There was that last nerve I heard wind so tight that it went form a low C to a high A in just a few minutes. The commuters, the traffic and the lack of an actual client base that made a 12 hour day worth getting out of bed hung on the back of my head like an anvil. I hate summer. I find myself, “Busy doing nothing” to the degree that I don’t get anything productive done. The old Huey Lewis line, “all I want is a couple days off” springs wryly to mind as I wake up to another 4:55AM start.
A day off is something that I didn’t see coming anytime soon. That’s what you get for having a dream that takes it’s sweet time to materialize; day job, writing time, acting job, painting time. A full chaotic life with time left only to worry that it’s all for nothing. I stared at the calendar looking for the most convenient time to stage my own death so I can catch a break. I was then reminded with a blast of heralding trumpets that the Goils, Tracy and Katie, The Brain and The Rockette respectively, The Entourage collectively were spending the weekend in new Orleans for a bachelorette party. I would be really and totally ALONE. I almost fainted from the sheer weight of the bliss I felt at that moment. They would be up to their necks in plastic novelty penis necklaces and penis straws and other tasteful theme-correct garb while I would be doing…absolutely nothing. I would rejoice in the splendor of silence and nowhere to be, nothing to do, no hanging out till all hours, no late night or early mornings. No nothing but me, my computer and silence. And my usual work schedule which I could handle because I knew I was going to be totally pro active and productive…
I unloaded The Goils early Friday morning and planned my day; a long run, breakfast at the diner then three hours of writing followed by an hour of painting and reading some instructional materials then a nap. Repeat again over dinner and get to bed early so I can voluntarily wake up early for a run. That was the plan for each day of my weekend alone, compensating for work hours and standing on my corner for Accomplice.
There was the sound of seconds ticking by so fast that the fabric of spacetime buckled and twisted with a sucking sound and a vacuum-like pull on my nethers.
Before I knew it, I was on my way to Laguardia to return the entourage to its rightful place getting tangled under my feet wondering what happened to the last 72 hours. I know I went to work and to the Accomplice acting job. I know I checked my email a few times and watched a crappy movie on TV. I looked at my note book and found a doodle of a butterfly and a sandwich on a bun, pickle on the side. I looked at my computer files and found I typed approximately 50 words. 50 random unassociated words like Convoluted and Magic. And I did the dishes several times. No 7000 words, no paintings, no meditative rest or instructional reading. No runs or healthy eating as evidenced by a pile of take out Chinese cartons on the counter. No productivity to report other than a great deal of practice working on my Zombie acting skills for my as-of-yet-un-penned epic, Zombies From Brooklyn.
Now I was circling the airport mimicking the motions of the planes over head with a puzzled look on my face waiting for two wired and hungry women who couldn’t wait to shatter my peace with a weekend’s worth of Tales From the Bayou. In the distance there was an object hanging in the sky with an eerie self-generated illumination. It looked haunting and creepy set against the hazy foggy black/gray sky. I took a breath of relief at the thought that we could possibly be undergoing an alien invasion which would solve all my problems. My heart sank as I realized the alien space craft ready to turn all our brains to a pulpy mush was in actuality, the Met Life blimp set out to do roughly the same thing only slower.
They got in the car alight with story. The talking and the pictures and the retelling didn’t stop until midway into the next day. They got together and made a thousand pancakes in the morning speaking as if they didn’t need to draw breath. Meals had passed, errands had been run and time ticked slowly by as I heard both versions of the same tales over and over again. While they were droning on and on about oysters, humidity and a sweat so thick you could ladle it like soup I once again looked at my calendar for the most convenient time to stage my own death.
All I want is a couple days off….
This past weekend I started the new acting gig. I can best describe the project as part street theatre and part game/scavenger hunt. My job is to spend the day at a particular location waiting for groups to come through looking for their “contact”. I have to fool them, ignore them and mess with them a little and exchange information to send them on to their next destination. It’s like I get to do a bit of my old routines, try new material and play a character I have a free hand in experimenting with as long as I keep tight to the format.
I see about eight groups a day on Saturdays and Sundays. What this amounts to is that I do about 16 fifteen minute acts a week. This is more than I’ve ever done on stage as a stand up and the kick is that I’m actually getting paid to do it. At the end, the cast regroups at the final destination, a bar in SoHo, where we can meet the groups that stuck around to get loaded.
I happen to favor film as a career choice but at this point, I'll take any role I think I can do, especially if they’re willing to toss me some green paper. So I stand on my corner watching the locals watch me and wonder what the hell I’m doing there and why I carry on every 45 minutes or so with a bunch of strangers. I was told by the actor I’m replacing that I’d get to know the locals and the patterns of life on the corner. People have already started to notice the new guy and I’m noticing the regulars, too. There are a bunch of old timer’s who hang around all day, the psychic who sits on her front stoop and the handsome couple who thought I was tossing rats into the street one time. Don’t ask. I got to watch the NYPD tow a car away and later, I got to watch the couple from New Jersey stand impotently in the space wondering what happened. I let them hang a moment before telling them that they were too close to the hydrant so they got pinched. The guy started to argue that he left plenty of room until I reminded him that I was not a guy with a tow truck. As I stood there waiting for the next group, I was bumped into by Moby who looks like a little hipster douchebag up close.
The show is actually a bit of fun when the groups want to be entertained and it’s a real drag when they don’t. I can’t imagine shelling out good money for something and being intent on not enjoying it but there’s always one in every bunch that stands there with a face like it’s a big inconvenience. So I ignore those guys and focus on the audience that wants to be there.
If anything, I hope to have a lot of material based on the kinds of people who pass through. There were two Canadians I singled out for the purpose of telling them that the only things most Americans know about Canada are Rush and hockey. They laughed when I told them I thought Canada was a satellite of the old Soviet Republic somewhere south of Spain. Then there were the two German girls, one from Frankfurt, to whom I thanked for her town’s major contribution: The Frankfurter. The other was from Hamburg. So I said to the group, “You know what I’m gonna say here, right?” The group uttered something about hamburgers and I said, “No!, That’s where the Beatles got their big start, you amateurs!”
And so begins the new chapter On The Road To Hollywood, Vikings. Here comes that wind gust!
www.accomplicetheshow.com
Tommy
After spending my umpteenth Friday night on the couch feeling sorry for my stagnant acting career I decided to hit the street, looking for action. Actually, I was invited to this swanky Korean place in Mid-Town by some friends and since my gun molls were invited first, I really couldn’t say no.
We ended up in one of those places that you see on TV that epitomize a scene you need to be part of and make you feel bad because all you’ve got in your town is an Applebee’s. Think trendy-bar- lounge nouveau- ethereal music-colored-swirly-lights-and seating-as-art vs. comfort. I knew I was about to pay too much to walk out hungry.
NOTE: You know me by now, I like my food like I like my women; cheap and in abundance. I don’t like places that serve items in tiny melon-baller sized portions on plates that double as hub caps for tractor trailers. I like my meals in heaping succulent portions that spill over the edges of the bowl like Scarlett Johansson’s breasts spill out over her bra while she’s on her period. And that side salad better be big enough to feed a gaggle of hungry rabbits. Maybe I like lettuce a little more than the next guy, you got a problem with that?
We sat on stools that were too high for a table that was too low and too far away. Cozy. The cute Asian waitress, one of several came by with the leather bound menus and passed them out as if she was handing out special tickets on the inaugural flight of tourists to the moon. One gander at the selections and I felt a spike in my pressure, however I was among people who were not aware of my subtle intricacies and my penchant for colorful complaint so I sat and played it cool. The drink selection, like buffet night in a dance club in Chelsea was packed with enough fruit to send a diabetic over the edge and the dinner menu looked as if the selections were created by an avant-garde designer instead of stuff made by a cook. I could get an appetizer for $15, an entrée for $10 (you figure that one out) and a drink for $15. As I opened my mouth to offer my opinion of the whole thing, I was intercepted by Angry Tray and Special K, the Belching Rockette who gently and knowingly reminded me that there was a special running, a sort of dinner Happy Hour; an entrée and a drink for ten bucks. My pressure resumed it’s normal high and I sat back in my stool.
A different cute Asian waitress, the one I decided I’d be sleeping with later came and took our drink orders. I bristled at what I was hearing; apple pear this and cranberry pomegranate that, Bill From Ohio Who Loves The City ordered a red wine to go with his suit. He had just finished his shift at that swanky hotel that doesn’t have vibrating beds. When it came to my turn I ordered something that was not on the drink menu, a simple dirty Martini. I apologized in advance for ordering a drink that clashed with the color scheme and waited for her to tell me they didn’t serve a relic of a drink like that, and come to think of it, they didn’t see fit to serve a relic like me at all.
A short time later, I was forced to watch grown men sip pink cocktails from trendy glasses and grown women coo at how wonderful everything tasted. My drink arrived looking like me, a little muddy and rough around the edges and came served with an apology from my future sleeping companion, “Um, I’m sorry but we have no olives…” I sunk in my trendy stool. “No olives? You’re a bar and you have no olives?” She looked a little sad and said, “Um, no we, um, ran out and have to get some from, um…” “The deli on the corner?” I offered. “No, um, downstairs.” “Ah,” I said, “In the olive cellar, a wise place to keep them. Retards spoilage.” I emphasized the word retard. She assured me it would be a few moments, no longer. I notified her that I would not take a sip until my olives arrived.
Drinks drained, plates came, my companions got drunk and my drink sat there untouched. My pressure rose incrementally as I was the only one at the party not having any fun. I stopped the cute waitress and said in more of a statement, “I’m not getting my olives am I, darling?” She looked at me as if she was surprised I didn’t buy her line about looking for olives in the cellar. “Oh, um, I’ll go check on that” and off she went to the next twelve tables without stopping at the bar. I watched staff come and go through the back door, return with food and on one instance a very large wad of cash for the deposit. Note to self: they’re careless with money, I can take these little skinny Asian guys. Still, no olives.
NOTE: Time has a funny way of moving in certain situations. When you’re dreading that IRS audit it sneaks up on you faster than the scope during your colonoscopy but when you’re waiting to tie one on with an inadequate aperitif staring you in the face you can hear the seconds tick by in cinematic echoing slow motion.
I sat and waited I composed a short list in my mind of travesties similar to olive-less martinis: a porn star without breast implants, a Ferrari without a stick shift, a politician without a dishonest thought, me without a fit of unmitigated hostility at having to compose such a list, etc…
ITEM: The following may or may not have happened; I need to confer with my lawyers before divulging sensitive information…
I stood with my naked drink and approached the bar with a smile. The bartender, a little Asian guy who looked annoyed that I was about to interrupt him looked at me. I placed the drink on the bar and asked him what he saw. “uh…” “I’ll save you the strain, friend. What you see here is a trendy glass built to hold fruity drinks aimed at assuring fruity people that, like their favorite Sex and the City character, they are making the scene so they can laugh at how many of them are a Carrie when they really wanted to be a Samantha and I’m speaking of the men. What you see is an old kind of drink made for guys like James Bond; cool and sophisticated, and guys like me; not cool, not sophisticated and easily angered when the small things that are supposed to make me happy suddenly become monumental problems with no conceivable solution. You don’t stock olives, I get that because an olive isn’t trendy. It doesn’t come in colors, it’s not made by a designer, it isn’t good looking, it isn’t followed by paparazzi and isn’t friends with The Donald, The Paris or any other douche who feels the need to precede their name with “The” as if it were a title conferring genuine individuality….it is a simple and humble little fruit grown on a tree but it makes me very happy, makes this little old drink taste so much better and I really really want one. Now. I don’t want a replacement. I don’t want a drink that is pink, light blue or light green. I don’t want a drink that comes in a work of art, I don’t want a drink with a clever name, was featured on TV or Time Out magazine or one that you made for a celebrity. Right now, I’m the celebrity, I’m a very impatient and tempestuous little brat of a movie star and Daddy wants his olives so I don’t care if you have to go to the store on the corner, get them from the olive cellar or go the bar across the street to pluck them out of somebody’s drink and plop them in mine, I want a freaking olive.” By this time I was sweating and a mere few centimeters from his nose. He stared, eyes wide and said in one word, “I’llseewhatIcando…” and slid away.
I rejoined my group who asked what had transpired, “Nothing, I asked how much for the waitress”. Everybody ate and rounded out the corners with their drinks when I was greeted by the cute waitress who placed a tumbler on the table containing three very large olives on a tooth pick. I was grateful. She smiled. I installed them in my drink with minimal effort and began imbibing. It was a strong tight and salty concoction, one that I was craving and enjoying very much. I raised my glass to the bartender who nervously smiled back. I passed the drink around and found no surprise in the disapproval of all including Bill From Ohio Who Loves This City who coughed, “Who drinks that?” “Guys like James Bond and guys like me, just ask the bartender…” I replied with that slightly fuzzy smile. The gun molls both agreed it was a strong but good drink and Special K, feeling her first fruity concoction ordered a Mojito and offered to buy Yours Truly another. I took her up on it and was happy to see it arrive with olives already installed.
The evening passed without further incident. Your Humble Servant began enjoying the atmosphere, the conversation and thoughts of the little waitress holding a jar of olives and nothing else. Ah, the little things….
Somewhere in a better land there is a perfect scene playing out. There is music playing the outro to the whole movie. I see it clearly but that still doesn’t make it real. I can’t really tell but I hope it’s real…somewhere. I see a bunch of people on a beach because the beach is the end of the world to me, the place where we all yearn to be, by the ocean where all seems limitless and infinitely possible. It is where all the sunny beautiful things happen.
We all make it there alive, all of us, no one left behind, no one lost on the battlefield. Everybody gets the girl, eats the sammich, and scores the winning touchdown in the last seconds. It is a warm human night. The old cars pull up, rumbling muscle thunder under flat black painted hoods, the girls in bikinis dance, the muscle heads flex, the troubadours sing and bop.
Even the bad guys join us because it is so much groovier to sing and dance and eat and drink and smile. Everything is perfect after the long struggle. I see friends long gone, pain long abated. I see my father in his jean jacket next to his Mustang. He gives me a wave and a smile and he sings to the outro song off key. There’s a band playing. It could be any year, anywhere and all is finally well – for a little while. There’s a melody and a harmony and song. There is no more fight, no more struggle, no more long days. The moment is light and blissful.
As the outro song fades, the camera pulls up and back to show the beach alive with people, the water reflecting the orange setting sun, the sky all firey purple and the sun setting so slowly over it all. The cars rumble on the dunes with their lights on, the kids lying on the hoods staring dreamily at the oncoming night sky. All is really and truly well.
The scene plays over and over in my head and lifts me a little because I am somewhere in the crowd with a drink thrust in my hand and my beat up shoes in the other.
As the image fades we all dance and sing together. You win, you get the girl….you get the idea. Use any song you like for your outro to close your movie, it doesn’t make sense to tell you mine, that’s just for me.
Roll credits…
This season has been particularly uncheerful for me. There are a variety of reasons, glum, adding up to me silently wishing it would all be over. There were parties we were invited to, didn't go. There's a stack of cards unattended to and shopping that never got done. I missed most of the specials on TV and even the annual barrage of yuletide tunes that I usually find so festive seemed more of an annoyance. I just don't care. Now today, Christmas Eve has blasted through the door like a big fat entitled uninvited guest and I'm trying to hide in the closet. I certainly didn't think I'd find a hope of Christmas Eve salvation. I dropped Trace off at the fish store for dinner stuff and stood outside in the cold and the rain. The line was out the door. We were in Bensonhurst, where I am from. I only live a short distance away but I rarely get back here. None of my friends are still here, my father is gone and most of the places I spent my life in were long gone too. As I stood on the corner I remembered my Bensonhurst, a place so close to my heart that it beats with a Brooklyn accent. I love this place for it made me what I am mostly. As I looked up the avenue I saw the music store where I spent many many weekend days learning to play drums and guitar and worshipping the older kids who got to go to clubs and concerts. We'd sit in the store all day and I'd listen to the owner's son play guitar and tell tales of being in bands and going to shows. I learned so much of my humor, my love of music and my want to play anything that makes sound from those precious days. All the metal heads would stop by and some touring celebrities would come in for strings and things when they came through. I have many cherished memories dating back 27 years to that tiny building in that old Italian neighborhood. I smiled to myself, hungry for something I couldn't find anywhere else and began walking toward the store. I stepped through the door and there were the owner, Big Mike and his son, Little Mike still stringing guitars, still arguing, still telling jokes and throwing things. The store hadn't changed much; there were guitars and drums and things all over the place. The employees were usually friends of the family in a constantly rotating cast. There was a six foot hero in plastic wrap on a row of amplifiers and a hungry looking group hovering. Mike looked up and recognized me with a huge smile. We hugged and laughed and told a few quick one liners and I felt tension melt, I felt home. There was always a stool by the counter for anyone to sit and hang out. I sat and made myself at comfy. Soon we were telling stories of old mobsters, actors, musicians and friends long dead. There was the ongoing argument started in 1984 about what an over rated guitarist jimmy page was. Stairway to Heaven was on and when the guitar solo came on, Fat Sal came sliding into the room and frantically picked up a guitar off the rack and played note for note in tune. He disappeared just as fast after the song ended. I looked around and felt so full of life and so full of memories that I just sat teary and for the first time in weeks I laughed hard. Mike looked over and said, "Hey, Tommy, you remind me so much of your father, may he rest in peace. He was a good man." I asked, "Really?" "Oh yeah, you sound just like him, look just like him and that's good because you'll always keep him with you." I really miss my father. I went and saw The Old Man behind his desk, we smiles and shook hands warmly and spoke Italian, what little I still can. I really need to relearn. For a brief time, I was home, in my old neighborhood. It was like the old days, my father would come bursting in the room any minute. We'd drink wine and tell more stories and laugh and cry and fight until it was time to go home. You remember this song: There are places I remember Soon it was my time to head back out in the rain and the gloom but I was warmed now by tender reminiscence. Before I left, Mike bellowed to me from across the room, "Hey, Tommy, you can't leave without taking a piece of sandwich!" We unwrapped the giant hero and he tossed me a couple of pieces. Turkey, ham, roast beef, American cheese and a bit of antipasto spread for those wondering. "You should come by more" he growled in his thick Bensonhurst accent. I missed that, too. We hugged our Merry Christmases and I walked down the avenue eating my sammich. For the first time all season, I was happy. So, to those I know and love both near and far, a Happy Christmas to you and those you keep close. May the season's warm embrace keep you comfy. T
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
In my life I love you more
You know those days when you are so hungry that you find yourself doubled over in a kind of nauseating pain. It's the kind of pain that defies logic because you feel like you want to vomit but your stomach is quite empty. That's what I was walking around with all morning yesterday. It made me irritable, impatient and prone to fits of uncomfortable singing… I had a job downtown that would permit me just enough time to grab a roll-o-sushi at one of those Asian Everything markets near Union Square and eat it on the train back up to work. I was so hungry that this little rolled up bit of rice, avocado and imitation crabmeat looked like a Porterhouse steak. I couldn't wait to get this hot little number alone. NOTE: As a cheap date, I am equal to none. I happily skipped up Broadway toward Union Square like a ten year old who just got kissed by the cute girl who started growing breasts. As I passed Forbidden Planet, a popular comic store, my eye caught a few goodies in the window. This being the season, I figured I'd start on my list. Q: Do I look like a thief to you? Do I look like the kind of guy who would pilfer Geek Porn? I was stopped by the hipster slacker security force-of-one who insisted I check my bag at the door. I like to be cooperative but when it comes to strangers handling my food, I get a bit touchy. I gave in because I wanted to see if they had that new Kirk action figure rumored to be in residence but I did so under protest. I made my list and proceeded to reclaim my lunch, hang on baby, papa's comin'. Here's where it gets good. I should have grabbed the bag by the handles but in my haste I just palmed it from the bottom like I was holding a stack of books secretly greased with butter. As I made for the door the phone rang. With my free hand I answer and press my shoulder to the door - which doesn't move. SLOW MOTION HOLLYWOOD EFFECT: The door doesn't move, I slam and collapse into it like a crumpling piece of paper, the phone snaps shut in my face and my precious lunch goes momentarily airborne and slams into the grimy wood floor. MY GOD, THEY LOOK LIKE ANTS IN SNOW CAMMO FROM UP HERE! Um, no, that's lots of rice on the floor, Captain. And little bits of imitation crab. I glared at the slouchy bag check guy who turned so fast you'd think a parade of naked Rockettes kicked on by. I was now furious. Blood-in-my-eye-want-a-human-sacrifice-they-cancelled-Star-Trek-again furious. Now, I can take a lot of things, suffer many indignities, deal with many a personal injustice but I can not take someone messing with my food. I drew my umbrella, ready for blood but since there were children around composed myself. I had no choice but to leave. So I did. And I left the mess for them. I continued up Broadway with my stomach in a knot. I was hungry and out $3.50. I hate that. Two things I hate most; wasting food and wasting money. And reality TV. The phone rings again, it's Trace. I'm straining to hear her through the stuttering signal. All I hear is bits of digital flotsam; "I'm….bip…leep…bop…hayep…you." I think she's at the subway – or ordering a subway, or ran into Hemmingway. I try to tell her lunch is waiting for her in Forbidden Planet's new cafeteria but she can't hear me either. In the middle of New York City in the United States of America in the year 2008, I am on a piece of crappy technology that can't keep it up long enough for me to get directions. I was so intensely concentrating on listening that I failed to notice that I was standing in the middle of 14th street – against the light. I looked up to see the front end of a bus growing larger in my field of vision. Just as I was about to scream into the phone for help I heard the distinct chime that says, "Call dropped" . "Beedlyeoop." THE SCENE: Me, hunched and wide eyed in the middle of the street clutching a dead phone, bus bearing down on me, furious, confused and hungry….. Knowing I was about to die under the wheels of the MTA's finest, knowing ATT would have the last word in my private little war with cellular technology, I decided on one final act of rebellion; I grabbed the little black flip phone by both ends and just as I was about to rip and tear, I heard that voice once again over my shoulder, "You know if you do that you will have to replace it and you'll be out a cool hundred for this one and who knows how much for the next. Just be patient. And get out of the street." Yes, cooler heads. I loosened my grip on the phone I heard that other voice out of nowhere, dark and ominous: "DO IT, DO IT NOW!!!!" and I tore the little phone in half and screamed, "LOOK AT YOU NOW, BITCH!!!!! YOU LIKE THAT?? HUH? HUH? HAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!" And I dodged victoriously out of the way of traffic and to the station. As my elevated pressure returned to more suitable atmospheric conditions I stopped laughing long enough to realize just how much 6 little pieces of rice and crab cost me….. And what are you having for lunch? Tommy.
The alarm snapped to attention happy to be useful. The cheery sounds of the morning jock on the classical station mellifluously filled the silence with announcements I was too comatose to decipher. I reached for the off button and rolled out of bed onto the floor in a tangle of blankets and previously sleeping, currently alarmed feline. It was the usual beginning to another work day. 4:59, awake and standing at the window wondering where I had gone wrong on my quest for a job that didn't require waking up at any particular time. In the shower there's nothing more exhilarating than water the temperature of November mornings at 5AM to give the testicles a little wake up jolt. Forgot to put the coffee up, forgot to eat and forgot to leave on time. Traffic, never seeming to be anything less than an orgy of metal and plastic, piled in front of us and made short work of being early. We decided to take the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel because it's quicker than sticking to the roads and proceeded to make yet another mistake. We raced into the tube and promptly came to a halt. THOUGHT: You know that feeling you get when you swallow too much food and when you finally take a drink to wash it down it feels like a clenched fist shoving it's way though your esophagus? We didn't find out until the other end of the tunnel that there were two closed lanes because of construction. Predictably, we arrived late to the first appointment. I got to Big Mike's ten minutes late to find he didn't get my text that I'd be ten minutes late. He's outside, warmed up and ready. He'd like to work out outside today. TEMP: 30 degrees. Me: Jeans, t-shirt, forgot gloves, hat, scarf and armor plated underwear with special crotch-mounted heating unit. TIP: Never let your AAA lapse because even though you leased a new car you still have the same old brain that occasionally does things like forgets to turn the headlights off when you disappear for an hour. Cold, late and stranded, I did the only thing I could do: I stood in the street with one end of the jumper cables attached to the battery and the other end slung over my shoulder with my foot on the bumper, arms akimbo; the Universal Sign for Motorist In Distress. Fifteen minutes later not a single soul stopped to help. In the middle of Manhattan, not a single person bothered. So I asked a few people. Collected responses here for you review: Too busy, My boss just called me, I'm late, My battery is on the other side of the car, You look like a stalker, How do I know those are real jumper cables? TONE SHIFT IN 3…2…1… It was at this point, all became surreal. As I was standing there in the Universal Motorist In Distress position, I noticed a large crowd of gaping shocked onlookers looking upon me. Puzzled, I thought to check on my fly. As I began to slowly gander down to check I noticed they weren't looking at me but slightly over my left shoulder. I turned to look and found that a bald man wearing shredded jeans, a torn leather coat and a t shirt was staring at me a mere foot or two from my face. Did I mention he was covered in blood? I could see no open wounds like slash marks but he was definitely in some kind of scuffle. There was blood coming from cuts on his cheeks and nose. There was blood on his shirt and jacket. There was blood on his bald head. There was blood on his hands and wallet, which he was holding and riffling through as if he were looking for a condom. People approached and suggested he wait for the police or go to the hospital a block away. He was dazed but responsive as he shook his head "no" and staggered off down the street. Trace, in a bit of a shock said to me, "Holy Mazzola, did you see that guy?" "The guy a foot from my face covered in blood and tattered clothing? No, hadn't noticed." I replied. The crowd followed the unfortunate soul down the street leaving me to my frozen nuts and rigid cables. Finally, to my great relief, one of the building staff where I was came out and said, "Hey, what happened?" I said that I must have left the lights on and the battery was dead. "No," he said, "I mean with that guy?" I blinked. "What guy?" We were connecting the cables to his car when the block erupted into a cheesy 70's cop show. No less than three squad cars, sirens-a-blarin' came up the street the wrong way and fishtailed to a stop. The cops hit the street, ready for action. I told them the guy they were looking for was about three blocks away by now. The twitchy officer holding his holster was looking around for a suspect that was no longer. I yelled over, "The guy you're looking for is about three blocks away, you can't miss him." "What did he look like?" "Bald, white, leather jacket, denim jeans. Oh and he's probably the only guy walking down the street covered in blood." Just as quickly, they tore back up the street in reverse, fishtailed forward and sped off, late-coming ambulance right behind. After a quick charge, the car started and we were almost on our way. The door man came out and asked, "Hey, man, what happened"? "Oh, I must have left the lights on and the battery died." "No, I mean with that guy?" I blinked. "What guy?" The rest of the morning was full of traffic, missed appointments, double parking and a gas gauge teetering just below "E". On the FDR Drive, southbound toward Brooklyn and home, the car coughed and sputtered. We looked at each other, brows a-raised… All this before the hour of 9AM……
We ran and pranced and lifted and grunted and sweated as much as two straight guys can in a courtyard in November at 7:30AM. We finished up at 8:15 which left me 15 minutes to get to my next charge who lives at least 25 minutes away in morning traffic. Looking forward to feeling my fingers and toes again I ran to the car, turned the key and heard that straining choking sound that reminds me of getting stuck somewhere in the cold with a dead battery. That's because I was stuck out in the cold with a dead battery. I reached in the glove box for my trusty AAA card to discover that we no longer employed the services of AAA because we leased a new car last year. What could happen?
