by Rick Goeld
Just before ten, he walked down the block, crossed the street, and went into Borders, where his co-workers hooted, hollered, high-fived him, and accused him of trying to parlay his fifteen minutes of fame into “minor celebrity” status. Speculation flew that he would soon leave the bookstore for a higher paying position. But they quickly lost interest, and soon everyone had settled back into their normal work routine.
At noon, Eddie’s cell phone buzzed. The display showed a familiar number.
“Hello?”
“Eddie, it’s Alison.”
“I know. I saw your number on the caller ID.” He walked quickly toward the front entrance. He’d need some privacy for this conversation. He began tentatively. “How are you?”
“How am I? Let’s see … my husband, who was, in his own words, trying to save his marriage—our marriage—is now focusing his attention on meeting a couple of burned-out guitar pickers.”
He could hear her breathing fire into the phone. She’s seen the article. “Look, Alison, I can explain . . .”
“Go ahead, explain.”
“Well, first, let me assure you that I’m no longer parading up and down the sidewalks.”
“I read that in the article.”
“Right.”
“What’s the matter? Was jail too scary for you?”
“Do you want to hear this?”
“Go on.”
“Well, there were two reasons why I agreed to be interviewed for a third article. First, it gave me a chance to explain, in print, why I want to meet Fagen and Becker. And second, I had a chance to meet one of the editors of Rolling Stone magazine.”
“That must have been a thrill.”
“Not exactly a thrill, but I wasn’t going to pass up the chance, either.” How can I take control of this conversation? “Look, Alison, don’t you think I regained some of my credibility in that article?”
“Your credibility?”
“Yeah. I thought I came across as a reasonable person, don’t you think?”
“As opposed to an immature hero-worshipper?”
“Look, Alison, I’m trying to make the best I can out of a bad situation.” A bad situation of my own making. “That reporter,” he pictured Lois as she walked toward him that first day on the street, “was going to write the story about my arrest with or without my help. The police tipped her off. There was nothing I could do about it.”
“So?”
“So I agreed to be interviewed for a third article, to try to put the thing to bed, once and for all.”
“Whatever.”
We can’t talk at all … He didn’t know what to say. Reaching the end of the block, he turned and started back toward the store.
“Eddie, look, I hate to tell you this on the phone . . .” He heard her clear her throat. “I’m filing for divorce as soon as I can.”
He watched as mothers strolled by, pushing baby carriages. Trucks and taxicabs cruised along Second Avenue in slow-motion. He tried to think of an argument that made sense, or would make sense to Alison, but nothing came to him except for the nagging thought that perhaps, just perhaps, divorce was the inevitable outcome of this situation he had created.
“Why?” he asked her.
“Why? I shouldn’t have to explain it to you.”
Dead silence on the line. “Alison,” he ventured, “I know how you must feel. But I’m trying to put all of this behind me. Behind us. We should talk.”
“I’m tired of talking to a fool.”
That hurt. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“It’s a little late to be sorry.”
The inevitable outcome … “Alison, if that’s how you feel, then go ahead and file.”
“That’s what I plan to do.”
“Well, go ahead, then.”
“Fine.”
“Fine. Good-bye, Eddie.”
“Bye.” He listened to her disconnect.
*****
Not wanting to be around his co-workers, or people in general, Eddie went back into Borders, quickly purchased a ham-and-cheese sandwich and a Coke at the Dean & DeLuca counter, and retreated into a far corner of the storeroom.
Half an hour later, having licked his wounds and finished his lunch, he went back into the store and occupied himself with whatever dog work he could find—opening boxes, unpacking books, rearranging displays, and making order out of chaos at the magazine rack—anything to keep the clock moving. By mid-afternoon he was itching to just get the hell out of there.
His cell phone buzzed again. He recognized the number, thought about letting it ring through to the message center, and then decided to take the call. How much worse can it get? He again walked toward the front entrance.
“Hello?”
“Hello, schmuck. It’s—in your own words—your typical New Jersey suburban Jewish mother.”
“How are you, Ma?”
“How am I? What do you think?”
Déjà vu all over again. “Mom, I can explain the newspaper article.”
“I’m listening.”
“I agreed to do the interview for a third article so I could put this whole thing behind me. And I have … put it behind me … now.”
“How so?”
“Well, I’m not going to be demonstrating on the sidewalk anymore.”
“Your father told me that. Let’s see … that was when you got arrested.”
“He explained that to you, right?”
“Right.”
“How’s he doing, by the way?”
“He’s fine, he’s at work, and he’s not happy with you, either. And don’t change the subject.”
“Where was I?” Eddie backtracked, trying to figure out a better way to explain this. “Ma, give me a chance, will ya?”
“I’m listening.”
“When I was arrested, it was a misunderstanding. The police dropped the charges and released me. Dad told you that, right?”
“Right.”
“But that reporter got wind of my arrest, and wrote the second article.”
“That I understand. So why the third article?”
He hesitated. “The reporter asked to interview me again, so she could write the third article. She asked me, I didn’t ask her. She said it was a chance for me to come across as a reasonable, law-abiding, intelligent person.”
“Well, you got halfway there.”
He smiled. “Nice that you still have your sense of humor.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“I’m not, either. Plus, I got a chance to meet an editor from Rolling Stone magazine.”
“How wonderful.”
“He knew a lot about Steely Dan.”
“Don’t start in with that again.”
“Mom, I assure you, all of this is behind me.”
“Eddie . . .”
“Yeah?”
“I want you to call Alison, today, and explain this to her. Otherwise, your marriage is in the toilet.”
“Ma—”
“Do you want to save your marriage?”
He would have to finesse that question. He knew what his mother wanted to hear. “Yes, I think so, but . . .” He cleared his throat. “I don’t really know at this point.”
“When did you last speak to Alison?”
Time for the truth, with a little sugar-coating. “We saw each other last week. She was in Manhattan for the day.” All true, it just wasn’t the answer to his mother’s question.
“And . . .”
“And, it didn’t go very well.”
“Eddie, listen to me. Don’t you want to save your marriage?”
He could feel his mother’s intensity. He served up a waffle: “Ma, like I said, I don’t know.”
“Eddie, listen to me. You call Alison today and explain this whole thing to her. Will you do that? Your father and I don’t want you throwing your marriage away.”
“Mom, I need to think about it for a day or two.”
“Think fast. Don’t be stupi
d.”
“Yeah.”
“You call us tomorrow, and let us know what’s going on. Okay?”
“Okay, Mom.”
“Don’t forget.”
How could I forget? He heard his mother hang up.
30
Saturday, March 25, 2000
[email protected]
Searching For Steely Dan
The Issue: Eddie Zittner’s quest to meet
two of rock’s most reclusive stars.
*****
I have mixed feelings about Mr. Zittner’s escapades.
I congratulate him for drawing attention to Steely Dan, a wonderful rock band that has produced some outstanding music over the years. They are, as your article stated (“Steely Dan, Where Are You?” March 23), under-appreciated by many fans of rock and roll.
On the other hand, we should respect everyone’s right to privacy, even that of celebrities. If Fagen and Becker want to stay out of the public spotlight, then so be it. I do not think of Mr. Zittner as a stalker—he seems to mean no harm to anyone. Maybe he could find some more productive things to do with his time.
Mitch Grudiniser, Manhattan
*****
I’m a big fan of “The Dan” and can understand Zittner’s frustration. It would be nice to be able to purchase some sheet music or a T-Shirt signed by Fagen and Becker, but that wouldn’t be “The Dan” now, would it?
With apologies to fans of the Beatles, the Eagles, the Grateful Dead, and many other rock groups, there is no better music than that of Steely Dan. Mr. Sterling’s comment that Steely Dan combines “extraordinary music and lyrics laced with dark humor” was right on!
Tisha Bovadt, Brooklyn
*****
Don’t the police have better things to do than arrest an “ordinary guy” demonstrating on the sidewalk?
The Constitution says that all of us have the right to freedom of speech, and the right to demonstrate peacefully. Isn’t that what Zittner was doing? If the police couldn’t make the charges stick, then he should have never been arrested in the first place.
Mayor Guiliani, please instruct the fine officers of the NYPD that the streets do not need to be protected from the likes of Eddie Zittner. There are real criminals out there!
Peter Collzig, Washington Heights
*****
Eddie Zittner should have his head examined.
Sure, Steely Dan is a good band. But I would rate the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, the Stones, Aerosmith, the Who, the Eagles, the Beach Boys and a bunch of others ahead of them.
Get real, Zittner.
Andre Chaitivio, Queens
*****
Zittner’s story proves once again that there’s a nut case around every corner. Why would an “ordinary guy” march around with a sign exhorting rock and roll stars to “come on down and pay attention to me.” Because he’s not an ordinary guy, he’s a wacko.
Zittner should go back to New Jersey, beg forgiveness from his wife, and find a real job.
Perhaps he didn’t get enough breast feeding as a child.
Sonya Stribbles, Jericho
31
Sunday, March 26, 2000
Lois Lane Smith glanced out the window as the bus glided north on Third Avenue. The end of another clear, sunny, just ‘outright beautiful’ day. She had left her tiny studio apartment in mid-morning and spent the better part of the day window-shopping, working her way through the West Village, then east to Washington Square, and finally north along Fifth Avenue. Stopping at City Market for a late lunch, she had watched what seemed to be an epidemic of young families eating soup, salad, and grilled cheese sandwiches—a favorite of the elementary school set, she noted—and then gorging on a variety of pastries and chocolates.
Now, hours later, she was confronted with yet another young family, this one sitting directly opposite her. A husband and wife, in their thirties, it appeared, leaned haphazardly against each other, both zonked from the day’s activities. The husband clung to a toddler, a young boy dressed in a denim shirt, green OshKosh B’Gosh overalls, and a cute pair of silver and white Nike sneakers. Every so often the child pulled on his father’s shirt, or squirmed, or cried out, with little effect.
Is that what married life is all about?
Her thoughts drifted to Eddie Zittner. He was flaky, sure, but he also seemed to be a nice guy—sweet, in a nebbishy kind of way. She had made him a minor celebrity, stretching his fifteen minutes of fame into perhaps thirty, and had received a “good job” from her boss, who didn’t hand those out very often. She smiled as she recalled the moment.
On the negative side, Zittner was married. Big negative … He said he was separated from his wife. She wondered how she might check that out.
She got off the bus near the corner of 32nd Street, and made her way to the lighted entrance of The Future Condominiums.
*****
Eddie Zittner was sweating as he listened for the chime of the elevator doors. He sat down, got up, and sat down again. The clock crept past eight p.m., then five after, then ten after. He took another sip of wine and realized that he’d nearly finished off the glass.
She was making him wait.
Finally, he heard the doors chime, took a deep breath, strolled to the door, opened it, and took a step into the hallway.
Lois walked toward him, smiling. She wore a blue pullover sweater and grey slacks. Simple and elegant. He remembered her walk, and the way her hips moved, and the confident way she carried herself. Perfection and grace. He smiled and said hello. Should I kiss her? Will she try to kiss me?
She walked up to him, they embraced awkwardly, and she brushed a kiss across his cheek.
“Nice building,” she said.
“Come on inside. Can I take your coat?” He escorted her into the apartment and hung her coat in the entry closet. She walked past him and scanned the living room, taking in the expensive furniture, the entertainment center, and the lithographs that lined the walls. Then she moved to the window and looked out over the twinkling lights.
“This is magnificent. Brooklyn never looked so good.”
Eddie basked in the reflected glow of his brother’s good fortune. “I told you so.”
“How does your brother afford this place?”
“He rents it from a friend. He got a really good deal on it.”
“I’ll bet. This place must go for at least a million. What does your brother do?”
“He’s in investment banking.” Let’s not get started on my brother’s career. “You must be hungry. I’ve got dinner all set up.”
They adjourned to the kitchen. Five minutes later, after some cautious zapping in the microwave, the food was ready. They sat down at the kitchen counter and dug into containers of cashew chicken, sugar snap peas, noodles fragrant with garlic and onions, and, of course, sizzling black pepper shrimp.
Lois picked up a shrimp with her chopsticks. “Eddie, you are so predictable.”
He gulped a mouthful of noodles and looked up. “How so?”
“How so?” She held the shrimp in front of his face. He leaned forward and tried to grab it with his teeth, but she pulled it back and popped it into her mouth.
“Predictable . . .” He smiled, mischief on his mind. “Well, maybe I can surprise you later on.”
“I don’t think so.” She put down her chopsticks. “Hey, I meant to ask you . . .”
“What?”
“A serious question.” She put on her best poker-face. “Have you had your head examined yet?”
He grinned at her. I should have seen that coming.
“And one more question … Were you breast fed as a child?”
He watched as she totally lost control. That was too easy for her … like shooting fish in a barrel. “Oh, that’s funny . . .” He smiled and sipped his wine as he waited for her to stop gasping. “Okay, now that you’ve had your fun, can I ask you something?”
“Oh, God . . .” She caught her breath. “Sure.”
He
gave her his most sincere look. “I want to go out and visit some jazz clubs. You know, ask some questions about Fagen and Becker? Maybe I can get a line on them. Will you go with me?”
*****
“Hmm.” She took a deep breath. Probably no harm in it, except that it proves he’s still on his noble quest to find “The Dan.”
He played for sympathy. “I really don’t know my way around Manhattan very well.”
Oh, please! And I’m supposed to be your tour guide? She smiled tentatively. “Okay. Yeah, that might be fun.”
By nine, they had finished dinner, cleared the dishes, and moved back into the living room. Eddie set two glasses of wine on the coffee table, grabbed the remote, and switched on the television just as Billy Crystal danced across the stage.
“So,” he asked, “who’s gonna win?”
“I’ve got my money on American Beauty.”
“For Best Picture?”
“For Best Picture, and Kevin Spacey for Best Actor.”
“No way. Denzel will win Best Actor.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. He’ll win for Hurricane.” He stood and shadow-boxed to emphasize his point.
She shook her head in amazement. “You’re not kidding, you’re just crazy.”
“Crazy like a fox.” He sat back down.
“And who do you like for Best Actress?” she asked.
“Decisions, decisions.” He smiled at her. “I’ll go with Meryl Streep.”
She looked astonished. “You’re a lunatic. Soft in the head. That movie stunk.”
“Music of the Heart?”
