Somebody offered Thursday to pay me to make a speech next fall, the first such offer since I realized I would have to begin charging for speeches after I retire.
I was beginning to know how ugly people feel after passing out their telephone numbers at singles bars for an entire weekend, and then staring at the phone waiting for it to ring for the next five days. (And, no, I didn't know it from personal experience before.)
Back in 1975, when I first began to speak publicly in this neck of the woods, I made a decision not to seek any fees for speaking.
I was still working as a reporter back then, and the opportunities for conflict were too great. If you take a speaking fee from a group one day and write something nice about them a few days later, somebody, somewhere, starts wondering if there is a connection.
My superiors have always been willing to allow me to speak on the company's dime and have paid my mileage to and from engagements, so I just made it part of my job.
"Are you nuts," another columnist asked me. "Most of these organizations have entertainment budgets and are glad to pay you to speak."
Some of my colleagues accept money for appearances, some do not. Some have a lot more to offer, like being winners of major journalism prizes, and are invited to speak to national groups where there is no real chance of conflict. It is understandable for them to want to be compensated.
Over the years I have run into a few groups that insist on paying, and have always asked them to make charitable contributions instead, usually to a local hospice organization.
But as of Aug. 24 the Times won't be subsidizing my public appearances, which means I will have to ask to be paid a fee, which has considerably shortened the list of upcoming speaking dates.
It is as I have always suspected: I'm a pretty good deal for free, but things get dicey when you start putting a price on my wit, or at least the half of it I usually display when speaking.
On the other hand, it was nice for me to have the pressure off. I used to fret constantly and wonder why anyone would find anything I had to say of any interest at all. (I still wonder, but I don't fret a lot about it anymore). And then I would look at the organization's newsletter and see that the previous week's program had been on something like "Our Friend, the Aluminum Window," and breathe a little more easily.
And so, a few weeks ago when clubs started setting up their fall and winter schedules for next year and the calls started coming in, I would give them my pat response about no longer being subsidized and needing to charge a modest fee plus expenses.
As a Zen Buddhist, I was gratified to suddenly be granted a front-row seat at a performance of the sound of one hand clapping.
"We'll get back to you," was the most frequent response, which, I came to learn, is very similar in meaning to "the check's in the mail," or, "I did not have sexual relations with that woman."
I understand. Many of the groups to which I have spoken over the years are small. I once spoke to a Rotary Club with five members who would have to have come up with almost as much money to pay me as they were spending on lunch.
But I also can't take an entire day and drive 100 to 150 miles in situations where rubber chicken and a fruit cup are offered in compensation.
I have folk musician friends who will do that in return for free hot dogs and lemonade, but they love playing music. Co-workers, spouses, former spouses and close friends may beg (or demand) to differ, but I really don't like the sound of my own voice that much.
I am not soliciting business here, which is why I am not getting into things like amounts and future addresses and telephone numbers.
I will be happy to speak when I am in town and it is feasible. When I am not and it is not, I will be happy to sit on the beach and talk to myself.
But I will try to do it quietly, so nobody will notice and take away my frozen margarita.
