My meeting with Christopher Hitchens

I anxiously tap my heel on the hardwood floor while sitting at a table at a fine restaurant in Manhattan, near the office and New York home of Christopher Hitchens.  He has recently become an official U.S. citizen, at the age of 58, and just today spoke of how great this nation was, despite being attacked for being a non-believer.  He has yet to find out he will develop cancer soon and recently quit smoking, only to begin again in 2 short years when he writes his next memoir Hitch-22.  I am awaiting the arrival of a man I am intrigued immensely by.  I go over extensively the questions I may ask him, how do you defy the odds and stand your ground, how do you write so fearlessly; what is your opinion on Rick Santorum? (Knowing the likely answer, I still would question to see/hear the reaction!)  The questions pile up; I wonder how I will pick the brain of such a multifaceted man.  I nibble on the bread, just barely as my nerves are getting the best of me, wondering if he will even show, do friends of friends actually show up at dinners? 

Soon I hear a bit of commotion from behind, a man with a British accent speaking briskly with a hearty laugh; I turn of course to find Hitchens talking it up with the maître-d’.  When I made the reservation, I was told that he enjoyed this restaurant, but of course, he would be what seemed like best friends with every person who worked there, immediately requesting that the best bottle of red wine be brought to his table.  He has a sport coat on, with a striped button down shirt, the top two buttons unbuttoned, with his hair terribly combed over like usual, with a bit of a wave to it and reddened cheeks.  I am in awe; to me he is such an out of this world person, likened to big foot in my mind.

As he arrives at the table he introduces himself to me, I feeling inferior, am an eager friend of a friend receiving the opportunity to meet with him, in this case even dine with him.  Hitch welcomes me with a huge smile on his face, I nervously shake his hand, mine clammy his hand feeling hardened from the thousands of cigarettes he has smoked over his lifetime, yet expressing a sense of gentleness as well.  As we take our seats, he asks to make sure I had not been waiting long.  He quickly explains that he was held at his office by a phone call of a colleague picking his brain on the role Prince Charles will play when he becomes the King of England.  His opinion of course is known and with a quirky laugh and a snarky comment that indicates his belief of his uselessness, I begin to laugh as well.  My nerves have vanished, I see his 5 foot 9 stocky build and realize he is just another person, though intimidating on television and in his writing, he is a caring person that welcomes me as a guest at his table, rather than the other way around. 

I wondered before he smiled and welcomed me graciously if he would bring up the fact that he had about six interviews on different news networks today, or be in a bad mood as a result, perhaps showing the demonizing anger his writing sometimes perpetuates, or others portray him to have.  However, despite the anger I saw in his eyes toward the woman on the news this morning who challenged him so fiercely, he brings no anger and resentment to the table with me.  I then quickly realize the set of questions I struggled to accumulate did not matter they were frivolous.  The conversation began to  flow freely and quickly as it would, beginning and ending with a bit of quirky sarcasm that is fluent to him, with the help of red wine, I knew a truly wonderful dining experience had just begun.