My Frank McCourt Rug

In the backseat of a New York City cab, on my way to the Blue Note Jazz Club on July 19, 2009, I heard the radio DJ say Frank McCourt had died. The sad news pulled me away from thinking about my reserved front-row seat to 1997 when Frank and Ellen McCourt came to Christchurch, New Zealand, to promote Frank’s Pulitzer Prize-winning memoir, Angela’s Ashes.

At the time, I was the director of the Christchurch Writers Festival and in the office when a representative from Frank’s publisher called and asked if the festival would like to host a public event. I knew from experience that staging a big event was risky, perhaps too risky for a small festival like ours. Still, I wanted to see and hear Frank McCourt as much as any other fan, so I was thrilled when the festival committee agreed to take the risk.

We decided to stage ‘An Evening with Frank McCourt’ in a 2000-seat theatre, and once all the tickets had sold, our attention turned to production needs and stage design. On a site visit to discuss lighting options, I noticed the stage floor was dirty, and I wanted it cleaned and polished, but the Venue Manager said there wasn’t time.

A large rug would solve the problem, I thought, and it took a few calls before I found a carpet dealer who was also a Frank McCourt fan. He agreed to lend me a beautiful rug in return for a signed book, two free tickets, and an imprint of my credit card. Deal!

I arrived at the airport in time to meet Frank and Ellen at the gate, and Frank hugged me like a long-lost friend. They had several bags, and I offered to carry a couple, but Frank wouldn’t hear of it. He slung two bags over his shoulder and picked up a large suitcase. I escorted them to the airport parking lot, turning my attention to Ellen whenever Frank slowed down to adjust the bags.

“American?” Frank asked when we arrived at the car.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Me too… and Irish,” Frank said.

“I read that somewhere.”

“Me too,” he said, chuckling as he shoved the last bag into the trunk, slamming it shut.

Frank peppered me with questions all the way to the hotel. “When did you arrive from America? Are you a writer? You should be. Have you been driving long ’cause you’re on the wrong side of the road?”

His good nature and amusing chatter were pleasant distractions from the last-minute event issues I needed to address.

I left them in the hotel lobby with a promise to return in an hour, as Frank wanted to meet the event’s bookseller in the theatre foyer and sign every copy of Angela’s Ashes she had.

When I returned (10 minutes early), Frank was waiting for me on the curb, holding a worn copy of Angela’s Ashes in his left hand and several pens in his right.

The bookseller had set up a table, and Frank seemed eager to begin. While I searched for an additional chair, Frank opened boxes, stacked books, and took the lids off pens. I watched him open a book to the second page—the page with Angela’s Ashes, A Memoir of a Childhood, at the top.

“I like to sign this page,” he said when he noticed me watching.

While I pushed new books across the table for Frank to sign, he talked about his book tour and was still signing when the theatre manager approached us and said he’d be opening the front doors in ten minutes.

“Slide that stack of books over here. I’ll be quick,” Frank said.

“Are you planning to sign every book?” the bookseller asked.

“A signed book is a sold book. You booksellers never return signed books,” Frank said in an exaggerated Irish accent.

***

Frank was full of energy backstage, and as we waited for the front-of-house manager to give the five-minute call, he asked about the stage setup and the audience size. He clapped and laughed when I told him what I’d offered the rug dealer, and just as I stood up to escort Frank to the stage door, he reached down and took off his left shoe, holding it up for me to see the label inside. I read an Italian name out loud, and he slipped it back on. “No more Florsheims for me. All because I wrote a book about a story I’ve been telling for a long time.”

***

The audience was silent as Frank read from his worn copy of Angela’s Ashes, and when he finished and turned to leave the stage, he wiped his feet on the corner of the rug—a nod to me and a gem of a stage exit.

Frank grinned at me when he saw a hundred or more fans waiting for him in the foyer. Some waited an hour to shake his hand, share a story, buy a book, or just say hello. 

When I drove Frank and Ellen back to their hotel that night, Frank gave me a signed copy of Angela’s Ashes, and before he exited the car, I asked him how someone might become a good writer.

“Good writers write what they know, be it awful or grand.”

(I didn’t return the rug.)