by Rick Goeld
The second call, to his friend Jerry, was a little tougher. After a short discussion, he convinced Jerry to pick him up that afternoon at the apartment in Somerset and give him a ride to Manhattan. A pain in the ass, Jerry had complained, and he had countered that having a car in Manhattan was an even bigger pain in the ass, which was the reason why he wasn’t driving himself. And anyway, Jerry was the store manager now, wasn’t he? Couldn’t he give himself a few hours off? Before Jerry could answer, Eddie had promised to explain that afternoon in the car. Case closed.
The third call, to his brother, Mark, was the tough one.
They had been close as children—two boys raising the usual kinds of hell in the neighborhood—but had grown apart in their early teens. Eddie had always been an avid reader, starting with comic books and progressing to adventure stories, mysteries, and science fiction. He still had stacks of comic books, and paperbacks, and a few years worth of Mad magazines stored somewhere in his parent’s house. Mark had shared Eddie’s love of comic books, but by his early teens had gotten interested in business, and making money, thus endearing himself to his father. Mark was the kid with the newspaper route; the kid selling magazines door-to-door. He learned how to use spreadsheets. He saved his money, and wanted to invest it in the stock market.
An interest in music was something else that the brothers had shared, initially with great reluctance, and then eagerly, but along diverging paths. Their parents, wanting to expose the boys to “culture,” schlepped them to numerous plays and children’s concerts. Elaine Zittner insisted that both boys take music lessons, and bought a baby grand piano specifically for that purpose, and to insure in-house compliance. After struggling through months of lessons, Eddie had begun to like it, surprising both himself and his parents. At fifteen, he was playing keyboard in a pick-up band that fooled around with rock and blues—anything they could play at school functions that might improve their chances of attracting girls. Mark had gone in another direction, taking to classical music, opera, and show tunes, yet another thing he had in common with his father. There were times Mark and his father would sit in the den, both doing their “math homework,” listening to Brahms, or Mozart, or Leonard Bernstein. But Mark had also caught the downside of the gene pool, having begun to lose his hair in his late teens.
Eddie glanced at his watch: eight thirty. His brother was probably on his way to work. He dialed Mark’s cell phone.
A few seconds later, Mark picked up: “Mark Zittner, may I help you?”
Formal, aren’t we? “Mark, it’s Eddie.”
“Hey, Eddie. How are you?”
He sounds surprised that I called. How long has it been? “I’m fine, Mark. Uh, where are you? I figured you must be on your way to work.”
“I’m already at work. Been here for an hour.”
“You must be busy.”
“No. We always start at eight.”
How early did Mark wake up?
“So, Eddie,” Mark continued, “what’s up?”
“I need a place to stay for a few days. Do you mind if I crash at your place for a while?”
Silence on the line. Eddie knew Mark was quickly calculating his options. He figured his brother would weigh the benefits—what benefits?—against the risks—loss of privacy? What else? Mark must think I’m desperate, Eddie thought, to ask him for a favor.
Mark broke the silence. “Eddie … what’s going on?”
“Alison threw me out.”
“Oh.”
“Look, I’ll explain it to you later, you know, tonight, when I get there. I’ll buy dinner.” Trying to close the deal . . .
Mark hesitated, then replied. “How could I refuse an offer like that?”
Eddie sensed his brother’s uncertainty. He took a deep breath. “Thanks, Mark. I really do appreciate it.”
“Uh, what time are you coming?”
“What time do you usually get back to your place?”
“Around seven. You remember where it is?”
“I have it written down somewhere. On Third Avenue, right?”
“Good memory. The Future Condominiums, on the southeast corner of 32nd and Third.
“Got it. And Mark, thanks again. I really mean it.”
“No problem.” Mark said.
Eddie again heard the uncertainty in his brother’s voice.
5
Eddie sat at the kitchen table, staring into his coffee, thinking about his next move. Call Alison? Stop by her office? No, too much anger and frustration, on both sides, to try that now. He could leave her a note at the apartment. He made a mental note to call Jerry again and ask him to come by at five-thirty. Then he gathered up his toiletries, repacked his bag, locked up, and headed south.
It was a cold, bright day. Last night’s storm had cleared the haze that usually hung over the city, and had left a dusting of snow on the ground. Having decided to take Interstate 287, which was the long way but avoided the dense city traffic, Eddie first headed west on Route 17, stopping at a Dunkin’ Donuts for a mid-morning sugar fix. This state gets a bad rap, he thought, as he chewed on a glazed donut. Once you get away from the cities, it’s a beautiful place. He drove west and then south, through rolling hills interrupted by small towns and housing developments. He and Alison had driven out here many times, looking for a place where they might someday settle down, and even have a baby or two. He listened to Can’t Buy A Thrill as he drove. Traffic was light and he made it to Somerset in just over an hour.
He pulled into the apartment complex wondering if Alison might be working from home, but her car was nowhere in sight. He went inside, tossed his bag on the sofa, and spotted a handwritten note sitting dead center on the coffee table. Alison had cleared off everything else: the wicker basket filled with assorted junk, the stack of magazines, the crystal bowl he had bought for her birthday a year ago; all of it had been moved to the mantle over the tiny fireplace. The only thing missing was a flashing neon sign that said: “READ THIS!!!” He sat down and picked up the note.
Eddie,
I think it best that we don’t see each other for a while.
We need some time apart. Don’t you agree? Call me
in a couple of weeks—perhaps we could talk then.
- A
He leaned back and closed his eyes. Perhaps we could talk then. He turned the phrase over in his mind. Perhaps … what did that mean? After thinking about it for a minute, he concluded that she was probably right, that they did need some time away from each other. He thought some more, then leaned forward and wrote below her note:
Am I that predictable? Were you sure I would come back today???
- E
After further thought, he decided to scratch that, and wrote instead:
I agree…Eddie
A minute later, he picked up the note, crumpled it, and put it in his pocket.
*****
Jerry pulled up in front of the apartment at a quarter to six and honked the horn a few times, waking Eddie from a sound sleep on the sofa. A minute later, he was out the door, wearing one winter coat, carrying another, shouldering a large duffle bag, and pushing a huge roller-boy suitcase in front of him. The suitcase was filled with jeans, slacks, shirts, sweatsuits, and a variety of shoes—most of his wardrobe. The duffel bag contained his CD collection, CD player, keyboard, earphones, laptop computer, back-up floppies containing every short story he had ever written, and various other items, all packed in t-shirts, underwear, and socks. He had also packed his Steely Dan memorabilia: baseball caps and programs from the 90s tours, and a framed photo of Fagen and Becker taken in the late 1970s. That was it. There wasn’t much memorabilia out there.
“Haitian Divorce,” from The Dan’s The Royal Scam, was blaring from Jerry’s stereo. He turned down the volume, popped the rear door of his black Ford Explorer, and stuck his grinning head out the window.
“Hey, Zit.”
“Hey, Jerome. Is there gas in the car?”
Jerry was momentarily co
nfused, but then remembered the classic line from “Kid Charlemagne.” “Yeah, there’s gas in the car,” he replied.
Eddie moved toward the back of the Explorer. “Jer, skip to the next track, will ya?” Nice that Jerry was playing The Dan—he was a fan, too—but he really didn’t want to hear that particular track. Not today.
“Oh, yeah, sorry, man,” Jerry said as he turned and punched a button on the dashboard. The first notes of “Everything You Did” began, just as Eddie knew they would. He had all the Steely Dan CDs, all except the latest one that is, and knew all the track sequences by heart. He loaded the suitcase, duffle bag, and spare jacket into the cargo space, slammed the rear door, and climbed into the passenger seat. The Explorer started rolling through the parking lot.
“You must have everything you own in those bags.” Jerry had known Eddie for almost six years. He knew Eddie wasn’t big on owning a wide variety of clothing—or anything that smacked of “fashionable.” Eddie was a meat-and-potatoes dresser.
“Pretty much everything,” Eddie replied.
“You don’t have that many clothes.”
“Hey, I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”
“So why Manhattan, man? You’ve got plenty of places to go.”
But not your place, right, Jerry? That would cramp your style. Realistically, he hadn’t expected Jerry to offer him the spare room at his place, a two-bedroom apartment in New Brunswick. Jerry usually had a steady girlfriend. He did pretty well with the grad students at Rutgers. But it was more than that: in the last few months, it seemed to him that Jerry had better things to do than hang out. It was almost like his best friend was avoiding him.
Jerry continued, “What about your parents’ house?”
“You’ve met my mother. Enough said.”
“Is she really that bad?”
“Yes. She’d drive me crazy from day one.”
Jerry thought for a minute. “Hey, you could stay at my place for a couple of days.”
What? Maybe old Jer wasn’t doing so well between the sheets.
“You know,” Jerry continued, “until you get your own place. My girlfriend is out of town this week.”
That explains it. “Thanks, Jerry, but I really think I need to get out of town. You know what I mean?”
“But why Manhattan? You hate Manhattan.”
“I don’t hate Manhattan.”
“Come on, Easy. Too many people and too much pollution: your own words.”
“My brother, Mark, offered me a place to crash for a while.” Jerry had never met Mark.
“Hey. I know why you’re going.”
“Why?”
“Remember that night we got drunk? You’re going to see the man: the Dan Man.”
Eddie was surprised that Jerry had remembered, as wasted as both of them had been that night, what, six months ago? The man—the Dan Man—was Donald Fagen, who lived in Manhattan and was one of the two founders of the band. Fagen played keyboard, and was thought to be the jazzier side of The Dan. Not that he had anything against Walter Becker, the other half of The Dan. Walter was very smooth, very cool on bass and lead guitar, and was thought to be more the rock and roll influence on the band. But who really knew? Little was known about the band and how their music was created.
Eddie looked east over the wasteland that was Elizabeth, New Jersey, with Staten Island a smudge in the background. They were driving north on the New Jersey Turnpike, heading right up the industrial gut of the state. Fields of railroad tracks and stacked metal containers spread out as far as he could see. Through the cloud cover he spotted the World Trade Center dominating the Manhattan skyline. Newark Airport was coming up on the left. The stereo was playing “Black Friday” from The Dan’s Katy Lied. “Bad Sneakers” would come next.
That night we got drunk. It seemed like only yesterday. It had been a night when Alison was off somewhere, shopping, carrying on, or whatever it was she and her friends did together. After work, yet another day escorting browsers around the furniture store, he had picked up a pizza and a couple of six-packs and gone straight to Jerry’s apartment. After eating the pizza and drinking most of the beer, they had gotten to talking about The Dan, and how sad it was that Fagen and Becker were so publicity shy—almost reclusive. Steely Dan had never been a mainstream band, not like Aerosmith or Journey, in large part because they had never toured when they were at the peak of their popularity. Except for some brief touring they did in the early seventies, they were a so-called “studio band.” After a long quiet period, Fagen and Becker had come out again in the early nineties, first as participants in shows around New York City, and then with full fledged Steely Dan tours in 1993, 1994 and 1996. But Fagen and Becker were still reclusive. Since the 1996 tour, they hadn’t been seen very often in public.
So Eddie had gotten pissed off—pissed off that good, loyal fans like the two of them couldn’t see their heroes on television, couldn’t see them flogging new CDs on Letterman and Leno, couldn’t even see a candid photo, captured by paparazzi on the street. Couldn’t get an autograph! Eddie had made a vow, right then and there, after consuming another couple of beers, that he would find Fagen and Becker, track them down, and meet them, shake their hands, congratulate them, get their autographs, and then, maybe, buy them a beer—or a cup of coffee, if they preferred. Or whatever.
Before, Eddie had been a fan, an avid fan, but now he really started to dig, doing research with a vengeance, trying to find out what made those guys tick. He went to bookstores and libraries and pored over reference books. He re-read the liner notes on all his Steely Dan CDs, and searched the web for any shred of information that might give him a clue as to their whereabouts. But there was very little; next to nothing. Those guys were invisible. Who were they? Where did they live? What the hell did they do all day? And slowly, like a newborn turtle crawling toward the ocean, the idea hatched in Eddie’s mind: he would find out where they lived, the reclusive Fagen and Becker, and seek them out.
After what he thought was a prodigious effort in a noble cause (and what his wife thought was a colossal waste of time), he determined that Fagen had been spotted at a few jazz clubs in Manhattan. From this, and other evidence, he concluded that Fagen lived in Manhattan, most likely in the Upper East Side, at least part of the time. Becker was easier to find: the liner notes of a couple of CDs indicated that he lived in Hawaii, on the island of Maui. Eddie had never been to Maui, had never been to Hawaii for that matter, but he figured, hell, how big was Maui, anyway? How difficult would it be to find one person?
But Fagen was closer, so he’d start there, looking for him, probably camped in a nice, quiet, secluded, whatever-kind-of-place-he-lived-in, right across the Hudson River. There were, however, a few minor details. The first, and, perhaps, the biggest: Fagen’s exact address, a closely guarded secret. And, once he had that, there would likely be security people who would discourage his quest. Obstacles to overcome, sure, but were there not obstacles in every noble endeavor? Wasn’t this worth doing?
An even bigger problem: he wasn’t all that comfortable in Manhattan. Jerry had been right: Eddie didn’t like the crowded streets and the pollution. Not that northeastern New Jersey was the Garden of Eden, but Manhattan was definitely worse, with lots of cars, trucks, and people, some of whom were pretty unsavory. And aggressive. People who, perhaps, wouldn’t take kindly to someone loitering on the sidewalk.
Alison hadn’t understood at all, hadn’t understood why her husband would be interested in meeting a couple of aging rock stars. Hero worship was for teenagers, she had said. After a couple of attempts, he had stopped trying to explain it to her. But it would have been hard for him to explain it to Jerry, who was a friend and a Dan Fan. He had trouble stating precisely what it was he was feeling to anyone. His life was on a downward spiral—going to shit, really—and he couldn’t seem to get it back on track. Meeting The Dan was something that might somehow inspire him, might somehow give him some new ideas. It might even get him writing
again.
Eddie gazed out over a tangle of iron bridges, steel towers, and smokestacks that seemed to fade into the gloom. As they approached the entrance to the Holland Tunnel, “Any World (That I’m Welcome To)” was playing on the stereo. He glanced over at Jerry. Not only does he not have a care in the world, Eddie thought, he’s probably getting laid a lot more often than I am.
6
Thirty minutes later, Eddie dragged his suitcase and duffle bag through the revolving glass doors of The Future, a high-rise condominium in the Murray Hill section of Manhattan. What happened to the heat? And the lobby’s stark grey marble interior only added to the chill. He spotted an older man, perhaps sixty, wearing what passed for a guard’s uniform, sitting behind the podium reading The New York Times. A portable heater blasted hot air over the man’s shoes. Eddie identified himself, and the guard, not looking up, buzzed him into the elevator lobby. Great security! Two minutes later, he was on the twenty-eighth floor, shoving his luggage through the elevator doors.
Having heard the doors chime open, Mark came out of his apartment, turned toward Eddie, and, inexplicably, raised his left arm as if hailing a cab on the street. “Hey, Eddie,” he said.
Eddie, struggling with his luggage, looked up and replied, “Hey, Mark, can you give me a hand?”
What happened next was one of those awkward moments when people who know each other well, but have drifted apart, perhaps more than a little apart, come together and attempt to greet each other. Mark, caught unaware by his brother’s request for help, at first hesitated, and then took a faltering step forward. Seconds later, Eddie arrived at the apartment door, dropped his luggage, and extended his right hand. Mark, however, had reached down with his right hand and grabbed the duffle bag’s strap. Noticing his brother’s hand extended toward him, he offered his left hand, palm turned outward, in an awkward attempt to reciprocate. Thus began a clumsy handshake, with Eddie’s right hand grasping Mark’s reversed left. Both realizing the awkwardness, they released their grips, grinned, and proceeded to the next stage: a brotherly hug while leaning over two large pieces of luggage. Disengaging, the brothers finally worked their way around the luggage and consummated the hug, complete with a few slaps on the back and mumbled greetings of “long time no see,” and “good to see you, too.”
