This morning, there was a small commotion at one end of the office, and someone asked for me. A man I’d seen but never talked to came around the corner, put down his briefcase and handed me a loaf of bread. He said, “My wife baked this for you, as I promised.” Suddenly I remembered what had seemed like an idle promise over an obscure work matter from a co-worker up in Newark, and this was that man. He turned on his heel and disappeared.
I almost had to lie down to laugh hard enough. This is not the first time strange gentlemen have brought me comestibles. Once, I answered the phone at a late night job with the name of the office. A boy said, “Hey!”
“Hey!” I said.
“You’re there! Are you there?”
“I’m there! Are you coming here?”
“I’m coming there! How late are you open?”
“I’ll be right over.”
“Bring pizza,” I said and hung up. A little while later, a boy came to the door and said, “Hey!”
“Hey!” I said.
“I’m here!” he said.
“You are! Did you bring pizza?”
He slapped a giant Toblerone on the counter. We ate chocolate and we talked about Marilyn Monroe for an hour. That’s it. Never saw him again.
Because I have a cold I stood in the middle of my office and shouted, “Who has clean hands and doesn’t have a cold?” One reluctant co-worker, accustomed to my antics, mumbled, “Meeee.” I made her get a bread board, cut up the bread and put out napkins. We all had pieces with butter or cream cheese. My co-workers labeled this episode “The Bribe.” And not one of them was truly surprised.
Johnny’s feeling introspective:
I imagine sometimes that I’m young and I can see into the future through my rear view mirror. I imagine I’m a New Waver in college, my whole glamorous, fabulous life ahead of me, and I look through and see the me of today, a grizzled greaser with gray in his stubble and gin blossoms in his nose, and no matter what kind of day I’m having, I about piss myself laughing, thinking of the look of horror on his face. I half want to tell him somehow through the glass that it’s not as bad as it looks, but really there’s nothing I can say. For him, it is. Then I think of the me who first got into professional depression and into driving, great combination, the road ahead a ghastly tear-smeared blur, praying for God, for anyone, to please deliver me, clamping my fingers on the wheel to keep from swerving into oncoming traffic, one loud bang and then peace, staring into the mirror and seeing myself at forty-three, still alive, with a red sportscar and a hot wife and laughing at the world because I get paid to massage dogs, and I wish I could tell the poor bastard that it turns out all right. But he’d never believe it even if he saw it with his own eyes. Somehow he’ll have to hang on until he does see it. And by then he knows.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt as optimistic at the start of a new year. I feel like a greyhound who’s just retired from the track and gotten placed with a yuppie couple in the suburbs. Yes. I’ve become my own dogs. And I was spared the embarrassment and odor of dying and being reincarnated.
Happy New Year, princess. I love you.
He calls me “princess.” Wanna make something of it, geek?
I went out for a pack of cigs dressed like I was at least 6’6″ and 300lbs., and you should do this in this small urban area because something like the following *will* happen. As I parked the car across the street from the liquor store open on New Year’s Day, the vehicle coming toward me on the side street was a police car. If you’ve never been to New Brunswick, I should tell you this important thing – don’t try talking to the cops. They’re more insecure than a bloated beauty queen clutching an empty box of Godivas. I have honestly had this conversation with an officer demanding I put my clothes back on one November.
Him: Are you over 18?
Wait, wait, while that made me laugh like Lucy and Ethel stuffing chocolates in their pockets, that wasn’t the really funny part. Nope.
Me: Officer, you’ve caught me modeling naked for this photographer in this completely secluded location.
Him: We’re the *New Brunswick* Police. We don’t catch anybody doing *anything.* Some guy from the prosecutor’s office sat in his car behind those bushes until he got bored and called it in.
In a city filled with rampaging art students, you’d think the police would be used to *that.* Anyway, so I’m standing on Senior Street today, waiting to cross to the liquor store, and the police car is driving very slowly – so slowly – toward me. My days of stopping traffic with pulchritude and a toothy smile are way, way over, so I don’t think the nice policeman is entranced, and his speed not increasing. What do I do? I hula. I can hear the ukeleles in my head. Palm trees, ocean breezes, grass skirts; it’s Hawaii in my brain, and I’m making a very hula hand gesture that anywhere else might mean, “After you, I insist.” But I’m in New Brunswick, and he just about stops the car to stare at me. I look like a little old lady who quit painting her outhouse to go buy something flammable. And I can just hear him thinking, “Does this cruiser make me look fat?”
…from the uncomfortable past.
Too often we enjoy the comfort of opinion without the discomfort of thought.
-John F. Kennedy, 35th US president (1917-1963)
This from Anu Garg and A.Word.A.Day. Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, and I wish you a Happy New Year in which you feel wise and prosperous, and galvanized into creative action for the common good. I think he also wishes you boiled shrimp, but I could be projecting.