Local media escorts -- who greet authors in each city in Volvos with baskets of water, breath mints, and Shout Wipes in the backseats -- further simplify her life. They help her find her wallet. They don't snap back when she insists she needs half-and-half, dammit! in her endless cups of coffee. They murmur ''mm-mmhh'' and ''you should write about that'' when she yammers on about how to resolve the crisis in the Middle East. And they replenish the cigarettes she's constantly sucking back before each interview.
Today, Wurtzel's a guest on ''Northwest Afternoon,'' a Seattle talk show that devotes its first 15 minutes to a wrap-up of all the soaps, for a segment called ''Ruined by Ritalin.'' A bulk of the in-studio audience consists of the locally based Golden Rappers and their fans. The white female quartet, who rap about how great it is to be senior citizens in the USA, are there to tape a public service announcement. ''She's certainly full of energy,'' says Popsie, speaking for the group. After the show, the escort drops her back at the hotel for a phone interview with the San Francisco Chronicle. ''I'll pick you up at 7:15 for the reading,'' the escort calls from the car as Wurtzel beelines not for her ringing phone in her room but for the hotel perfumery.
''I think she has a problem being on time,'' declares the escort at 7:45. But the 90-plus crowd at the Elliott Bay Book Company accepts Wurtzel's dazed apologies, listening attentively as she cracks jokes about Mariah Carey and describes her ongoing struggle against hopelessness. ''A lot of reviewers compare you to Sylvia Plath,'' says one earnest fan. ''I thought I'd ask how you felt about that.'' ''God, I can't think of anything nicer,'' Wurtzel responds. ''I have to say I've always been comforted when I've looked at reviews of 'The Bell Jar' when it came out and a lot of them were just absolutely horrible.... On the other hand, by the time Sylvia Plath was my age she was dead, and I'm trying very hard to be on the side of life.''
At midnight, Wurtzel decides her 6 a.m. flight to Portland, Ore., is too unbearable and opts for the three-hour drive. She spills out of the car, eyes bleary and hair mussed, at 8:10 a.m., 20 minutes late for the morning's first interview. A Cub Scout troop fills up the KATU-TV studio, fidgeting in their folding chairs in anticipation of the free Cokes that the cohost promises them, while Wurtzel discusses her experience in rehab. All the interviews plug her signing that evening at Powell's City of Books, but she's so resigned herself to an empty room that she still arrives 20 minutes late.
Comrades-in-angst have come out in droves. Kyle, 25, wearing a chain around his neck and the Clash on the back of his black hoodie, can't afford her new book but asks her to sign his Zoloft prescription. One gentleman, a recovering addict himself, applauds Wurtzel for ''laying yourself out there like a bearskin rug.'' He hovers aggressively enough around her while she signs stock that the store manager eventually escorts her down the back stairs.
