The Oprah Nightmare

By Clay Allen

The sleeping-dreams I've had about meeting Oprah are only just okay. Though a nocturnal encounter is delightfully palpable, the context is often strange and unsatisfying. In the end, I don't think I'd want to meet Oprah at a stranger’s wake, only to have her turn into my mother and guilt me into a pancake breakfast. I find instead my daydreams of meeting Oprah to be much more pleasing.

Though I developed them over the course of many years, they all begin the same way. I sit in the green room, going over some notes I’ve made and pacing nervously, ignoring the fruit and breakfast pastries laid for me by an underling. There’s a knock on the door, and before I can respond, it opens.

A producer appears, looking more like security in her black garb and headset. She stands with her back against the door, her eyes fixed on the clipboard she holds. Then Oprah walks in, and time bends and slows like the creek that ran behind her childhood home. The light of the room gathers around her. I can hear the gravity she exudes, it sounds like the universe shattering into champagne bubbles of total clarity. Though I’ve shunned religion, standing in her presence I know not only is God’s love real, but it’s in all of us and as Oprah casts her gaze upon me, that love comes tearing out.

Yet somehow, and this is one of the great mysteries, the wonderful contradictions that make you laugh wildly as tears pour from your eyes, despite Oprah’s raw power, she’s vulnerable here. Tissues poke out from the neckline of her blouse. She fidgets with a sleeve before smiling and taking my hand. Her countenance is magnificent, her manner easy. We share a laugh – about what? who can recall? – and then it’s over and I’m left reeling, sucking down a bottle of water, trying to get my head together.

Once you’ve met Oprah, you have the power to change the world. Especially if she invites you on the show to do it.

In high school, I’d dream of being brought out on a young achiever show. Over the applause, Oprah would cry, “Not only have this young person’s articles touched his school, but they’ve touched the nation. Let’s bring him out here, Mr. Jeffery Freg!”

The conversation that followed would enrich many lives, and I'd most certainly be asked back to appear on a year-end special.

In college, my feet stuck to the floor in the dank theater of self-realization, I entertained the fantasy of appearing on Oprah as a victim. I honestly wondered if I would make it through this trying time without Oprah’s dictate that I forgive myself, so I could accept myself. I weighed all my complexes and conditions, and though in my heart I knew she would never do a “Herpes Heartbreak” show, this was a weak dam where the river of my pain was concerned. I let loose the waterworks as Oprah held my hand and demanded the doctors of America find a cure.

When I got the call from my editor saying my first book would be published, I had my best dream appearance on Oprah to date. My book had been selected for the book club. And she. Just. LOVED. This book! And how does someone so young and handsome write a book this real?!

“I don’t know Oprah. I was just trying to be honest.”

“Jeffrey, there were times where the fear was so real that I had to put down the book and locked the door.” (Applause, laughter.) “And when our poor, lovable Jonah gets his teeth get knocked out of his mouth, I could taste the...how’d you put it, ‘sweet sinew and sour blood.’”.

“Yes, that’s right, thank you.”

“And honey, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t a gay man before I read this book, but now, I'm looking at men in a totally new way, quoting Jonah in my mind, thinking, 'What's this dude packin'?'”

Huge laughs and thunderous applause. The stage lights are hot on my face and Oprah’s smiling at me and I smile back. Oprah gets it, she gets me! In this moment, I come know why Tom jumped on the couch like a monkey, and it had nothing to do with some dumb girl. It’s something you only know when you’re sitting there, exploding with acceptance. It’s all I can do to keep myself from doing the same.

When the book was finally published, it garnered a couple of bad reviews, unfortunately from the people Oprah probably reads. It came and went without making much noise.

After my sophomore effort was rejected by my publisher, fate twisted and delivered me to circumstances where I'd actually get to meet Oprah. It felt like there was a entire family having Christmas morning in my stomach. O Magazine was looking for an Assistant Editor, and I’d charmed my way to a third interview.

There’d be no backstage hug, no music or applause, but that didn’t make a bit of difference to me. In a few minutes, on the other side of that wall, Oprah and I would be opposite one another, chatting about me and my accomplishments. As we talked, she'd piece together the tapestry of my larger life, a colorful, folksy patchwork of pain and love stitched with a stylish, urban humor. Her head would tell her that I was a shoe-in for the job, overqualified, even. It was her heart that she'd be listening to as she thought, "Maybe this guy's a producer. Or even a guest. Maybe both...!"

“Mr. Ferg?”

“Freg.”

“They’re ready for you.”

I smoothed my hair and adjusted my glasses. I took a sip from the bottle of water I’d been given on my arrival. I stood, and shot an incredible smile at the receptionist, leaving her begging God that I be straight. Sorry, sister.

I was led into a small, windowless meeting room. There were donut crumbs next to a short stack of unused napkins on the table, around which sat three anemic-looking sycophants. Two women and a man, all white. The man even had the same circular, black plastic glasses as I did, and it made me sick. Meeting Oprah here, in this company, would be like trying to fall in love at a speed dating event held at the Olive Garden near the airport.

“Jeffery,” one of the women said, “thanks for coming in.”

“My pleasure thanks for having me.”

“Nice to see you again, Jeffrey,” Lisa said. Lisa had given me my first two interviews. I had thought that maybe she was okay, but that may have been clouded by the fact that I believed her to be my entrée to meeting Oprah.

I shook her hand and smiled. “Hi, Lisa.”

“And we’d like you to meet Michael.”

I shook hands with the guy who had somehow totally copied me before we’d ever met. I couldn’t believe I’d have to take my glasses off when Oprah came, but I couldn’t afford to have her mix me up with this joker.

“Hi,” I said.

“Nice to meet you.”

We sat.

“So, who ate all the donuts?” I asked, lightly.

“Oh,” the other woman said, “those were from a different meeting. Let’s get started...”

“Um...before we do, should we wait...?”

“For what?” Michael asked.

Stop copying me! I thought. “For Oprah.”

"We'd be waiting for a long time," Lisa said, and the three of them laughed. “She’s really not involved with the magazine much anymore. Especially not in the hiring of Assistant Editors."

“Sorry, Jeff,” Michael said, “you’re stuck with us.”

I smiled and tried to make light of it, but I was crushed. I thought, ‘What a sorry proxy you’ve given, Oprah. A pair of uptight white girls who secretly binge on donuts, and a guy who’s copying me. Lucky for you, they’ve got an easy decision to make today. But this is troubling, Oprah. Troubling, indeed.’

I edited features and wrote book reviews and looked searched out ways to meet Oprah. Now being within the walls of her empire, I had a better understanding of the difficulty in getting up to the tower. For a while, I was content to live with proximity. Her face, her energy, was everywhere. For the first time in my life, I was able to talk about Oprah as much as I wanted to and have it not be weird. We were even given a break during work in which to watch the show.

I read books by the truckload. They were, by and large, unnecessary tomes – self-help, thriller/romance, political, travel, memoir. They were the kind of books that get a table spot in Barnes & Nobel between January and March. Occasionally I’d get a book that would go on to become a best seller, but there wasn’t anything “best” about these books to me. So to answer your questions, yes, it was hard for me to read page after page of writing that wasn’t as good as mine, and no, I wasn’t impressed that they’d gotten the formula right and played it safe. And though I was pressed, I refused to make recommendations for the book club (after I found out that I wouldn’t be making them to Oprah directly).

Oprah was out of town for the Christmas party the first year that I was there. There had been a whirlwind of talk about the year before, when, according to Michael, “Oprah cut loose and got jiggy with it.”

“Oh my God! Really?” I asked.

“We had it at Shaw’s, and she showed up and started drinking oyster shots.”

“No!”

Lisa jumped in. “It was incredible. I was with her in the bathroom and she was so funny. I was lucky we were already in the bathroom, or else I would have peed in my pants.”

I suffered through another year of whiny memoirs, trite commentary and boring fiction in anticipation of how Oprah and I would dance together on the tables at the Christmas party. I began asking about it in July. I bought the suit I’d wear in October. As the day drew near, I got a massage, a facial and a manicure. I eliminated refined sugar and gluten from my diet. I was ready.

The party started at three. Bored to tears by the seasonal bon homme of my colleagues and literally dying from anticipation, I had my first cocktail at six. When Oprah finally decided to show up at 10:30, I’d had five, and was glad that the place had a dark and sturdy bar.

Not that I missed anything. It turned my stomach to watch the swarm overtake her. They elbowed and pushed for a hand-shake and a quick smile before Oprah took the mic and said a few words about how great the family is. She was gone by 11:10.

I went home and vomited the brochette and crab cakes that had served as dinner, trying to pronounce her name as I retched. “OOOOppprrahghghahhhh huh huh huh!” I spent the night on the cool bathroom floor, giving easy egress to my tears. I woke at 3 or 4 in the morning, bits of stomach lining still in my mouth. I started the bath and then got a glass of apple juice and some ice cream. I sat in the scalding hot water until my entire body was pink, then had diarrhea. I slept until 2:30 the next afternoon.

The sheets were sour when I woke up, but I didn't have the energy to get out of bed. All I could do was lay there and make a tearful appearance on a dream apology show.

“I’m ready to change, Oprah. I just need some help.” Dr. Phil was there, and though I wasn’t thrilled to see him, Oprah thought it might help, and there was nothing I wanted more than to let her call the shots for a while.

When I returned to my desk, all I could see was a another year of books piled in the gulf that stretched between that morning and my next chance to meet Oprah. It was an ocean of endless words that would kill me quietly as I tried to cross it in a tiny raft, alone.

What eventually became the tipping point began as a joke. It was a Monday, and I'd come in late. I hadn't been great to myself over the weekend, and I was feeling crispy from the edges to the middle. Waiting on my desk was a thick hardcover with a post-it note from Lisa:

Jeffery, EMERGENCY! Review in March issue (tomorrow AM!!!) requested by Harpo to coincide w/author appearance. Write straight into InDesign doc. emailed to you. Thx!

I flipped over the book without even looking at the title and found the genre information: Self help, adult children of substance abusers. The immanent boredom produced a palpable rage. A took a thumb tack from my drawer and was experimenting with the pain threshold of my fingertips when the phone rang. Lisa.

"What's up?"

"Did you get the book?"

"You left it on my desk with a post-it note on it. Why wouldn't I have gotten it?"

"Can you have the review done by tomorrow morning?"

"Why couldn't I?"

"Do you have other work due?"

"Yes."

"So?"

"So what?"

"Is that going to be a problem?"

"Yes."

She sighed into the phone, and it was all I could do not to scream as loud as I could into her ear.

"So will you be able to get it done or not?"

"Yes I can get it done, and yes it's a problem. If you don't want to know the answer, then don't..."

"And you can write straight into the InDesign document I gave you?"

"I believe that's why I was forced to attend the training seminar."

"Great. I'll look for it tomorrow morning."

"Oh-ka-ayy..." Knives, blood, murder...

I flipped the book over. It took me a while to fully digest the title: "The Belligerent Beast Within." It scared me a bit to admit it, but I was intrigued. It was hard to deny that such a beast was most likely dwelling inside of me, especially as I stole a swig of peppered vodka from the pint in my desk drawer.

It took me a half a paragraph to realize the title was the only good thing about this book. I skimmed through 346 pages in just under two hours and had my review done by 2:30, just in time for another nip of that delicious peppered vodka I'd been drinking all day.

As I tweaked my review, I noticed that the first the letters of the first three lines worked to spell out the word "SHE." A roar from the belligerent beast within shook my bones.

I heard Lisa's office door close at eight and quickly stuffed some onion bagel in my mouth. I put my glasses on (despite having my contacts in) and fixed my bloodshot eyes back on my screen, where the review I'd been tinkering with all day glowed. She stopped at my cube and stood there, wrapped in that ridiculous blanket she wears for a coat.

"You're here late."

"Trying to get this done for the deadline."

"Good. Thanks."

"Uh-huh."

A half-hour later, I kicked back in my chair and lifted finished the second pint of vodka. The copy was locked. It still had to be proofed, but I'd been meticulous on this one. Every sentence had been thoroughly examined for spelling, punctuation and usage. Unless Lisa or one of the idiot proofreaders had a major gripe, the piece was going to press tomorrow night. And when it did, the first letters of several lines in the middle of the review would spell out EAT MY DICK FART OPRAH.

The labor that went in to crafting this admittedly juvenile statement was nothing short of Herculean. I was hoping to be able to put together something clever, like "Nothing's good enough for Oprah," or "Oprah's not married cause she's loose" or even "Oprah is a pig and a whore." The content of the review practically forced the word "dick" on me, so I chose not to fight it. I wasn't crazy about "dick fart" either, but I was stuck with that F, and I felt that my final choice was more powerful that "dick fats," "dick fact" or "dick form." With more time, maybe I could have done something better, but I didn't want to be too hard on myself. This was a major accomplishment.

I was positive no one would pick out the message, especially here at the office, where the deadline was king. Who would look at the first letter of eighteen lines in the middle of a thirty-seven line review to see if maybe they spelled anything? It's not like I bolded them or put them in a different font. It's was a half-page book review, nothing more.

Lisa had read it by ten, said it was great and could she thank me by buying me lunch? I enjoyed a hero's status for a few days, then it was work as usual.

My heart leapt when the rushes arrived in the office. I snatched a copy and hurried into the bathroom and found my piece. The size of the text made it hard to pick out, but it was there, a curious invitation to the person I most admired in the pages of her own magazine. It glittered on the page. My throat tightened. I was free.

Three weeks later, I arrived and the office was dead silent. I could feel eyeballs all over me as I made my way to my cube. Lisa was waiting for me at my desk, shaking mad. She had an internet page up.

"Read this, then come to my office."

She left and I gulped down five Vikoden. How could I have guessed that my little code would be cracked by an incarcerated white supremacist? Apparently, these gentlemen love their codes. What a little thrill they get when they send messages about who needs to be shivved and how much crystal meth they can score. Even if I knew that, how could I possibly know they would have access to O Magazine, and that they would read it? For codes?!

Apparently, that’s what happened. A white supremacist cracks some dumb code and tells two friends, and those two friends tell two of their friends, and boom, it’s on the internet and being enjoyed by millions. There were great debates as to my motivation and identity. I was disgruntled for not being selected for the book club, I was actually the ever-jilted Steadman trying to get a message to his never-to-be-bride, I was the incarcerated white supremacist. There was a lengthy discussion thread about what eating a dick fart actually implies. I was consumed by the threads and links and would have been happy to stay in my little cube and not leave until I’d read ever word, but the Vikoden had kicked in and the screen was melting. I stood slowly and stumbled into Lisa's office.

The tirade began with an explanation about how the blog was found, how many hits it had already gotten and the different sites that were linking to it. This morphed into the kinds of legal repercussions I could expect to face and how did I ever think I was going to get away with this. I slurred out what was meant to be an passionate declaration of innocence, but it was met with a slap in the face, which I felt was well enough deserved.

"I don't know what you're on, but you better drink some coffee and snap out of it before she gets here.”

“Who?”

“WHO?! OPRAH WINFREY, you fucking...” She pressed the intercom. “Michael? Get some coffee in here, NOW.”

The dream took a new shape as I fought to live through it lucidly. This was real, this was happening, but it was entirely out of my control and densely fogged by pain killers. I saw myself in that office, tension and blood pooling in my middle. I heard her footfalls as she approached the office. The quiet got quieter. The whispers of my colleagues' minds echoed in mine as they watched her pass, “He did it! Jeffrey really did it! After years of trying, he finally got through! A hell of a stunt. I wonder if she'll put him on the show!”

The door to Lisa’s office flew open, and there she was, eyes burning into me. I sprang out of my chair and opened my arms.

“I. LOVE. OPRAH!!!”