Isn't Richard Ford a Dreamboat?

Richard Ford, author of many brilliant stories, Pulitzer- and Pen/Faulkner-winner, guy-who-hunted-ducks-with Ray-Carver, is a Huge Fox! I rode my bike for miles to see him at Capitola Book Cafe, and, figuring him for a leg man, I wore short-shorts and sat in the front row. During the reading he sweated profusely. You know why? Because he was (and is) hot. So he was sweating profusely, wiping his hands on his polo shirt as if he was nervous, but no, he's a famous and handsome writer. If anything, he's nervous about all the ladies in the audience drooling at once. Me, though? I was super nervous, because I was determined to meet him in person.

After the reading, I waited in line for twenty minutes, sort of stretching my legs and trying to catch his eye. Then, finally, it was my turn. Mr. Ford asked me what he should write in my book. I knew what I wanted him to say but instead, I just sort of croaked my name at him. He signed, leaving a sweaty fingerprint on the page, and that was that.

And riding home, my bare legs freezing, my Granta Book of the American Short Story stuffed into my backpack (my ex-boyfriend has long since sold it, I think), I thought about what he DID write. "To Ingrid, With Gratitude." It was much grander than anything I might have wished for, and much more distancing.