Susan Orlean and me

In the late 1970s, long before she became a staff writer for The New Yorker and a bestselling author of such nonfiction books as Saturday Night, The Orchid Thief, and The Library Book, Susan Orlean worked for the Portland, Oregon, newspaper Willamette Week. That's when I met Ms. Orlean, who was in her early 20s at the time—just as I was. I met her through my job as production manager for Claymation film producer Will Vinton Productions. Ms. Orlean had called Will to ask if she could interview him, and Will had passed her on to me, as he occasionally did in such situations.

I called Ms. Orlean and set up a time for us to get together for lunch at a popular Northwest Portland restaurant called The Wheel of Fortune (later renamed Ezekiel's Wheel, probably to avoid copyright infringement). I had no idea what Ms. Orlean wanted to talk about, but I was game for anything.

Anything, that is, except what she ended up wanting to talk about: skeletons in Will's closet.

She wanted dirt.

It wasn't that I was unaware of such skeletons or dirt (although the few examples I was aware of were relatively benign); it was that I was unwilling to help this ambitious and assertive young muckraker to tarnish my boss's—my friend's—reputation, for the sake of bolstered newspaper sales or a Pulitzer (ha ha).

So I was a bit peeved when Ms. Orlean's intent became clear, and matters were not improved when, after we had finished lunch, she looked at me expectantly and said, "I'm not sure how these things work; do you pay, or do I, or...?"

Me, pay? I thought. For an interview you requested?

I managed to utter something about how maybe Dutch would be best, and she reluctantly agreed. I guess in those days Willamette Week didn't pay its hungry young writers very well. We paid our checks, said our goodbyes, and that was the last I ever heard from her. And no story about Will ever appeared in her newspaper. I guess since I hadn't given her what she came for, she decided not to write anything. Which was fine with me.

When I got back to the office and related my experience to Will, he just smiled and said, "Ah, one of those."

Two decades later, I'm driving down I-5 and listening to NPR. Susan Orlean is on, reading an excerpt from her nonfiction book, Saturday Night.

She's good. Her book sounds good. No skeletons, no dirt. She's destined for greatness, I think, shaking my head and smiling to myself.

Maybe I should've bought her lunch?

Susan Orlean