all of us had thought asleep, stood up suddenly. “Heren, heren,” the forger of The Hitler Diaries said gently, “there is no cause for fighting.”
The old man’s quick action saved Cliff’s pate and, more important, the squeasel.
Konrad continued:“You must admit that James here fought a fine literary retreat when exposed. What was it you told the press? ‘I’ve never denied I’ve altered small details?’ Brilliant, brilliant.”
“You always take his side,” Cliff sniffed.
Konrad ignored Cliff — which he always hates — then continued, “But what did this McCarthy say when pressed by The Times? He said, ‘This was my experience.’
“We can all agree that was weak, very weak.”
And so we did. The squeasel was passed, the caipirinha was drunk, and the state of literary fraud was lamented.
Finally, they turned to me. “And what is this that you’ve written?” Konrad asked. “Let us see.”
After a quick perusal, they sighed — not quite in unison — then Clifford pronounced judgment. “Stick to straight writing, my friend. I’m afraid you haven’t the flair for ‘memoir.’ ”
Contact Jim Gordon at gjames43@msn.com.
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