by Rick Goeld
96th Street Station. We stop, but no one gets on, no one gets off, this car anyway. Soon we’re rolling again. Just the three of us.
All of a sudden, Grey Overcoat opens his eyes, looks at me, and says, “Is that Celine Dion you’re listening to?”
Grey Overcoat
I’ve had a goddamned bad day, bad week, bad month, bad year. Nothing is selling. I’m in the office way after regular hours, making cold calls to the West Coast, Midwest, Texas, wherever. I’m jumping from list to list, but no hits, no success. No one wants to open an account, no one wants to buy bonds, mutual funds, insurance, anything. Some slam-downs, which piss me off. At least hear what I have to say. My regulars, my daytime clients, locals, aren’t buying anything either. And now, this morning, my wife is on my case to go on vacation, a cruise to the Bahamas out of Fort Lauderdale. Just what I need, a week in the sun. I guarantee that if I take a week off, my boss will have someone else at my desk when I get back, and a pink slip for me.
So I barely make the train, and sit down next to this monster wearing a Yankee cap, just like mine. Bald; looks like he shaves his head. Earphones, too; he’s listening to some kind of music, but I can’t tell what. Must be 6’6”, over 300 pounds, maybe thirty years old, mustache, goatee, jeans, and stupid looking cowboy boots—must have been worn by Roy Rogers, as old as they look. A little soft in the belly, but huge. Dark eyes, dark hair, dark skin. Looks a little bit Latino to me.
Another guy across the way, an old guy, maybe fifty-five, no, closer to sixty, small, wearing what looks like a golf outfit, white polo shirt, khaki pants, brown loafers. The Golfer. Who wears white polo shirts? He’s bald, too, but at least it’s a natural bald, not shaved bald like the giant. He has some hair around his ears and in the back, going grey, no, already grey. Hey, something to be thankful for—at least I’ve got my hair.
The Steel Cadillac begins to move. I’m stretched out on my seat, eyes closed, trying to relax, trying to unwind, when I hear music leaking out from around the monster’s earphones. I can barely hear it over the rumble of the train.
We stop at 96th Street. Now I can hear it clearly—it’s music all right—Celine Dion. I hate Celine Dion. Why? Because my wife loves her and can’t get enough of her. I don’t know how many times I’ve been sitting at home, waiting for dinner, reading, while my wife is listening to Celine Dion. And it’s worse when Jennifer, our fourteen year old, comes in to set the table, and starts singing along, doing the back-up vocals. So, for a minute or two, I’m listening to Celine Dion leaking out from this guy’s earphones, trying to tolerate it, trying to ignore it.
I can’t fucking believe it. Why is this monster, this Latino, this gorilla, listening to Celine Dion? So as soon as we’re moving again, I ask him: “Is that Celine Dion you’re listening to?” as if I didn’t know damn well that it was.
He says, “Yeah, what of it?”
I say, “She sucks.”
He says, “Huh?”
I repeat, “She sucks.”
He says, “What of it? What’s it to you?”
I say, “I don’t like her,” close my eyes again, and try to relax. But it’s not easy. I think to myself, what’s with this guy? Why is he so belligerent?
(to be continued)
35
Thursday, March 30, 2000
Eddie Zittner had his eyes closed, his earphones on, and was using a spoon to tap out a rhythm on a half-empty bottle of Kingfisher beer. The Curry Leaf, yet another scintillating stop on the never-ending tour of “Mark’s favorite restaurants.”
He opened his eyes and gazed through the maze of lights that dangled from the ceiling. He checked his watch: five minutes after seven. His brother was now officially late. He closed his eyes and went back to his tapping.
A few seconds later, someone touched his shoulder and whispered, “Steely Dan, I presume?”
Eddie’s eyes opened, and he looked up as his brother slid into the chair opposite him. He pulled out his earphones and switched off his Walkman. “No, Matchbox Twenty.”
“Good stuff.” Mark signaled the waiter for another beer. “Nice to see you’re varying your musical selections.”
“Well, I can’t listen to Steely Dan all the time.”
Mark looked stunned by the remark. “Did I just step into some alternate universe?”
Eddie watched with amusement as his brother looked around the restaurant, as if re-familiarizing himself with suddenly “unfamiliar” surroundings. Now his brother was making a big show of looking under the table. Enough already. “Hey, everyone needs a little variety in life.”
The waiter appeared with another Kingfisher, and then took their dinner order.
Mark took a swig of beer. “Speaking of variety, does this so-called ‘broadening of your interests’ include women? Like that reporter?”
“Why not?” In the last few days, Eddie had done a lot of thinking, about women in general, and his wife in particular. Why should I grovel at Alison’s feet, just to win her back? They’d been separated a month now, and all he’d gotten from her was “I’m not sure I’m still in love with you” at Denny’s, and that one phone call a week ago. She seemed intent on filing for divorce, although he hadn’t been served with any papers yet. Sure, those newspaper articles hadn’t helped, but still, seven years of marriage, and she wouldn’t spare him an hour to sit down and discuss things?
And Marcie. He tried to be philosophical about her. He never had any real claim on her, did he? No, he didn’t. And he had to be happy for his brother, didn’t he? Yes, he did. Mark had done a lot for him in the last month. Hey, if they were made for each other, then so be it. But he couldn’t bring himself to ask his brother about her—not just yet. Deep down, he knew he’d get over her eventually. But it still hurt to think about her.
And now there was Lois.
As if reading his mind, Mark asked, “Are you getting hung up on … what was her name again? Lois?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I am.” Has she finally gotten to me? He occupied himself by breaking a sheet of poppadum into tiny pieces. He had to admit, at least to himself, that he was attracted to her.
“Have you told anyone else about what Alison said? I mean, besides me?”
“No. Why rush the inevitable?”
Mark made clucking sounds and flapped his arms like a rooster. “What’s inevitable, bro, you telling Mom and Dad, or a divorce?”
“Good question.”
“You’re going to have to tell them at some point.”
“I know.”
“Better do it soon. You know how the New Jersey grapevine works.” An idea seemed to flash into Mark’s head. “Hey, this would be a great time to get Dad on the phone and tell him.”
“Why?”
“The Dow’s at 11,000. He’s probably happy as a clam.” Mark covered a piece of poppadum with chutney and began crunching through it. “On the other hand, the Mets just lost their opener—in Tokyo, of all places.”
Eddie smiled. “That’ll piss him off. Who’s kakamamie idea was it to open the season in Tokyo?”
“I don’t know, the Commissioner?” Mark grabbed another piece of poppadum. “So you figure you’ll play Alison a little while longer? See if she goes through with it?”
“I’m not playing her, she’s playing me.” Like a yoyo . . .
The waiter arrived with a tray full of plates and bowls, which he arranged on the table. A mountain of tandoori shrimp and grilled vegetables sputtered on a blackened steel platter. Clouds of steam floated toward the ceiling. The smell of pungent spices was overwhelming.
Mark tore himself a piece of onion naan, and started in on the shrimp. Eddie surveyed the table and decided to start with the curry. First, he spooned basmati rice onto his plate, and then covered it with a heaping portion of lamb dripping with brick-red sauce. Starving, he stabbed a chunk of the meat, popped it into his mouth, chewed for a few seconds, and grabbed for his beer.
“Oh Lord that’s hot!”
Mark
swallowed a shrimp. “You said you liked vindaloo.” He grabbed a bowl of raita and spooned some onto his brother’s plate. “Here, this’ll cool you off.”
Using a combination of raita, beer, and ice-water, Eddie put out the fire in his mouth. Then, proceeding cautiously, he mixed the curry with generous amounts of rice before his next bite.
“By the way,” Mark raised his bottle of beer, “congrats on your promotion.”
After lunch, he had called Mark, telling him that he was now a full-time employee of Borders, and, surprise, in charge of the fiction department. Mark had congratulated him and suggested a dinner celebration. But he wondered if Mark thought that his taking a full time job was yet another nail in the coffin of his marriage.
“Thanks.” Eddie smiled, then turned serious. “Mark, now that I’ll be working full time, I can afford my own place.”
“Why move out, bro? I’ve got plenty of room.”
“You know. I don’t want to impose.”
“Look, Eddie.” Mark speared another shrimp. “I can understand how you feel. But it’s really not a problem. And I’ve got two trips coming up in April. I won’t be there half the time.”
Eddie knew that was an exaggeration, but appreciated it anyway. “You sure?”
“Yeah. No point in you moving again. Maybe things will work out with Alison.”
Eddie finished his beer and signaled the waiter for two more. Yeah, let’s see how things work out with Alison … and Lois.
36
Friday, March 31, 2000
“Lois Lane Smith.”
“Lois, it’s Eddie.”
“Eddie Zittner, noted writer of short stories.”
“You liked it?”
“Yeah. I thought you captured ‘Black Boots’ perfectly.”
“Well, thank you.”
“So when are you gonna finish it?”
“Finish it?”
“Yes, that’s what writers usually do.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. It’s what we writers call ‘a work in progress.’”
“I wish I had that luxury.”
“I guess you work against deadlines, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you working on now?”
“Right this minute? I’m way deep into nothing special.”
“Nothing special?”
“Finishing a story. And eating lunch.”
“What are you having?”
“Chicken Caesar salad.”
“Not very exciting.”
“No, but I’ve got a piece of cheesecake here with my name on it.”
“Now that sounds good.”
“I’m sure it will be. So where are you?”
“I’m in the deepest, darkest recesses of the Borders’ storeroom, eating turkey on whole wheat.”
“That sounds dull and dry.”
“It is.”
“So to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“The reason I called . . .”
“I’m listening.”
“Would you like to go out Saturday night?”
“Saturday night? Isn’t that a big step?”
“I don’t know about a big step. I just thought we might take in a movie.”
“That sounds dull … like your sandwich.”
“You like movies!”
“I know. I’m just not in the mood to sit in a dark theatre this weekend.”
“Okay, how about the circus? It’s still at The Garden. Plenty of bright lights.”
“You’ve got tickets?”
“I haven’t tried yet.”
“Jesus, do you know what that’ll cost?”
“No idea.”
“Well … I don’t really want to go to the circus, either.”
“Hard to please, aren’t you? How about dinner?”
“It’s spring! Let’s do something fun!”
“Just being together would be fun.”
“Why don’t we go skating?”
“Skating? Where?”
“Central Park.”
“Outdoors?”
“Yes, outdoors!”
“You mean ice skating?”
“What other kind of skating is there?”
“Roller skating.”
“Roller skating?”
“Yeah, you know, where you clamp your skates onto your shoes and then tighten them with a church key.”
“Who does that anymore?”
“I did, when I was a kid.”
“You’re not that old.”
“I think my skates were hand-me-downs.”
“From your great-grandfather?”
“From my father.”
“Well, are you interested?”
“Yeah. I guess I could stumble around a skating rink a few times.”
“Such enthusiasm.”
“No, really, let’s do it.”
“Do you know how to ice skate?”
“I can roller skate. How difficult could it be?”
“Oh, boy.”
“Danger is my middle name.”
“Right . . .”
“Edward Danger Zittner.”
“Seriously, do you want to go?”
“Yes!”
“You working tomorrow?”
“Yeah, nine to four.”
“Okay. I’ll be out most of the afternoon. How about we meet at the rink at six?”
“Sure, six works for me. What about skates?”
“We can rent them there.”
“Okay. Now exactly where is this place?”
“Wollman’s Skating Rink. It’s at the south end of Central Park, just north of 59th Street. You know the Plaza Hotel? It’s a couple of hundred yards north of there.”
“I’ll find it.”
“And Eddie . . .”
“What?”
“Be sure to pack a lot of padding around your butt.”
“Right. I’ll try to remember.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow. My cheesecake awaits.”
“Bye.”
37
Saturday, April 1, 2000
Lois arrived at Wollman’s a few minutes before six. Not spotting her “date,” she found a vacant bench on the upper viewing terrace and sat down. It had been another beautiful early-spring day, but now the sun was setting behind the unbroken wall of concrete along Central Park West. There’s a chill in the air …
She gazed out over pathways that were still crowded, with teenagers walking dogs, commuters taking the shortest route home, and, of course, mothers pushing baby carriages. Sighing, she turned her attention back to the rink, which was filling up with skaters. Fat ones, small ones, short ones … skinny ones. What song was that from?
Then, looking south again, she spotted Eddie walking along one of the pathways. Am I a fool to keep going out with this guy?
*****
Having fought his way through crowds of vendors, joggers, shoppers, and who-knew-who-else, Eddie broke free of the 59th Street entrance and started up the pathway that led north. Two minutes later, he spotted the skating rink a few hundred feet ahead. Relax, Eddie, you found it. And it hadn’t been that hard; it was right where Lois had said it would be.
Approaching the rink, he spotted her on the upper level and waived to her. She stood, waived back, and started walking toward the enormous granite steps that led down to the entrance.
*****
“You found it.” She smiled at him.
“Your directions were perfect.”
They embraced and pecked each other on the cheek. She looked him over. “Aren’t you colorful today?” He was wearing a scarlet and white sweater with his usual black corduroys, black shoes, and black leather waistcoat.
“I thought I’d show off my Rutgers colors. And you . . .” He embraced her again. “You look sensational, as always.” He tried to kiss her, but she resisted and broke free of his grip.
“These old things?” She stepped b
ack and vogued for him. She was wearing a knit wool cap, cowl-neck sweater, and fuzzy tights, all in matching forest green with gold trim. A black leather jacket, gloves, and boots completed her outfit.
Minutes later, they had paid the entry fee and rented skates. She watched as Eddie stood at the edge of the rink and tried a few tentative steps.
“Okay, Mr. Ice-Skater,” she said, “let’s see what you’ve got.”
Eddie balanced himself on his left foot and slid his right foot forward, gliding perhaps eighteen inches. Having successfully accomplished what he called “one small step for Easy Eddie,” he then extended his left skate, pushed off with his right foot, lost his balance, tilted backwards, did a breaching-whale-like half twist, and fell in a heap. In the corner of his eye, small children glided past him. He groaned and looked up at her.
She chuckled. Easy Eddie? “I’d call that one giant leap into mediocrity.”
Lois, a competent skater, helped him up and held his hand as they bumped along, Eddie slowly getting the hang of it. In minutes, he was able to skate on his own, and snow-plow to an unsteady stop—that is, when he didn’t just ram into the nearest soft object. Soon they were holding hands and gliding smoothly around the rink. As the sun set, overhead lights came on, casting long shadows over the ice. The rink became a shining silver dollar, surrounded by deep grey slopes, and in the distance, Manhattan became a city of lights.
*****
At seven-thirty, tired and hungry, they returned the skates and bought pizza, bottled water, and coffee at the snack bar.
“Where’d you learn to skate like that?” he asked.
“My parents taught me. Or, rather, my mother taught me. My father wasn’t much of a skater.”
Neither was mine. “You never told me where you grew up.”
“Queens. My parents still live there.”
Having inhaled one piece of pizza, he reached for another. “Any brothers and sisters?”
