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052506
Peggy Miller never fired anyone. She always referred to it as "getting a divoooooorce," said in the manner of Joan Crawford or, better yet, Faye Dunaway playing Joan Crawford. She first mentioned the matter of divoooooorces in a brief conversation, before requesting that my good friend GianCarlo, whom I had recommended as an intern for the winter, never return.
"Saaaarah," she said.
"Yes, Peggy?"
"Your friend, Jaaaaahn Pierre or whatever it was?"
"Yes, Peggy?"
"I don't think things are working out with hiiiiiim."
"I see."
"I think we're going to have to get a divoooooorce."
The first time I met GianCarlo, he'd just gotten out of the hospital from an overdose of heroin. The second time was at a Will Oldham concert on Coney Island. He was wearing a shirt unbuttoned to the waist and a large gold medallion. Now, he was getting a divoooooorce from adult trade book publishing. It's not as if I hadn't kind of expected it.
But I'd recommended him. I'd hoped that he would make it. Yet, as the harsh glow of Peggy Miller's email squirmed about in my cornea (I was kindly cc'ed), I knew she was right:
"Things just aren't working out with you."
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