What I Learned From Living With Joan Didion

In the fall of 2013, my days and nights were wonderful and simple. I would wake in the morning to find Joan standing at the table, reading the paper, and as I edged into the kitchen, she would head to the stove to make me a one-egg omelet while I made sure her things were in order for the day. I took in the mail, I handled the bills, I booked her a car if she had a dinner, I sent flowers if a friend had a birthday or a show opening at a gallery. Before I left for class, I would be sure to sit and eat with her. I learned quickly that Joan did not do small talk—a relief to me, as I am socially anxious to a fault. Instead I learned to say affirming, simple sentences, imperative sentences like, “You stay safe,” or, “You call me if you need me.” I went to class, and after class, I would say to my peers that I could not go for drinks, I could not go to eat, I had to get back to work, though I did not say what work was. I feared to isolate myself further but also took immense pleasure in possessing such a delicious secret. In a crosstown cab on my way back to Joan’s apartment, I would call Sette Mezzo, I would call Marché, I would call Shun Lee or Elio’s, to see what their specials were. I was learning then that self-delusion around Joan was impossible—not only impossible, but potentially lethal. “What sounds good to you,” Joan would say when I would call her to list the options. Often I did not know what the dishes I was reciting to her were. “John Dory?” I would tentatively offer. “I think not,” Joan would say, and we’d land on the roast chicken. We ate on an eighty-year-old’s schedule: dinner at five with wine, a second glass after (“Just a swallow,” Joan would say), and then a cigarette, and then Joan would head to bed. She would ask three or four times if […]

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