by Rick Goeld
“About an hour. I took the train from Penn Station to Woodcliff Lake and then grabbed a taxi.”
“That’s not bad from Mark’s place.” Harry Zittner forced a smile. It was uncomfortable for him to concede, even to himself, that his son was separated from his wife.
They walked through the dining room, and Eddie noticed that his father was limping. Maybe his gout is acting up … again. He made a mental note to ask his mother about it, if he could get her alone for a minute or two. There was red wine breathing in a large carafe, and he saw that the table was set for three. He relaxed a little bit. At least there wouldn’t be any unexpected guests.
Father and son proceeded into the kitchen, where Elaine Zittner was preparing dinner. Hearing the men come in, she had turned, wiped her hands on an apron—she was wearing an apron!—and walked over to Eddie and gave him a hug.
“How’s my oldest son?” she asked.
“I’m fine, Ma, how are you?”
“I’m good. A few aches and pains, but who’s complaining?”
“Ma,” he said, glancing at covered pots on the stove, “you didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
“What trouble? You think I forgot how to cook?”
Ten minutes later they were seated: his father, as always, at the head of the table, Eddie on his father’s right, and his mother on his father’s left. His mother had prepared pot roast, one of his favorites, with mashed potatoes and green beans. She served the two men generous portions of each, and took smaller portions for herself. Eddie picked up his plate and ladled spoonfuls of gravy, fragrant and thick with chunks of onion, over the meat and potatoes. His father poured the wine, and began slicing a rye bread that smelled like it was just out of the oven. His parents had gone to quite a bit of trouble preparing all this. And then he realized: I’m being set up . . .
Small talk about big disasters: his father complained about the Dow, which had dropped below ten thousand, and his mother could not believe that Kathie Lee was leaving Live with Regis after all those years! But the conversation soon turned serious.
“Eddie,” his mother began, “we want to talk to you about Alison, and your marriage.”
No surprise there.
“Easy,” his father said, “I talked to Alison this morning.”
“Did she call you?” he asked.
Harry Zittner looked uncomfortable, and glanced at his wife, who was staring at her plate. “No, Eddie, I called her.”
“Dad . . .”
“I’m sorry, Eddie. You know we hate to interfere in your personal life, or Mark’s for that matter, but, well, you know, we felt we needed to get involved. This one time.”
He couldn’t argue with that. His parents were generally very good about leaving him alone to work out whatever issues he had in his personal life. He glanced quickly at his mother, who was sipping her wine. She met his glance, but gave nothing away with her eyes.
He addressed his father again, “Okay. What did you and Alison talk about?”
His father took a sip of ice water and wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “We just talked about what’s going on between the two of you. You know, with the marriage and your careers, that kind of thing.”
His mother interrupted, “Eddie, look, I’m sorry for the way I acted that night you came over. You remember?”
“Yeah, Ma, I remember.” How could I forget? He was a little surprised; it wasn’t like his mother to apologize without a good reason.
“Well,” she continued, “I admit I over-reacted that night.”
“Okay, Ma, no big deal.”
“But Eddie, look, your father and I think you have serious problems with your marriage.”
“Were you on the phone call, too?”
“No, I wasn’t, but your father filled me in. We talked about it for quite a while this morning.”
“So,” he addressed his father again, “what did Alison say?”
“Well, she said that the two of you had grown apart in the last few months.” He nodded as his father continued, “You know. With her new job, she thinks that, well, you might be feeling threatened.” Harry Zittner took another sip of water. “And, she’s concerned that you’re not writing anymore.”
“And,” his mother jumped in, “she’s concerned that you can’t hold a job, and won’t get a better job. And that you spend so much time surfing the internet. And the craziness with the music. I’m sorry to bring it all up again.”
“Is that Alison talking, Ma,” he asked her, “or you?”
His father responded. “It’s Alison talking … her words.”
Eddie saw the concern on his father’s face. “I didn’t think she was that unhappy.”
“But, Eddie,” his father continued, “what concerns me is her mood.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, Eddie. I just got the feeling that she’s losing interest. I got the feeling that she’s fed up, at least to a certain extent. You know what I mean?”
No, not really. Deep down, there had always been a strong bond between them … for most of their married life, anyway. Were those days gone forever?
“Eddie,” his father continued, “I think—we think—you should meet with her and, you know, talk things over.”
“Eddie,” his mother said, “I hate to say it this way, but, well, maybe she’ll take you back, if you agree to focus a little more on your career, and stop with the craziness about the music.”
“Take me back? Ma, she walked out on me.”
“Eddie,” his father said, “you know, these situations are complex. Who walked out on who? Does it really matter?”
There’s no good answer to that. “Okay, Dad, I guess you’re right. It doesn’t really matter.”
“So will you call her?” his mother asked.
“I’ll call her in the next few days. Let me think about it.”
Harry Zittner sighed as he reached for the mashed potatoes. “Don’t wait too long, Eddie.”
15
Saturday, March 11, 2000
After working a three-to-eleven shift at the bookstore, and then another hour re-stacking books, Eddie slept in on Saturday morning. Finally dragging himself out of bed, he showered and dressed and was back on the street at noon, hopeful that this would be the day he met the Dan Man.
Third Avenue was jammed. That’s what I get for going out on Saturday. But then again, what choice did he have? This was his day off. A few people stared at him as he passed with his new, hand-lettered sign, this one with Donald Fagen, Meet Your Biggest Fan on one side, and Donald Fagen, I Want Your Autograph on the other. Not particularly original, but more to the point. Maybe someone would see the sign and get in touch with Fagen. It wasn’t as cold as Thursday, but it threatened to rain, and the wind had picked up. He was again wearing his forest green winter coat over shirt, sweater, corduroy pants, and heavy boots. And his Steely Dan hat, of course. He thought he might need an umbrella in an hour or two.
He stopped at a Bagelry, and the manager, a dour-looking woman—Korean, Eddie guessed— asked him who Donald Fagen was. I’ll tell you, he replied, if you give me a discount on a bagel and coffee. No discounts, she replied, making a face that would scare a hardened criminal. He took his bagel and coffee and got the hell out of there before she did something worse.
Eddie arrived at 59 East 88th just after one, and started to parade. The Nightfly, Fagen’s first solo album, was playing softly on his Walkman. And five minutes later, like clockwork, Old Abe was back on the sidewalk, standing under the canopy, pulling on a pair of leather gloves as he watched him approach. Eddie noted that Old Abe was prepared today, wearing a heavy overcoat and what looked like a captain’s hat, which, he realized, was part of the doorman’s uniform.
“Hey,” Old Abe said, doing his best to position himself directly in Eddie’s path.
What now? Eddie stopped and pulled his earphones out. “Hey,” he replied.
“I remember you from a couple of days ago
.”
“No kidding. I remember you from a couple of days ago.”
“Well isn’t that nice?”
“I don’t know about nice, but it proves we both have memories.” We both have memories?
Old Abe ignored the remark, and decided to re-assert his authority, this time in a more diplomatic way. “Remember what I said before? About no disturbances out here on the sidewalk?”
“Yeah, I remember. I’m not disturbing anything.”
“Good.” Old Abe looked up and down the street. There were people on both sides of 88th, some walking and some just loitering, and a couple of people on bicycles, but there was virtually no street traffic. “Like I said before, I can’t stop you from walking up and down the sidewalk. Just don’t make any trouble out here.”
“I don’t plan to.”
“Good,” the doorman said, apparently satisfied that the requirement of his tenants for peace and quiet was being met. Old Abe looked up and down the street again. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“No problem,” Eddie said.
“Who are you? I mean, what’s your name? And where are you from?”
“What difference does it make?” he replied. “And anyway, that’s two questions.”
“Two questions.” Old Abe thought for a moment. “Yeah, so what?”
“You said you’d ask one question.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Well, what’s your name, anyway?”
Figuring that telling Old Abe his name might be a step in the direction of improving relations out here on the sidewalk, he decided to answer. “Eddie Zittner. And I live downtown.”
“Downtown. So why come all the way up here to demonstrate?”
“Well, because this is where Donald Fagen lives. I’m trying to meet him, you know, and get his autograph, like the sign says.”
Eddie stared at the doorman, who seemed to be concentrating, his mind processing more information than it was probably used to. Old Abe started to speak, then stopped, and then, as if a light bulb had switched on inside his head, said, “What makes you think this Fagen person lives here?”
“I have it on good authority.”
“You do?”
“I do,” Eddie replied, and then decided to take a shot in the dark. “I think it’s pretty well known around town that he lives here with his wife.”
He watched closely for a reaction, but Old Abe was looking down the street. Eddie watched as a police cruiser rounded the corner and, a few seconds later, pulled into the loading zone in front of the building. A policeman climbed out of the car, slammed the door and walked toward the canopy. Eddie noted the policeman’s pencil-thin mustache and dark complexion. Italian.
Eddie looked at the doorman. “You called the police?”
“Don’t get your balls in an uproar,” Old Abe replied, and then addressed the policeman, “Hey, Vince.”
“Hey, paisan,” the policeman replied, and then it was reunion time as they shadow-boxed each other. The policeman crouched and threw a left jab followed by a right cross, both punches stopping a few inches from the doorman. The doorman reacted with exaggerated flinches, and then staggered backwards as both men laughed.
Eddie watched as they stepped toward the glass doors, which opened with a whoosh, and then into the lobby, the doors closing behind them. The men talked for perhaps a minute, and then came back outside. As they approached, Eddie said, “I’m not breaking any laws, officer.”
The officer, Vince, towering over Eddie, took a deep breath and exhaled into his face. He detected garlic under the strong odor of cigars. Definitely Italian.
“I didn’t say you were,” the officer replied, rubbing his hands together to stay warm. He was in full uniform, and wore a heavy leather waistcoat, but no gloves. “Do you have any identification on you?” he asked.
“Sure,” Eddie said, reaching toward his back pocket.
“May I see it, please?”
He pulled his wallet out and extracted his driver’s license, which he handed to the policeman. The policeman examined it front and back.
“Edward Zittner. So you’re from New Jersey?”
The doorman interrupted, “You said you were from downtown.”
Eddie turned to him, “I’m living in Manhattan temporarily.”
“No shit,” the policeman said, handing the driver’s license back. “It sucks downtown. Just like Jersey.”
Three teenagers had stopped to watch and listen. Two of them appeared to be brothers—Hispanic by the looks of them, Eddie thought—and the third was an attractive Asian girl. They were all wearing heavy boots, jeans, and a variety of sweatshirts, jackets, and pullover caps.
“So,” the policeman nodded at the sign, “who’s Donald Fagen?”
“Donald Fagen? He’s a musician, a very famous one.”
“Famous?” the policeman replied, “How famous? I never heard of him.”
“Me neither,” the doorman added. Eddie wondered if Old Abe was agreeing to help intimidate him, or was just outright lying. Likely the doorman knew Fagen very well, or at least well enough to say hello to him as he came and went.
The policeman continued, “So I hear from Ralph that you’re having a little demonstration right here on the sidewalk.”
Ralph? “I wouldn’t call it a demonstration. I’m walking up and down the sidewalk carrying a sign.”
“And you think this Fagen character is gonna come out?” The policeman looked doubtful.
The doorman—Ralph—chimed in. “Maybe he’ll dive out the fourteenth floor window.”
The fourteenth floor … is that where he lives? Eddie stared hard into the doorman’s eyes.
The policeman smiled. “Look, Edward, this is a very quiet neighborhood. Residential. Wealthy tenants. They pay a lot of money for these places. Capishe?”
Capishe? “What about that guy over there?” Eddie asked, gesturing across the street toward an elderly man, seated on a wooden chair, with a boom-box at his feet, playing some kind of turn-of-the-century New Orleans jazz. The man was completely covered by a couple of worn blankets. He was, in fact, so well wrapped that he could have been naked under the blankets. He looked like a dirty grey burrito topped with a brown Cossack-style hat. The boom-box was playing loud enough to be heard from across the street, but not loud enough to keep burrito-man awake.
“I’m going to roust him next, right after I’m finished with you,” the policeman said.
One of the teenage boys started to mutter something about “police brutality.” The girl picked up on the idea and started chanting “Attica! Attica!” as she punched the air with her fist. The policeman turned toward them and said, “Hey! Shut the hell up!” The teenagers stopped, and looked at each other, trying to decide what to do next. The policeman turned back to Eddie and said, “You see what you started?”
“I started?” he said. “I didn’t start anything.”
By then, the teenagers, not knowing and not caring who Donald Fagen was, decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and walked away, heading east.
“Look, Edward,” the policeman continued, “I can’t stop you from walking up and down the sidewalk. But, look, those kids are only the beginning. You’re gonna attract all kinds of undesirables. Capishe?” Eddie nodded. Satisfied that he was listening, the policeman continued, “So here’s the deal. We make a gentleman’s agreement: you limit your demonstrating to an hour a day, weekdays only, and Ralphie and I won’t hassle you.” The doorman nodded his agreement.
Eddie did a quick calculation in his head. One hour a day was not going to accomplish anything, he figured. He needed more time. On the other hand, it was still pretty damned cold, and windy, today in particular, and who knew when it would get much warmer?
“Four hours,” he replied.
“No way,” the policeman said.
“Then three hours,” he countered, “but every day, Saturdays and Sundays included.”
Vince looked at Ralph, who just raised his eyeb
rows. Then he looked back at Eddie, trying to assess how determined he was.
“Okay, three hours max, but weekdays only.”
“No deal,” Eddie said, “I need Saturdays, too. I don’t work on Saturdays.”
“Two hours, then,” The policeman said. “Two hours max, weekdays and Saturdays included. Deal?”
“Deal,” Eddie said, figuring that two hours out in this weather was all he’d be able to handle anyway, at least until it got a little warmer.
“Thank God,” the policeman said, satisfied that he had struck a balance between the right of free speech and the right to privacy and a little peace and quiet. He shook hands with Ralph and walked to his car, got in, started it up, and drove away, forgetting to roust the old man with the boombox.
Eddie nodded at Ralph, who nodded back, and started to parade again, heading east toward Madison Avenue. But, like Thursday, he had no success in smoking out Fagen. Hardly anyone entered or left 59 East 88th. Thirty minutes later it was raining, and, chilled to the bone, he decided to retreat back to his brother’s apartment.
16
Sunday, March 12, 2000
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Hi
Marcie, I hope all is well with you. I really enjoyed having lunch with you last week. It was you-know-what!
Remember my plan to parade in front of Fagen’s apartment? Well, I’ve done it, twice now, and it’s gone pretty well. The second day, an “agent of the law” hassled me a little, but after we discussed it, he agreed that I have every right to be out on the sidewalk as long as I didn’t create a disturbance. So, no problem. But, no success, either. No sign of Fagen or anyone who knows him. Would you care to reconsider and “parade” with me sometime? If not, would you like to go out sometime? How about dinner? … Eddie
*****
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Hi back
Eddie, I just got your email. I’m on-line, too. Switch to IM … Marcie
