Know Maass
When I first moved to
Manhattan, a neighbor approached me in the corridor of my apartment
building.
"Are you Peter Maass, the
writer?"
Though I have heard this
question many times over the years, I still don't know the correct response.
Yes, I am; no, I am not. Both are accurate. Unfortunately, I offered my
neighbor a reply that raised more questions than it answered.
"Yes, I am, but there are
two of us."
He looked at me oddly and adopted one of those
don't-mess-with-me expressions that New Yorkers are born with. If an
opportunity for amity had existed between us, it seemed to have vanished. He
slipped into the elevator, I slipped into my apartment, and I imagine he rolled
his eyes to the ceiling and thought, "Great, another nut case in the
building."
If only he knew the
truth.
I am a writer--a very good
writer, according to my mother. I worked for the Washington Post for
nearly a decade, and I have written a book about my experiences covering the
war in Bosnia. It was published last year and got positive reviews. It even won
a couple of awards. So when people ask whether I am Peter Maass, the writer, I
should feel good, I should feel triumphant, I should feel like a master of the
literary universe receiving the adulation he so rightly deserves, and I should
reply in a voice of elegant humility, "Yes, I am."
But I
don't. I can't.
My problem is this: Although I am Peter Maass,
the writer, I am not Peter Maas, the writer. Peter Maas--one "s," not two--has
a career's worth of books under his belt, and he's famous. Serpico
famous. Valachi Papers famous. This has created a great deal of
confusion. I've received letters intended for him, phone calls intended for
him, compliments intended for him, a publishing solicitation intended for him,
even a job offer intended for him (which I turned down).
I have never met the
guy.
Until
recently, I enjoyed the confusion. There's something flattering about people
thinking I was capable of writing a best seller about a New York cop when I was
a teen-ager in Los Angeles, or that I could write one book after another in my
20s, while at the same time reporting one newspaper story after another. I had
a great laugh when I was in North Korea a few years ago and someone
congratulated me on my phenomenal output. In North Korea!
Circumstances have changed. I now have my own literary
oeuvre . This entitles me to certain privileges, such as employing
foreign words in my writings (see previous sentence) and living on the Upper
West Side of Manhattan. Also, I should be able to revel in praise rather than
worry about it. But in my case, praise from a stranger is like a glass of water
served at a restaurant in Bombay: You drink it warily, if at all, fearing it
may be tainted. Even if the water tastes pure and delicious, you cannot enjoy
it as much as you should. There's nothing more pleasant than being
congratulated for your literary skills, but there's nothing less pleasant than
realizing the congratulations are intended for a guy who writes about the
mob.
I had
hoped that my book would end the confusion, that I would emerge as the
one-and-only Peter Maass (or Maas), though I suspected this was unlikely. At
the least, I hoped the confusion would turn to my favor. Shortly before my book
was published, I wrote a piece about my identity crisis suggesting that if an
admirer who thought I was Peter Maas asked for my signature, I would scribble
away and confide that my "newest" opus was far better than "my" previous ones.
If thousands of Maas' fans bought my book by mistake, I would not complain.
Yet I miscalculated. No sooner did my book
start getting some attention than Peter Maas released a book that turned into a
best seller. It's about Salvatore "Sammy the Bull" Gravano, a mobster who
turned state's evidence against John Gotti. From what I hear about the
book--and I hear quite a bit--it's not bad, and that's unfortunate, at least
for me.
I went to
the Washington, D.C., public library recently to do a reading. There was a sign
at the entrance announcing the event, and my name was spelled "Peter Maas." I
thought little of it until a beefy audience member walked out shortly after I
started talking about Bosnia. I am pretty sure he wanted to hear about Sammy
the Bull. It's not that I can't drive people away from my readings, but it
usually takes more than 35 seconds.
Ignominy has many forms. Once, after I signed a pile of
books at a bookstore, a clerk told me not to leave because there were more
copies in back. He returned with a stack of books by Peter Maas. I was tempted
to sign them, and nobody would have been the wiser, but something held me back.
Integrity? Honesty? No--try jealousy. Signed books sell much better than
unsigned ones.
I was in Los Angeles not long
ago to attend a book festival. A number of people lined up for my book signing,
and I was very pleased until some of them pulled out copies of his
books. It was a bit embarrassing, especially as my father was sitting next to
me at the time.
Could it
get worse?
After a lull, a middle-aged couple approached
me, and the husband had my book. My book. I introduced him to my father,
and I explained how amusing it was that some people thought I was Peter Maas
and wanted me to sign his books. A distraught look emerged on the husband's
face and his wife stared coldly at him. "I told you!" she sneered.
There was an awkward
silence. I quickly wrote a personal inscription in the book--"Best regards from
the real Peter Maass"--and he smiled and thanked me. I would like to
think my inscription soothed the pain for him, cheered him up, and naturally
this was my intention. It was only later, of course, that I realized my
inscription made it impossible for him to get a refund.
