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I Have Gone Seven Months Without Betting on Literary Prizes
It started innocently enough about twenty years ago. I was enjoying an espresso with my friend Charley on a rainy Portland afternoon in the Anne Hughes Reading Room at Powell’s Books. The conversation turned to the National Book Awards. Charley was rooting for poet Harryette Mullen’s, Sleeping with the Dictionary. I scoffed and told him that Ruth Stone’s, In the Next Galaxy was a shoe-in. An argument ensued and Charley said that if I was so sure of myself, I should put money on it. At the time I didn’t even know that was possible.
Charley pointed to a shaggy-haired man reading Harper’s Magazine at a table in the corner. “Ruth Stone is paying eight to one,” Charlie said.
The shaggy-haired guy was named Pascal, probably not his real name, and he was a bookie — not the kind who loves books and reads books, the kind who makes book. I put a hundred dollars on Ruth Stone, and the day after the National Book Award winners were announced, Pascal handed me an envelope filled with hundred-dollar bills.
I told myself it was just a one-off thing, but the glow of winning remained with me for days. When the Pulitzers arrived, I devoured the finalists, not admitting even to myself the reason why. I bet a trifecta — poetry, fiction and drama — and I won big.
