Fame - a memoir

In May 1977 my friend Craig and I went to an Ann Beattie reading in D.C. We'd been reading her stories faithfully in the New Yorker, these tales in which little or nothing happened, usually written in the present tense. If she can do it, so can I. The audience at the reading were kind of sickening and precious. They made little noises of appreciation when Beattie said," I decided to call this story 'Distant Music' ... I guess because we were reading Dubliners in class."
After the reading, there was the usual signing flurry. It was a Sunday evening but people had places to go.
I accosted Beattie and her husband David Gates on the street, outside Second Story Books.
" I wanted to ask you something .... but there were so many people."
"Yes?"
" The New Yorker's a pretty staid magazine. Don't they get upset about the pot smoking and stuff in your stories?"
" Actually, my editor Roger Angell is really good about that sort of thing." The bearded guy cleared his throat.
"Do you feel like a spokesman for your generation?" ( I was really obnoxious in those days.)
" Oh, no no no, absolutely not. I have to get my dinner. It was nice talking to you", Beattie said and zipped around a corner and out of sight.
I glared at Craig. " Why didn't you talk to her instead of hanging around like that? She probably thought you were a purse snatcher."
" I just went alienated all of a sudden."