by Rick Goeld
“Eddie—”
“Dad, before you say anything, it was all a mistake, a misunderstanding. They dropped the charges.”
“The police dropped the charges?”
“Yeah. They drove me to the police station and then released me.” No point going into any more detail.
“You’re all right?”
“I’m all right. And my parading days are over.”
“No more of that nonsense?”
“No more. I promise.”
“Thank God for that. Look, Eddie, I’m glad you’re alright. I’ve got an office full of people. Can you call me tonight? Or how about tomorrow? That would be better.”
“Okay, Dad, but one more thing.”
“Go ahead.”
“That reporter from The Post? She got wind of the story, and may write a follow-up.”
“Oy vey. I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Tell Mom for me?”
Eddie heard his father groan. “I’ll try,” his father said as he disconnected.
26
Tuesday, March 21, 2000
Behind Steely Bars
Exclusive
By Lois Lane Smith
Last week, The Post reported Eddie Zittner’s quest to meet Donald Fagen and Walter Becker, the reclusive founding members of the rock group Steely Dan. Yesterday, this story took another turn when Zittner was arrested while demonstrating on the Upper East Side.
“I was charged with disturbing the peace,” Zittner told The Post, “but I didn’t disturb anyone.”
The incident occurred at noon at the corner of Second Avenue and 95th Street. According to a source within the NYPD, Zittner was leading a parade of demonstrators when an altercation broke out. After some pushing and shoving, Zittner, 29, was arrested. Other demonstrators were not charged.
Then, just hours later, Zittner’s luck changed again when the NYPD dropped the charge and released him. In an interview on the steps of the 19th Precinct, Zittner, still holding his Steely Dan Rules sign, said, “It was just a misunderstanding. I hold no grudge against the police department.”
Zittner told The Post that his parading days were over. He plans to continue his search for “The Dan,” but has no specific ideas as to how he might find them.
Good luck on your quest, Eddie—and try to stay out of trouble.
*****
After a restless night’s sleep, Eddie woke just before eight. Lying in bed, he turned over and glanced out the window: grey and overcast, and not a hint of sunshine. He got up, dressed quickly, and walked into the kitchen. There was no sign of his brother—off to work, he assumed—but there was hot coffee left in the pot. Forget coffee. Grabbing his jacket and keys, he locked the apartment, took the elevator downstairs, and headed for the newsstand. Fucking windy … Two minutes later, he stood in a doorway, hunkered down and thumbing through The Post.
The article, thankfully, was near the back of the paper. Maybe fewer people will notice it. He read the article twice, and then headed for the Bagelry, where he read it twice more while waiting for his breakfast. Not bad … Lois had done a good job with it.
Half an hour later, he sat on the sofa in his brother’s apartment, contemplating what remained of an egg, cheese, and bagel sandwich. He thought about getting up and making some fresh coffee. The Best of the Moody Blues played softly on the stereo. Magnificent guitar work … if they would just ease up on the violins . . .
Hearing the apartment door open and close, he used the remote to turn the stereo off.
“Mark?”
“Yeah.” His brother, dressed in suit and tie, walked into the living room carrying his work-out kit in one hand and his briefcase in the other. “Who else would it be?”
“I figured you’d be at work.”
“That was my original plan, but I saw a copy of The Post at the fitness center, and figured you’d need some moral support.”
Eddie grinned at his brother. “Thanks.”
Mark had been out late again last night. Eddie assumed he was seeing Marcie, but was reluctant to ask. He watched as his brother walked into the kitchen, put down his bag, briefcase, and overcoat, hung his suit jacket over a chair, and poured a cup of coffee. A minute later, Mark was sitting on the love seat opposite him, loosening his tie.
“So, did you talk to the folks last night?”
“I called Dad after I spoke to you. He didn’t have time to talk.”
“Lucky break.”
“Yeah.”
“And they haven’t called today?”
“No, not yet.”
Mark sipped his coffee “The article wasn’t too bad.”
“No, it wasn’t that bad.” Eddie knew his brother was taking it easy on him; he was even trying to cheer him up, he realized. But who knew how his parents would react? Who knew how Alison would react? And getting arrested was one more thing Alison could use, and would use, to beat him over the head.
Mark continued, “I saw it was the same reporter.”
“Yeah.”
“How’d she know you’d been arrested?”
“The desk sergeant called her. He saw the sign I was carrying and made the connection.”
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Mark shook his head and smiled. “That’s probably the first time the police have put two and two together this year.”
“Yeah,” Eddie couldn’t help smiling himself.
Mark turned serious. “Hey, bro, forget about the parents for a minute. How do you feel?”
How do I feel? I’m alive and feeling fine … no, let’s be honest. “Stupid, I guess. And angry.”
“Angry at who?”
“Angry at myself.”
“For demonstrating out on the street?”
“For getting arrested. For putting myself in a position where I could get arrested.”
“What actually happened?”
“I was telling a guy to shut up. I turned around and hit a cop across the face with my sign.”
Mark winced. “Any blood?”
“No.”
“So they dropped the charges?”
“Yeah.”
Mark drained his coffee cup. “Well, that makes sense. After the Diallo case, the police probably want as little publicity as possible.” Eddie remembered the case, which had been all over the newspapers: Diallo, a poor black immigrant from Jamaica, or Africa, or somewhere like that, had been shot forty-one times—forty-one times! Or had it been nineteen times? It didn’t matter, he figured, since the policeman involved had been acquitted anyway, just last month.
Mark continued, “So why don’t you call Mom and get it over with?”
“Believe me, I’ve thought about it.” As if on queue, Eddie’s cell phone started to vibrate. Expecting the worst, he picked it up, but didn’t recognize the number on the display.
“Hello?”
“Eddie, it’s me, Lois.”
“Oh, hi.” Eddie glanced at his brother, who raised his eyebrows.
“Have you got a minute to talk?”
“Hold for a second.” Eddie turned to his brother. “It’s the reporter from The Post. Lois.”
Mark stood up. “I’ve got to get to work.”
“Will I see you tonight?”
“Don’t know yet. I’ll call you later.” Eddie watched as his brother put on his jacket, grabbed his coat and briefcase, and headed for the door.
“I’m back,” he said into the phone.
“Eddie. Remember what I said yesterday about doing an in-depth interview?”
“Yeah, but I never agreed to it.”
“What if I told you I could get someone from Rolling Stone to join us? Someone who knows about Steely Dan?”
“Rolling Stone, the magazine?”
“Yeah. What other Rolling Stone is there?”
He ignored the sarcasm. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“So, how do you know him?”
“I don’t. My friend, Sheila, works at R
olling Stone. She knows the guy.”
He turned the idea over in his head. Shit, his name and the story of his quest had already hit the papers twice. How much more damage could a third article do? On the other hand, he might be able to repair some of the damage. It might give him a chance to come across as halfway intelligent. And, it might give him a chance to make a public plea for Fagen and Becker’s autograph. Meeting someone from Rolling Stone who knew The Dan—that sounded interesting.
“When could we meet?” he said.
“Does that mean you’ll do it?”
“Yeah, I guess so. You’ll put a positive spin on it?”
“Absolutely.”
“And I’ll be able to make a plea for Fagen and Becker’s autographs? In the article?”
“Sure, within reason. You don’t want to come across as a psycho, do you?”
“No.”
“Okay, then, trust me. You say the words and I’ll twirl them like a lasso.”
Twirl them like a lasso? “Okay.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” He did some quick thinking. “Tomorrow I work from nine to three.”
“I’ll see if I can set something up after three. I’ll call you.”
“Okay,” he said as she disconnected.
27
Wednesday, March 22, 2000
Arriving back at the apartment just after three, Eddie changed his clothes and decided to walk the mile or so to Pete’s Tavern, which was located just south of Gramercy Park. Lois had described Pete’s as “an ancient and venerable watering hole, replete with dark wood and old whiskey bottles.” He figured she was reading that verbatim from a restaurant guide. It sounded awful, but he could tolerate anything for an hour.
It was cold and overcast as he worked his way through Little India, catching an occasional whiff of curry as he passed restaurants and take-away shops. Just after four, he arrived at Pete’s, pushed through the doors, and looked around. The place was nearly empty—too early for the “drinks before dinner” crowd—and he spotted Lois sitting with the man and woman he assumed were from Rolling Stone. Walking toward the booth, he noted the preponderance of dark wood, lots of old whiskey bottles, and a hand-painted sign extolling the virtues of Tendy’s Ale. Tourists must flock to this place.
Lois stood, quickly said hello, and led the introductions.
“Eddie Zittner, this is Sheila Cheung, my friend at The Stone.” Sheila, still sitting, offered her hand, which he shook and released. “And this is Bernard Sterling.”
Sterling rose and extended his hand. “I hear you’re mad about Steely Dan.”
Mad? “Uh, yes, I am.” John Denver with a British accent … in a Tom Wolfe suit. He shook Sterling’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Sterling.”
“Call me Nardo.” Sterling handed Eddie a business card, which identified him as an Editor-at-Large. Soon they were all seated, with the men facing each other by the window, Lois sitting beside Eddie, and Sheila sitting beside Sterling.
Eddie took a good look at Sterling’s wrinkled face. John Denver for sure, if he’d lived to be seventy.
Lois signaled the waiter, who glided up to the table and asked Eddie what he wanted. Sterling had a glass of whiskey, neat, sitting in front of him. The ladies were sharing a bottle of wine which Lois described as “an acceptable chardonnay,” considering the limitations of her entertainment budget. Eddie asked the waiter to bring another wine glass, and then turned back to Sterling. “Are you drinking Scotch, Nardo?”
“Oh, no, dear fellow, Jack Daniels.” He lifted his glass and took a sip. “Your most wonderful export, I always say.”
Dear fellow? “You’re obviously English.”
“Astute observation!”
Eddie smiled. “Speaking of observations, do you know you look just like—”
“John Denver, yes.” Sterling smiled knowingly. “Quite a coincidence, eh?”
“The resemblance is striking.” Eddie grinned.
“So I’ve been told, so I’ve been told.”
“Did you ever meet—”
“Denver? Never had the pleasure.” Sterling’s eyes twinkled. “Never even been to Colorado.” This set him off, and he cackled like a rooster on speed. Then he raised his glass and toasted his new-found companions. “Rocky Mountain high, chaps!” he proclaimed, setting off yet another round of cackling. Finally calming down, he wiped tears from his eyes and said, “Jolly good.”
“Yeah, jolly good.” What a character. Eddie glanced at Lois, who was grinning to herself as she wrote on her notepad.
Sheila tapped her watch. “Why don’t we get down to business.”
“Oh, Sheila,” Sterling beamed at her, “looking after me, as always.”
“It’s a job,” Sheila replied, which set Sterling off again.
She looked confused. “What’d I say?”
More cackling, and gasps of “please, no more.” Sterling once again regained his composure.
Eddie smiled. The man was a character … but likeable.
Sterling cleared his throat. “Eddie, I’d like to ask you a few questions about Steely Dan, to test your depth of knowledge, so to speak.”
“Fire away.”
“Well, Lois, who is charming, by the way,”—Sterling blew her a kiss—“has filled me in on some of your background. I guess the most critical question is: Why are you so intent on meeting Mr. Fagen and Mr. Becker? I mean, lots of fans want to meet their favorite rock stars, but most don’t pursue it as an avocation.”
“Why do I want to meet them? Well,” Eddie looked to Lois for encouragement, “the idea came to me a few months ago. I guess I got a little bit angry because it was so hard to find any Steely Dan memorabilia.”
“Angry?”
Eddie sensed that Sterling was sizing him up; trying to place him somewhere on a scale between normal and lunatic. “Perhaps frustrated would be a better word.”
“Frustrated. Yes, I can see how you might get frustrated.”
“And,” Eddie played with his wine glass, “I thought meeting them would be a good way to get their autographs.”
“And what else would you do, if, indeed, you met them?”
“Well, my idea was to shake their hands, get their autographs, and buy them a cup of coffee. Or a beer. Whatever.”
“Coffee. How quaint.” Sterling smiled and took a generous gulp of whiskey.
“Forget the coffee. Just meeting them and getting their autographs would be great.”
“What is it that makes you like Steely Dan so much?”
“Have you listened to their music?”
Sterling wrinkled his brow. “I listen to gobs and gobs of music. I’m sure I’ve heard most of it, if not all of it.”
Eddie thought for a few seconds. “How about ‘Do It Again?’”
“Do it again?”
“Yeah, ‘Do It Again,’ their first hit single.”
Sterling looked uncertain. “Oh, I’m sure I’ve heard it.”
“It’s from their first album,” Eddie continued. “Do you appreciate the quality of that single? The music almost ‘shimmers.’”
“Shimmers?” Now Sterling looked confused.
“Shimmers,” Eddie replied. “Like heat waves rising in the desert.”
“Music that shimmers . . .” Sterling shook his head and turned to Sheila. “Make a note of that, will you?” Sheila nodded as she reached for her handbag. Eddie glanced at Lois, who was smiling as she wrote furiously in her notepad. Sterling turned back to Eddie, “I guess I need to listen to that one again.”
Eddie nodded, satisfied he’d made his point.
“All right, then.” Sterling sat up a little straighter. “Other than that one song, why do you like them so much?”
Time to make my case. “Well, if you consider their entire body of work, then, in my opinion, they’re one of the best rock groups of all time.”
Sterling raised his eyebrows. “One of the best?”
“If not the bes
t.”
“Oh, come now. What about the Beatles and the Rolling Stones?”
“British bands.” Eddie caught himself. “No offense meant.”
“None taken, but why differentiate, dear fellow?” Sterling frowned.
Think fast, Eddie. “No reason, really. I like lots of British bands. I was just thinking of American bands.”
“Let’s see … American bands … what about the Four Seasons?”
Eddie cringed. “Bubble gum music.”
“Ah, right, perhaps that was a poor choice.” Sterling thought for a few seconds. “What about the Beach Boys?”
“Bubble gum west.”
“Oh, come now, isn’t that a bit harsh?”
“I’m talking about serious bands.” Eddie decided he would stand his ground.
“Define serious,” Sterling snorted. “I’d venture Brian Wilson would take exception to his band being called ‘bubble gum west.’” Sterling took another gulp of whiskey.
“Okay. Hold on. You want me to define ‘serious music.’” Eddie looked over at Lois, who was rolling her eyes. Sheila poured the last of the wine and looked around for the waiter. Sterling signaled that he was ready for another Jack Daniels. Eddie thought for a minute, grappling with the idea of serious and not-so-serious music. How did I get myself into this?
Sterling looked on with amusement. “Try defining commercial, old chap.”
“Commercial?”
“Precisely! Let me take it a step further. There’s music I would define as commercial, or popular, or mainstream—however you want to say it—and then other music that appeals to a narrower fan base. Then there’s the quality factor: there’s great music, and awful music, all up and down the scale—no pun intended.” Sterling beamed triumphantly around the table. “All up and down the scale … oh, that’s good! Make a note of that, will you, Sheila?” She nodded.
“Okay, I hear what you’re saying,” Eddie replied.
Sterling continued, “Steely Dan is one of those groups that never tried to be ‘mainstream.’”
“I agree. But wouldn’t you say they are among the best of the rock groups?”
