Searching for Steely Dan

by Rick Goeld

  *****

  EZEddie32: Eat any good sable lately?

  MarKau55: Not since our lunch together.

  EZEddie32: So what did you think of my email?

  MarKau55: I think you’re wasting your time parading up and down the sidewalk, but who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky.

  EZEddie32: Any better ideas? Can you get me Fagen’s phone number? I called River Sound but all I got was a recorded message.

  MarKau55: No, I cannot get you his phone number. Remember, privacy laws?

  EZEddie32: So how about dinner?

  MarKau55: Hold on a minute … I just talked to my roommate. Why don’t you come to our apartment for dinner tomorrow? Her sometime boyfriend will join us. We can have a little dinner party.

  EZEddie32: I’d love to, thanks for the invitation. That’s two meals that I owe you.

  MarKau55: You paid for lunch, remember?

  EZEddie32: Oh yeah. Shall I bring a bottle of wine? White or red?

  MarKau55: Shall?

  EZEddie32: What’s wrong with shall?

  MarKau55: Nothing, I guess. I just don’t hear it very often in regular speech.

  EZEddie32: This isn’t regular speech. It isn’t even speech.

  MarKau55: I shall call it whatever I choose.

  EZEddie32: White or red?

  MarKau55: White, chardonnay preferred, but don’t spend a lot of money. How about seven?

  EZEddie32: Seven is good. I hate to be intrusive, but I will need your address.

  MarKau55: You promise not to stalk me?

  EZEddie32: Promise.

  MarKau55: 43 Avenue A. It’s a couple of blocks north of Houston Street. Apartment 3C.

  EZEddie32: Got it. See you at seven tomorrow.

  17

  Monday, March 13, 2000

  Eddie found 43 Avenue A easily enough, a nondescript apartment building surrounded by other nondescript apartment buildings. He buzzed Marcie’s apartment, and was in turn buzzed through the inside glass door. Bypassing a decrepit-looking elevator, he bounded up two flights of twisted stairs, and was winded by the time he reached the door. He took a couple of deep breaths, smoothed his hair, rolled his shoulders under his leather coat, and knocked. A few seconds later, he heard deadbolts slide, and the door swung open.

  “You’re right on time,” Marcie said, smiling.

  “With wine,” he replied, and felt a flush of embarrassment rise on his cheeks.

  She ignored the remark. “Come on in, I’ll take the wine and your jacket.” She led him into the living room, which was decorated with contemporary furniture that, to him, looked vaguely like Ikea. The artwork, though, was stunning: a large abstract painting, an outrageous study of red, grey and black swirls, dominated one wall, and the smaller paintings, lithographs, and metal sculpture were also “avant garde.” A few potted plants and a couple of small trees—which must be artificial—softened the effect of the artwork.

  Marcie was wearing a black blouse and a denim skirt, and an array of earrings that dangled as she moved. Her dark hair was swept back and jelled, in a style that vaguely reminded him of someone he’d seen in a movie. Someone in a James Bond flick … Grace Jones? … yeah, maybe.

  “It’s just the two of us,” Marcie said. “It won’t be much of a dinner party.”

  “What happened to your roommate?” he asked, wondering if there really was a roommate. The apartment was tiny, with the living room seamlessly leading into a combination kitchen and dining area. He spotted a hallway, which, he assumed, must lead to the bedroom. Or bedrooms.

  “She and her boyfriend decided to go out.”

  “She doesn’t like your cooking?”

  “I hardly know her. She’s only been here three weeks.”

  He glanced at the dining room table, set for two. He could smell something cooking—something with garlic and lemon and … some other stuff.

  Marcie moved into the kitchen. “Yeah, my former roommate graduated in December, and just moved to Boston.” The cork popped as she opened the bottle of chardonnay and poured two glasses.

  “What’s for dinner? It smells great.”

  She grinned at him. “Again with ‘great’?”

  He struck a serious pose. “How about ‘wonderful’?”

  “It’s lemon chicken.” She sipped her wine. “Tell me later how wonderful it was.”

  After finishing their wine, they sat down and ate—very good, Eddie thought: lightly breaded chicken breasts, sautéed and then baked—with red potatoes and a green salad. They talked about Marcie’s art, which she had purchased at a couple of obscure galleries she had ‘discovered’ in the Village. He was no expert, but he favored more traditional art, like that of Cezanne, and Matisse, and even some of the early Picasso’s.

  After finishing off one bottle of wine and starting another, Marcie cleared the table and brewed a pot of decaf. Eddie relaxed on the sofa, starting to feel comfortable as he listened to some soft jazz he couldn’t recognize. Marcie brought the coffee and sat down at the opposite end of the sofa.

  “I noticed you haven’t played any Steely Dan,” he said.

  “It doesn’t really set the mood. This is Warren Hill. I’ve got Grover Washington coming up.”

  “Good stuff. I listen to jazz every now and then.”

  “Speaking of good stuff, you want a little weed?”

  “Weed? You mean marijuana?”

  “Yeah. Want some?”

  He thought about it. He’d smoked some in high school and college, but only once or twice since then. It had been a few years. He didn’t know how he’d react, but decided to give it a shot anyway.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Back in a minute,” Marcie said as she got up and disappeared down the hallway. She came back a minute later, switching off lights as she moved. She was carrying what to Eddie looked like a very large joint.

  “That thing is huge.”

  “Big enough for two,” she said as she lit up and sucked smoke into her lungs. As she held her breath, she leaned back and closed her eyes. Finally, she coughed, exhaled, and handed the joint to Eddie.

  He took a tentative pull, coughed, and then took a large pull, filling his lungs. In a few seconds the harshness overcame him, and he coughed out the smoke. His eyes watered. Trying to sound at least a little bit worldly, he choked out, “That’s some good shit. Strong.”

  “You didn’t even hold it,” Marcie said, taking the joint back. “When was the last time you smoked?”

  “I can’t remember. I must’ve been too stoned.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Hey, I smoke every now and then.”

  “With your wife?”

  “No, with my friends,” he said, stung that Marcie had referred to his marital status. Where’d that come from?

  Soon the joint was gone. Marcie put the doobie in an ashtray and went into the kitchen. A minute later she returned with two glasses of wine. This time she sat close to him. “I thought you might want to go back to the wine.”

  He put his arm around her, and she responded by kissing him lightly on the cheek.

  “This is nice,” he said, lamely. He didn’t know how to act, or how to feel, or what to say. He thought of Alison, and wondered what she was doing this evening.

  Marcie leaned over and kissed him full on the lips. It was a gentle kiss, not passionate, but not tentative either. For an instant, their lips clung together as she pulled slowly away. Then he leaned over and kissed her, deeply, and she responded by putting her hand on his thigh. Soon they were groping each other, and he had his hand under her blouse. No bra. She moved her hand along the inside of his thigh, and he felt himself getting hard. He fought a battle within himself, but the wine and the weed and the perfume made his head spin. And now his penis was starting to throb, and he was getting that feeling, that irresistible urge that, once started, was nearly impossible to turn off.

  “Touch me,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Touch
me. Down there.”

  Breathing hard, he slid his hand between her legs. Her thighs were cool and smooth, and he tried to remember if she was wearing pantyhose when he came in. She leaned back, slightly, and moved her hips forward, and he felt her. He felt moisture as he moved his fingers over her. Then, suddenly, he pulled away.

  “I’m sorry, Marcie, I can’t do it.”

  “What’s wrong?” She sat up.

  He stood in front of her. “I’ve got to get out of here before I do something I’ll regret.” He grabbed his jacket and moved quickly to the door.

  “You’re wife left you, right? So what’s the problem?”

  But he was already out the door, and then across the landing, and then running down the stairs. He burst onto the sidewalk, and cursed himself as he walked toward the lights of Houston Street. A few minutes later, he found relief, in the men’s room of an all-night diner, hunched over a filthy toilet bowl.

  18

  Tuesday, March 14, 2000

  Lois Lane Smith sat at her desk, shuffling papers and trying to stay awake. Lunch with a girlfriend had been nice, but the strawberry cheesecake had knocked her for a loop. Or maybe it was the wine …

  She was startled when the phone rang. “Lois Lane Smith, may I help you?”

  “Lois, Phil. How are you?”

  She pushed back from her desk and put her feet up on the lower drawer, which was hanging open and jammed with files. She hadn’t heard from Phil in a couple of weeks.

  “I’m fine, Phil. I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

  “Lois, how could I forget you?”

  She contemplated the question. Their affair had lasted for more than a year. There had been times when he couldn’t get away from his responsibilities as District Sales Manager for Gallo Wine, or from his responsibilities as a husband, but he had always called at least once a week.

  “You can’t,” she said, “I’m unforgettable.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have called last week. We could have had phone sex.” Before she could answer, he continued, “Where are you right now?”

  “Why, looking for a quickie? Is that what you have in mind?”

  “No,” he replied, “though I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing.”

  Always the smooth talker. . . She looked across the city room, which was filled with desks, chairs, and file cabinets. Most of the desks were unoccupied.

  He continued, “Lois, I’ve got a scoop for you.”

  “Okay,” she replied, surprised that Phil would actually try to help with her career. “Let’s hear it.”

  “You ever hear of a rock group called Steely Dan?”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of them. Weren’t they popular back in the sixties?”

  “The seventies. They did some tours a few years ago. Anyway, I’m at Second Avenue and 95th Street and there’s a guy walking up and down the sidewalk with a sign that says ‘Steely Dan Rules.’ Right now.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “No, I’m across the street.”

  “Okay, so what?”

  “So, here’s the big human interest story you’ve been looking for.”

  “I don’t get it. Is the guy some kind of weirdo?”

  “I don’t think so. He looks like a normal person. But there’s some other guy walking behind him, and he does look like a weirdo. And now they’re arguing with each other.”

  Phil was right; she had been looking for an offbeat story that would get her a little recognition. And a raise, maybe? She wasn’t working on anything else that couldn’t wait a day or two.

  “Okay, Phil, I’ll grab a cab and be there in twenty minutes. Where exactly are you?”

  “Corner of Second and 95th, but Lois, I won’t be here. I’ve got to get back to the office.”

  “You can’t wait twenty minutes?”

  “Sorry, honey, I’ve got a meeting in half an hour.”

  Honey … heard that before … here it comes.

  Phil didn’t disappoint. “I promise I’ll call you next week.”

  “Make sure you have a couple of hours when you do.”

  “We’ll do lunch and then do each other.”

  “Don’t be crude, Phil.”

  “Take care, hon.”

  Lois grabbed her jacket and oversized handbag—or undersized briefcase if you will—and started toward the elevators.

  *****

  Eddie Zittner got off the Third Avenue bus and headed east, looking for 312 East 95th Street. It was another breezy, overcast day, with rain threatening, and he stomped down the sidewalk, still angry with himself for nearly having sex with Marcie—and also for not having sex with Marcie. She must think I’m a real jerk … and she’d be right.

  He had decided to re-think his strategy. He assumed Fagen and Becker were both in the city, working more promotional angles for Two Against Nature. Parading in front of Fagen’s apartment hadn’t gotten him anywhere. He had decided to try parading in front of their studio, on the chance he might spot one or both band members, or perhaps meet someone who knew them.

  Arriving at 312, which was between First and Second Avenue, he looked around, noting that there was no sign announcing “River Sound” or, for that matter, any other business. He stepped into the tiny landing, which led to a stairwell, and checked the names on the mailboxes. Sure enough, River Sound was listed next to one of the buzzers. He stepped back out onto the sidewalk, deployed his Steely Dan Rules! sign, and began to parade.

  The building that housed River Sound was painted a gun-metal grey, which, in a crazy way, fit right in on a street that featured small apartment buildings painted royal blue, white-wash white, and a rainbow of other colors. The sidewalks were dirty, winos having left crumpled bags and broken bottles at their favorite “flops,” and the smell was typical low rent Manhattan. Lousy neighborhood.

  He paraded up and down the sidewalk, ignoring the stares of residents lounging on stairways. He tried to decipher the graffiti on the walls as he listened to Countdown to Ecstasy. Ten minutes into his parade, he heard what sounded like someone barking “Who let the dogs out?” followed by owl-like hoots of “Who? Who?” He glanced over his shoulder and saw a man marching behind him—but this was no normal march. This guy was high-stepping and swinging his arms. Goose-stepping … and snapping his fingers like a fool.

  The man was a blur of red, white, and blue, like a flag flapping in a breeze. Eddie stopped at the corner, turned, and faced the man, who stopped a few feet away, grinning like Mickey Mouse on acid. They stared at each other. Eddie got his first good look at “Flagman.” He was tall and thin—rail-thin—in his early twenties, and dressed in a rag-tag collection of sweat clothes, vests, and sweaters, all hanging on his stick-like body. He reminded Eddie of a wooden soldier, right out of the Nutcracker. And although Flagman was wearing thick, horn-rimmed glasses, Eddie could see that his eyes were bulging, practically out of their sockets.

  He decided to challenge this wacko. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Marching with you.” The man’s grin got wider.

  “What you’re doing,” Eddie growled, trying to scare him off, “that’s not marching. That’s … crazy.”

  “That’s the way I march.” Flagman proceeded to demonstrate, marching in a small circle. He stopped where he had started, and pushed his hands into his pockets.

  “Are you a Steely Dan fan?” Eddie asked.

  “No, never heard of them.”

  “Well, then,” Eddie cranked it up a notch, “why don’t you go the fuck away?”

  Flagman smiled nervously. “I’ve got the right to walk anywhere I want. Just like you.”

  A few people stopped to watch as they tried to stare each other down. Perhaps a minute passed. Eddie knew that he couldn’t stop this wacko from marching with him. But maybe, just maybe, I can keep him under control . . .

  “Okay.” Eddie tried to strike a tone that was firm, but hinted of acceptance. “You can march behind me, if you qui
t your goose-stepping, or whatever it is you’re doing.”

  “It’s not goose-stepping.”

  Remain calm … “Well, it will attract attention.” Eddie emphasized each word, hoping his logic would get through the man’s blank stare. Flagman finally smiled and nodded.

  Eddie resumed parading, and Flagman followed—walking almost like a normal person—before he lost interest, presumably disappointed by the lack of reaction from other street-people. Eddie watched as Flagman crossed the street and disappeared down Second Avenue. All that hazerai for five minutes of parading?

  Minutes later, a taxi pulled up at the corner and disgorged a woman, who started walking toward him. She was perhaps fifty feet away, and Eddie could see that she was about five foot six, with a decent figure. Nice walk. He slowed down as she approached.

  “Excuse me.” She smiled at him.

  He stopped, taking her in. She was one of those attractive women of indeterminate heritage. Her eyes were brown—no, more like green—and her blonde hair was pinned up in one of those half-ponytail things. She wore a tan leather jacket over what looked like a black business suit.

  “I’m from The Post. Do you mind answering a few questions?”

  “The Post? You’re a reporter?” She must be in her mid-twenties …

  “Yes,” she said, taking a business card from her handbag and handing it to him. “Lois Lane Smith. I write human interest stories, things like that.”

  “Lois Lane.” He cracked a smile, “like in Superman?”

  She returned the smile. “The same. A little joke my parents played on me.”

  “So what do you want with me?”

  “A friend called me and said he saw you marching with that sign.”

  “So?”

  “So, I thought it might make a good human interest story.”

  A newspaper article … publicity … maybe it would help his cause. How could Fagen and Becker ignore a newspaper article?

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Okay. What do you want to ask me?”