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A Novelist's Novelist
Reached by cell phone yesterday, a person calling himself/herself JT LeRoy struck a nearly identical tone. Except more hostile. When the person was asked point-blank, "Are you Laura Albert?" there was a moment of silence. Then, "No. Are you?"
The voice on the line sure sounded like that of a woman, with a hint of a Southern accent in there, plus lots of profanity. According to this person, the New York story is the work of a jealous writer who has a "personal vendetta." Beachy, this person said, was dropped by LeRoy's literary agent and resents LeRoy's success. (The former is true, Beachy says, but not the latter.) "You can say I am anyone you think I am," LeRoy/Albert said. "I'm not here to make you feel comfortable. I'm not here to make anyone feel comfortable. I reserve the right to be whatever gender I want to be. From now on, if you ask me if I am Laura Albert, I'm going to say, 'Maybe.' "
He/She said that there were omissions in the magazine story and that one photo of him/her isn't him/her at all, but the singer Pink. And he/she added that if this were a conspiracy, it would have to involve a lot of people, including the psychologist who saved his/her life. (The psychologist, one Terrence Owens of St. Mary's Medical Center in San Francisco, returned a phone call yesterday to say that it would be unethical for him to comment.) Still, if you are Laura Albert, you just pulled off something pretty amazing, in its own way, didn't you?
"Yeah, wait for the movie people to come around," this person said. "If they offer me enough money, they can say I'm [expletive] Mickey Mouse."
LeRoy/Albert also said that Beachy had failed to contact people who'd spent quality time with LeRoy. One of those people is Ira Silverberg, LeRoy's literary agent. Yesterday, Silverberg said that he had traveled to Cannes last year with LeRoy and remains convinced that he exists. Well, mostly convinced.
"As far as I know, the little person with whom I've spent time is JT, and that is my truth and that is what I believe," Silverberg said. He echoed the allegation that Beachy has it in for LeRoy, calling him a "poorly published novelist who's worked the same turf." But he hedges a bit.
"A year from now," he acknowledged, "this could be a very different story."
If there is no JT LeRoy, Silverberg is just one of dozens of people who have been bamboozled. Last year, a gallery in New York City hosted an exhibit of art and a reading inspired by LeRoy's most recent novella, "Harold's End." Among those who showed up to read aloud were Lou Reed and Tatum O'Neal, and the news release touted a quote from Tom Waits: "JT's stories are like stitches, like exit wounds, dispatches, dispositions. He is the brilliant, gifted and profound fly on the wall. You'll need handkerchiefs and novocaine to get through this."
Getting through this might take more than Novocain over at the New York Times. Not only did the newspaper profile LeRoy, the travel magazine also recently ran a story by LeRoy about a trip to Euro Disney. In it, the writer recalls the time he spent in Orlando, where his mother stripped for a time and where it was his job to separate the Disney money from the real stuff.
A spokesman for the New York Times said yesterday, "We have nothing to add to what we've printed."
The LeRoy affair is eerily similar to the strange case of Anthony Godby Johnson, also purportedly a lost child of the streets, who wrote an "autobiography." The book, "A Rock and a Hard Place," achieved literary liftoff after the social worker mother who adopted Johnson brokered telephone- and online-only friendships with such writers as Armistead Maupin and Paul Monette.
If LeRoy is a figment of Laura Albert's imagination, what were her motivations? Success, for one. As a critical darling, LeRoy got assignments from other magazines and traded up in the publishing world. And check out http:/
Then there's another question: How? LeRoy ingratiated himself to a lot of people over the years, which, along with those well-received books, might be the character's singular achievement, if a character is what he is. His back story was part of it -- who could resist helping a charming reformed junkie with such a tragic biography, and with such laudable ambitions for a drug- and psychosis-free life?
But then there was the execution. By sheer coincidence, this reporter began an e-mail correspondence with LeRoy just last week. LeRoy has guest-edited a collection of essays for an upcoming book called "Best Music Writing 2005," and a piece written for The Washington Post appears in that volume. LeRoy put his e-mail address in the book and invited anyone to drop a line. This reporter sent a note to say, basically, "Thanks for choosing my story." Soon after, a very warm, totally endearing reply was received. Another e-mail or two later, and LeRoy asked this reporter to give him a call, saying that he needed some help.
The conversation took place on Monday night, as LeRoy shopped at a Trader Joe's. ("Should I get these cookies?" he wondered.) He wanted this reporter to read a new magazine piece he said he was writing. There was something in that voice that made its owner sound desperate for affection, but there was also a forwardness and ambitiousness that seemed pretty bold. He basically wanted a proofreader and editor.
"I can't punctuate at all," he said. "I never learned that. You can tell me how to do it and I'll just come back the next time with the same mistakes."
It was flattering, in a way. This guy is famous and vulnerable and sad and triumphant, all at the same time. You could see why people would want to help him. He seemed like a character you could love.