Sunday, April 11, 1993
Spring has sprung, and those breasts are about to spring right out of that dress.
Eddie Zittner eyed his wife-to-be from across the room and contemplated his good fortune. Alison was beautiful, and she loved him, and all was right with his world. He leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest, and savored the aroma of beef and onions cooking downstairs. His younger brother, Mark, would get an eyeful of Alison’s cleavage with his pot roast and mashed potatoes.
“That outfit sure looks good on you.” He was getting aroused.
Alison turned and smiled. “That’s three times you’ve said that today.”
Sunlight picked up the blond highlights in her hair, and Eddie was reminded of the “Madonna Look” that Alison was trying to cultivate. He watched as she continued to wander. This was the first time she’d been upstairs in the Zittner home.
“The room is so bare, Eddie. Where is everything?”
“At my apartment, Alison.”
“No stereo, no CDs, no nothing.”
“They’re all at the apartment. You’ve seen them. You’ve been there a hundred times.”
During his years at Rutgers, first in a dorm and later in an apartment, he had moved most of his “essential stuff” out of this room, this bedroom—the room where he’d spent his teenage years. But he had left some memorabilia, mainly posters on the walls celebrating past glories of the Mets and Knicks.
He watched Alison as she moved to the dresser and nodded at two scruffy-looking men captured smiling in a picture frame. “Who are these guys?”
“Fagen and Becker. You know, Steely Dan?”
“That’s it? Just these two guys? You never told me it was just two guys.”
He moved across the room and grabbed her from behind, wrapping his arms around her belly as he pushed himself gently against her. He peered over her shoulder at the picture. “It was just those two guys, and whoever they hired to record with them.” He felt himself getting harder.
Alison took his hands in hers, turned around, and began to grind her hips against his. “I’m beginning to feel your Steely Dan.” She rubbed her husband-to-be through his khakis. A minute later, his pants and underwear were around his ankles, and she was down on her knees, kissing him.
“Let’s do it,” he said, predictably enough.
She looked up. “Here? In your bedroom?”
He leaned against the dresser, breathing hard. “Yeah. We have time.”
“Your family is downstairs!”
“So what? Dinner won’t be for another hour.” He glanced at his watch. “Thirty minutes, anyway.” He pulled her up by her shoulders and maneuvered himself onto the bed, pulling her down on top of him.
“Eddie,” she whispered, “they’ll hear us.”
“No, they won’t. Anyway, they know we’re sleeping together. Christ, Alison, we’re getting married in June.” He watched as she leaned back and contemplated his penis, which was pointing due north. She leaned over and kissed it, then tweaked it with her tongue. He groaned as it twitched uncontrollably.
“Get on top of me.”
“Wait a minute, Eddie. I’ve got to pee. Where’s the bathroom?”
“Down the hall.”
She kissed him one more time, prompting another series of twitches. “I’ll be right back.”
“Just hurry, please, Alison?” He watched as she eased off the bed, tiptoed to the door, opened it, slipped into the hallway, and closed the door behind her.
He lay there, penis throbbing, staring at the ceiling. He looked forward to being married to “the love of his life,” marital bliss, and the regular sex that went with it. In fact, he wished they hadn’t waited; they could have been married months ago. But her parents—both sets of parents, actually—had insisted they wait until after graduation. So be it.
He and Alison had been seeing each other for more than a year. They would graduate from Rutgers in June, both with bachelor’s degrees, his in journalism and hers in marketing. A week later they’d be married—finally!—right here in Saddle River, at the synagogue where he’d had his bar mitzvah almost ten years ago. They would start out in near poverty, not that it mattered that much to him. They had already signed the lease on a starter apartment in Somerset, a town just down the road from Rutgers. The Kendall Commons was a huge complex of brown buildings, concrete driveways, and telephone poles. Not very exciting, but cheap enough.
He looked down at his penis. A few drops of liquid had formed on its tip. He felt like he was about to explode. Where was she?
Then he heard the bedroom door open, and he watched, stunned, as his mother stuck her head in and sang out, “Dinner is ready.”
“Mom!” He quickly flipped onto his stomach, flinging droplets of semen against the second-story window.
Elaine Zittner blushed, eyes round as saucers, but she recovered quickly, and smiled knowingly. “It looks like someone is ready for dessert.”
Tuesday, February 29, 2000
The man is a giant, with the brain of a reptile …
Eddie’s thoughts trailed off, then rebounded with renewed frustration. I can’t believe this is happening. I should find the manager and make a big stink about this.
But he wasn’t the type to find the manager and make a big stink. And he knew it. His wife and mother had both told him to be more assertive, more times than he’d care to remember, and he was getting better at it. But outright confrontation was something he avoided.
“I’m sorry,” the man repeated, leaning toward him from behind the counter.
At just under six feet tall and maybe 175 pounds on a good day, Eddie knew he wasn’t a physically imposing person. He thought of himself as average. And the man across the counter, Reuben, had him by at least three inches and fifty pounds. Eddie knew he was no he-man, but he was no weakling, either. He stood as tall as he could. He would not be intimidated. Not this time.
“Reuben. You know me, Reuben. How could you do this to me?” He held his voice steady as he spoke. He remembered Reuben’s name from that day two weeks ago when he’d reserved a copy of the CD. Not that anyone could miss the nametag pinned to Reuben’s shirt, with letters that were, what, maybe two inches high?
Reuben looked puzzled. “How do I know you?”
“You took my reservation for the CD. Right here at this counter. See?” He held up the yellow copy of the reservation slip. “Your name is right here.”
Reuben straightened and took a half step back, as if to avoid the truth. “Hey, I write up a lot of reservations. This is a busy store. Look around you.”
He glanced at the line of people, just a few feet away, waiting to check out. Wearing bulky winter jackets, they looked like a herd of animals—buffalo, perhaps—swaying back and forth, threatening to encroach on his space. He would be trapped and crushed under their hooves, or squashed against the wall. The key word is survival …
The store was an oversized shoebox, he thought, a grey concrete turd of a building plopped down in the middle of a shopping center parking lot. No, you couldn’t even call it a shopping center; it was just an overgrown strip mall. Everyone was funneled up to the front of the store and jammed into the one checkout line that was open. This had to be the crummiest building ever constructed.
“If you’re so busy, why don’t you have more registers open?”
“Well, partly because I’m standing here talking to you.”
“Reuben, we’re talking about Two Against Nature. Now what am I gonna do all week? Talk to my wife?”
“Why are you so hot on this particular CD?”
“It’s Steely Dan, Reuben, Steely Dan. It’s their first CD in twenty years.”
“Who is Steely Dan, anyway?”
“You don’t know who Steely Dan is?”
“I’m sorry. Never heard of them.” Reuben forced a smile, dimly recalling his training in customer service. “When were they popular?”
“In the seventies and eighties; the early eighties, anyway. And now, of course; they made a huge comeback in the early nineties. How old are you, anyway?”
“I’m twenty-four,” Reuben replied, staring at his tormentor with a mixture of disdain and amusement.
“Twenty-four. I would think that at your age, you might take an interest in the stuff you’re selling. If you don’t know anything about music, then why work in a music store?”
“Uh, I work here because of the big money they pay me. Can’t you tell?” Reuben was more than a little perturbed. “And how old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Hey, if you’re twenty-nine, you must’ve been born in, what, 1970 or 1971? So how come you like this old Steely Dan stuff?”
How do you explain to someone why you like one rock group and not another?
He had discovered “The Dan” as a teenager. He remembered the exact moment, sitting in his room doing homework, when he heard “Deacon Blues” on the radio. It had mesmerized him. He bought the album, Aja, the next day, and began playing “Deacon Blues” over and over. His parents, driven half crazy, bought him a set of earphones to preserve what remained of their sanity. It must have been the spring of 1984, he thought, just before his father had gone into the hospital, and his mother had gone a little crazy. And just before he had started to play keyboard. He had immersed himself in Steely Dan’s music.
Patience pretty much gone, Reuben continued, looking for a way to end the conversation: “Look. Like I told you before, we got ten copies of the CD in this morning’s delivery. We were sold out in an hour, before we had a chance to check the reservations.” He held the white copy of the reservation slip in his hand.
“I guess those CDs just jumped off the shelves.”
“I said I was sorry. Look, we’ll get another shipment on Thursday. I’ll do the best I can for you, Mister . . .” Reuben glanced at the piece of paper. “Mister Zittner. Come back Thursday.”
Eddie dropped his head and sighed, a gesture intended to gain a little more sympathy that only succeeded in making him look pathetic. But, in any case, it was too late. Reuben had already turned, and was stuffing the reservation slip into his shirt pocket as he moved behind the counter, heading toward one of the idle registers. He watched as Reuben stopped, squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and switched on the overhead light. A half dozen people broke free of the first checkout line and formed a new one in front of him.
Eddie pushed through both lines and walked out the door, scanning the parking lot for his car. It was a rotten day, typical of late winter in northern New Jersey, and he frowned as he walked through the freezing rain. Fuck work, I’m going home.
For Alison Zittner, it had been “one of those days” at the office. The boss—the president of Jacobs Advertising Agency—had called one of his rare communication meetings. All hands were to be in the conference room by eight-thirty sharp. Helga, his Hitler-like executive assistant, had sent out an email imploring everyone to be on-time so the boss could make his eleven o’clock flight. No doubt heading for his cabin in Vail, Alison thought, or, maybe, this time, a quiet getaway on some tropical island. The man had it rough.
The meeting had started with a few interesting slides about the Tri-State media market. That had been followed by an avalanche of useless drivel: introduction of new employees, birth and birthday announcements—thank God there were no death announcements—and the inevitable warning about pilferage of office supplies. The meeting had mercifully ended just before ten.
She’d spent the next two hours polishing the latest revision of her Account Penetration Plan. Then, over lunch—your choice of ham, turkey, or roast beef sandwiches—the actual presentations. As the newest account executive, she’d been asked to present first. Her presentation, which over a period of weeks she’d worked and reworked and reworked until she was sick of it, had gone well. At least she thought it had gone well. But her boss had punched a hole in her ego with his well-worn phrase, silently mouthed by her colleagues as he verbalized it: “You’re forecast isn’t aggressive enough.” She got the usual action item: revise your plan and have it ready for next week’s torture session.
She’d snuck out at four, navigated through the early stages of rush hour traffic, and dragged herself into the apartment at a quarter to five. Once home, she dropped her handbag, briefcase and overcoat, made her way into the master bathroom, stripped off her clothes, and stepped into a spray of steaming hot water.
Ten minutes later, a revitalized Alison Zittner stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and quickly dried herself off. What to do with my hair? Let it hang, she decided; she’d blow dry it later.
She turned to look at herself in the full-length mirror. Twenty-nine years old—just months from The Big Three-Oh—and still attractive, she thought. She struck a few poses, and poked at her hair with her fingertips. I need a touch-up … the blond highlights are fading fast. She ran her hands over her breasts—still firm—and belly—still firm—and finally around her hips and butt—which, admittedly, needed work. She made a mental note to get out and run this weekend. She glanced at the clock: five-fifteen. Eddie would be home in a couple of hours.
They’d been at each other’s throats for weeks. What was it? Was she losing patience with him? Or was he just wallowing in self-pity? Was he depressed, or was it lack of ambition? He’d been a knight in shining armor, that first day they’d met at Rutgers. Tall, thin—well, not really thin, he was pretty well-built; “wiry” would be a more accurate description—with deep brown eyes, and long black hair that curled around his ears. He reminded her of Russell Crowe in L.A. Confidential: handsome in a rugged kind of way. Not too polished. Rough around the edges. But, in seven years of marriage, she’d come to realize that her husband was no Russell Crowe.
*****
Eddie Zittner guided his car through the maze of buildings and parking lots at the Georgetown Woods, the large complex he and Alison had moved to three years ago. Parking near their apartment, he noted for the umpteenth time that there were no woods anywhere in sight, just a few threadbare trees scattered around. What ever happened to truth in advertising? Georgetown Woods was nicer than Kendall Commons, he thought, but not by much. He unlocked the front door and stomped into the tiny entryway, scattering mud over the throw rug.
He heard his wife shout: “Eddie, is that you?”
“Yeah,” he said as he walked into the kitchen. Alison, in sweater, jeans, and sneakers, was sipping wine while stirring a pot of last night’s marinara sauce. He spotted a box of linguini on the counter, next to a half-empty bottle of merlot. “Why, expecting someone else?”
*****
She picked up on the attitude, but decided to let it go for the moment. “What are you doing home so early?” Eddie’s shift at the drugstore ended at seven. He normally arrived home at about seven-fifteen.
“I went over to pick up that new Steely Dan CD and they didn’t have it. They didn’t hold a copy for me.”
The end of the world is at hand. She knew that he had reserved a copy, and had talked about how great it was going to be having a new Steely Dan CD to listen to, which would have made this one boring week for her. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or sympathetic or what. She put down the glass of wine and stared at her husband, arms crossed over her chest.
“What does that have to do with work?” she asked.
“I had a run-in with the guy at the music store, so I just said ‘the hell with it’ and came home.”
“Oh, fine. I’m sure your boss will understand.” She turned back to the marinara sauce.
“Do you know what’s wrong with this country?”
I’m sure you’re about to tell me. “No, what?”
“It’s the incompetence of the working people.”
“Do tell.”
“Yeah … incompetence.”
She could see that he was working up a head of steam. “Could you be more specific?”
“Yeah. It’s the clerical help. They’ve got their heads up their asses.”
She decided not to mention the fact that Eddie himself was clerical help, albeit a lead sales associate. “Go on,” she said.
“Specifically, clerical help in music stores, and more specifically, a fat piece of shit by the name of Reuben who didn’t hold a copy of that CD for me.”
Correct that: a boring week with an unhappy husband. “Are you going to sue the bastards?” She raised her eyebrows, and thought about tapping the ashes off an imaginary cigar a la Groucho.
He scrunched his face. “Funny,” he replied.
“Eddie, why didn’t you just go to another store?”
“What makes you think other stores will have it?”
“Oh, yeah, excuse me, all the Steely Dan fans have already rushed right out and snapped up every copy in town. What was I thinking?” She watched as he sat down at the table. “Are you going to call your boss?”
“What for?”
“Uh, maybe to keep your job? Which is where you’re supposed to be, right now?”
Eddie muttered a few words to himself. To her, it sounded like “fuck it,” which she’d heard way too many times in the last few weeks. She put the spoon down, turned off the gas burner, walked over to the kitchen table and leaned over the chair opposite him.
She spoke softly. “Eddie, this is bullshit. You’ve got to stop with this obsession about Steely Dan. All the time, Steely Dan, Steely Dan, Steely Dan. I can’t stand listening to that music anymore. I want you to call your boss, right now, and tell him you got sick and had to go home.”
*****
He just sat there, head down, tapping the silverware with his fingers, staring at a pattern of yellow flowers on the placemat.
His wife raised her voice. “Eddie. Do it.”
“Alison … I don’t think I’m going back.”
“Eddie. Another job you’re going to walk away from? How many is that now?” He continued to tap on the silverware. His wife sat down opposite him.
She spoke softly again. “Eddie, you know I love you.”
He looked up and smiled, trying not to look like a whipped dog. “I love you, too,” he replied.
“But Eddie,” she continued, “love is not getting us anywhere. What’s happened to you? You used to be interested in writing. I haven’t seen you sit down and write for months now. All you do is listen to that music, or fool around on your keyboard.”
His head dropped, and he went back to staring at the flowers.
“Eddie. Why don’t you try to get a job at a newspaper? Or a magazine? You have a degree in journalism, for Christ sake.”
They had had this discussion—argument, really—many times. Why wasn’t he using his degree? Or, why had he gotten a degree in journalism anyway? And then the inevitable: why not take some evening classes and learn how to do something else?
She leaned toward him. “Or why don’t you go back to work at the bookstore?” He could tell she was trying hard to control her voice, but an edge had crept in. “Jerry’s the manager now, isn’t he? Call Jerry and get your old job back.”
Jerry was his best friend, and had been promoted to store manager a few months ago. Alison liked Jerry. They had even gone out a few times together, he and Alison with Jerry and whoever he was seeing at the time. Jerry was a fun guy—“the life of the party,” Alison liked to call him—and she thought he had a serious side to him, too. Career oriented, she thought. He was manager of a fucking bookstore, for Christ sake.
He snuck a peek at her. Her cheeks were bright pink, on their way to cherry red. She was about to come unglued.
“Eddie.” Her voice rose. “What about the bookstore? What about writing? Or are you just going to sit around here and vegetate all day?”
He looked up at her. “Vegetation sounds good. I could probably be good at that.”
She stood and moved away from the table. “Eddie, why don’t you get out?” Her eyes flashed with anger. “Why don’t you just get the hell out?”
“Maybe I will,” he said, and regretted it immediately. He heard her mumble something that sounded like “I don’t care anymore” as she turned and walked out of the kitchen. Uncharacteristically, she kept on walking. A few seconds later, he heard the front door slam, and then a car starting, backing up, and roaring away.
He had fucked up, and he knew it. A wave of fear shivered through him. It wasn’t like Alison to get so angry. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what his life would be like without her. Then, pushing the negative thoughts from his mind, he got up, walked over to the stove, and turned the gas burner back on. At least he would have something to eat before he left.
After eating a bowl of linguini with marinara sauce—washed down with the rest of the merlot—Eddie packed an overnight bag, locked the apartment, and headed north toward his parent’s home in Saddle River. He decided to take the direct route, right up the Garden State Parkway, and loaded The Dan’s The Royal Scam into the car’s CD player to keep him company. It was an hour’s drive in normal traffic, but at nine on a Tuesday evening he could do it in forty minutes, still plenty of time to think about his situation.
He loved Alison—“the love of his life”—but he realized all too well that their relationship had deteriorated. He thought it had something to do with her career. In December, she had been promoted to account executive at the advertising agency, and she wasn’t cooped up in the office anymore. She was out there drumming up business, pitching ideas, and meeting clients. Meeting new people.
And he had just been kicking around since college. After graduation and a June wedding, he had gone to work at a bookstore, a job he thought would be a good starting point for a career in writing. He wouldn’t get bogged down, he thought. He could just do his job, come home, and work on his writing projects. And he had liked the bookstore. He had even done well there. After a year, he was in charge of the fiction department, and a couple of years later, a shift manager—no small accomplishment, he thought. But then came problems: clashes with a new boss, a matronly woman who insisted that he get to work on time, every single day, without fail.
After the bookstore had come a succession of jobs: a year selling furniture—good money, more than at the bookstore, until the boredom had finally overwhelmed him—and then sales positions at a home improvement store, and now a drugstore.
Since graduation, he had written a number of short stories, jumping from one genre to another, trying his hand at science fiction, mysteries, and even a literary attempt or two. He had even tried to write a novel. He wrote sporadically, when the mood was right, and when he felt inspired, which hadn’t been very often in the last few months. He would compare his short stories to those he read in New Yorker, Ellery Queen, and numerous other magazines. When he thought he had something really good—after weeks of editing and revising and fine-tuning and word-smithing so that each sentence was “just right”—he would make his copies, write his cover letters, and send them off, sometimes fifteen or twenty submissions at a time. And then the rejection slips trickled in, one after another. He saved every one of them. He’d read somewhere that keeping your rejection slips was a good way to stay inspired. So far, it hadn’t worked.
He parked in front of his parent’s house, a two-story red-brick monster on Gabriel Way, and began walking up the gentle slope. He stayed on the granite walkway, which wound through beds of dead groundcover and rotting flowers, victims of the harsh winter. In another month or two, he thought, all these flower-beds would be completely replanted—by the gardeners, of course. He rang the bell, and immediately heard shouting inside, first by his mother: “Can you get that?” and then his father: “No, I can’t, I’m busy,” and then his mother again: “I’m busy, too,” and then his father again: “So, we’re both busy. You get it.” It was like listening to the back-and-forth of a tennis match. He heard his mother again: “Harry, I’m upstairs,” and finally, his father’s concession: “All right, already.” A few seconds later his father peeked through the entry window and then opened the door.
“Hey, Easy. What brings you to this part of the world?”
“Hey, Dad.” Harry Zittner was a heavyset man with stick legs, and was wearing a Mets T-shirt, baggy shorts, and slippers—his normal attire for an evening in front of the television—but covered tonight with a heavy robe in deference to the weather. He had run his own accounting firm for more than twenty years, a one-man shop specializing in financial advice and preparation of tax returns. He’d finally sold out to H & R Block, and now managed an office for them in Teaneck.
He saw the overnight bag in his son’s hand. “What’s wrong?” he said as he beckoned him to come inside.
“Problems at home,” Eddie replied as he walked in. His father closed the door and he followed him into the living room. This was the house his family had moved into, what, fifteen years ago, he thought, when he and his brother were in their early teens. The furnishings were contemporary Italian, dotted with artwork and lamps his parents had purchased on a number of trips to Europe.
“What kind of problems?” his father asked as he sat on the sofa, and then shouted in the direction of the stairs, “Ellie. It’s Eddie.”
Eddie glanced at the screen—his father was watching Law and Order—and sat down on the adjacent love seat. Seconds later he heard his mother’s muffled reply: “I’m coming down.”
His father picked up the remote and switched off the television. “So, you gonna tell me what’s going on?”
Eddie looked up from the empty screen. “Let’s wait for Ma, and I’ll tell you both together.”
They didn’t have to wait long. A few seconds later Elaine Zittner glided down the stairs and made her entrance, wearing a silk robe and slippers. “Ellie the Shark” as she was known in the local real estate community had been a top-producing salesperson for as long as Eddie could remember. His mother had been very attractive as a young woman, and still worked hard at the gym to keep her figure. Her blond hair streaked with grey was a more accurate indication of her age; Eddie’s parents were in their late fifties. He stood as his mother walked toward him. She smiled and gave him a hug.
“So, what’s wrong?” she asked, the suspicious gleam in her eyes tempered by the concern on the rest of her face.
“Problems at home. Alison threw me out. Can I crash here tonight?”
“Sure,” his father said. “What happened?”
“I was a jerk. I said the wrong thing.”
“What?” his mother jumped in with a smirk. “Did you criticize her cooking?”
“I told her I was quitting my job, and she told me to get out, so I said ‘maybe I will.’”
His father grimaced. “Eddie, we know Alison. She’s pretty even tempered. What else is going on?”
His mother seized the opportunity: “Is it sex?” She grinned, displaying the mouthful of teeth that were yet another reason for her nickname. “What, you’re asking for it too much? She’s not giving it to you?”
“Ma, give me a break, will ya?”
“She’s not good enough for you, anyway. Remember what I told you before you got married? She’s too quiet for you. She’s got no personality. You need someone with a little more life to her.”
Like you, Ma?
“And she’s not even a real Jew.”
“Ellie!” his father said, indignant. Harry Zittner was always a voice of reason and tolerance. “She’s a real Jew, just like us. She’s a Reformed Jew.”
His wife made a face. “That’s not a real Jew in my book.” She took pride in being a member of a Conservative congregation. She even went to services every now and then. And if she nagged him enough, she could get her husband to go with her—once in a blue moon. The temple was where she made most of her real estate contacts, but she was not averse to dealing with Reformed Jews. Or non-Jews.
But yet another thought had popped into her head. “I’ll bet it’s that crazy music you’re always listening to. What is it you call it, steal something?”
“Steely Dan, Ma.”
“Eddie,” she said, serious now, intense, “You’ve gotta stop this craziness about that music, and find yourself a real job. Look at you. You’re almost thirty years old, no career, no home, nothing. Look at your brother, Mark, with a good job and a nice apartment in Manhattan. And he’s younger than you!”
“Ellie,” his father said, “take it easy.”
“Easy nothing, Harry. Mark has a nice career going, Alison has a nice career going, and Eddie’s got nothing. That’s probably why she threw him out.”
“Ma, Dad, hold on. It’s a lot of things with me and Alison. The job thing is just part of it.”
“Stop with the craziness about the music, too. Why can’t you listen to Celine Dion like a normal person?”
Eddie quickly suppressed a gag reflex. “Yeah, Ma, you’re right. That’s part of it. I’m probably driving her crazy with Steely Dan. It’s just something I’m interested in, you know?”
“No, I do not know,” his mother said, shaking her head like a bulldog tearing meat off a bone. “Grow up. Make something of yourself.”
“Ellie—” His father jumped in, but it was too late. Elaine Zittner was already on her feet and moving across the room. Her husband and son watched as she disappeared up the stairs.
“Dad, listen, I’m just going to crash here tonight. Okay? I’ll call Mark tomorrow. Maybe he’ll let me crash at his place for a while. Maybe I can find a small apartment near his place.”
“What, you’re going to move to Manhattan now?”
“Yeah.” He thought about it for a long moment. “Yeah, maybe I will.”
*****
Over the objections of his father, who implored him to sleep in one of the guest rooms—his old bedroom, in fact—Eddie decided to sleep in the basement.
The basement was divided into two rooms: a large one paneled in wood, and a smaller, unfinished utility room that was dominated by the oil furnace. Eddie stretched out on an old sofa, the only piece of furniture left in what had been the family game-room. Moonlight filtered intermittently through long rectangular windows as clouds rolled across the sky. Another storm coming … He gazed at framed photographs that still hung on the walls, photographs that recorded family vacations in the Poconos and Adirondacks, and fishing trips to the New Jersey shore. He spotted a couple of old fishing rods leaning in a far corner, and a cardboard box overflowing with baseball bats and gloves. The billiard and ping pong tables and easy chairs were long gone, likely hauled away, he guessed, by a charity—tax deductions his father wasn’t about to miss.
But fond memories of his childhood were soon displaced by worries about Alison. He tossed and turned, tangling himself in the sheets and blankets. Frustrated, he got up and took his CD player and earphones out of his overnight bag. He lay back down listening to Gaucho. The end of a perfect day. He drifted off to sleep.
Wednesday, March 1, 2000
Eddie woke early as sunlight flooded the room. After putting on a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, he climbed up the stairs into the kitchen, where his father was making coffee, something his mother usually did.
“Morning, Dad.”
“Hey, Easy, good morning,” his father replied, fumbling with a coffee filter. And then his father looked up, and smiled, and his eyes danced, and Eddie remembered the face that had delighted and comforted him a thousand times as a child. “How was it sleeping in the basement?”
“Okay. It was fine, Dad.” He plopped down on a chair. “Where’s Mom?”
“Uh … I don’t know. She went out early.”
Eddie glanced at his watch: just after seven. “What, a meeting?”
“I don’t know,” his father replied. “I didn’t see her. Maybe she had a breakfast meeting, you know, or maybe she went to work out.”
Or maybe she didn’t want to see me.
Breakfast was a bowl of fiber-fortified cereal. Like many people of their generation, his parents were obsessed with calories and roughage and the like, and Eddie’s father had had a number of health problems over the years. There was no other cereal in the house. Eddie sprinkled some Equal over it—no sugar in the house, either—and threw in a handful of raisins.
As they ate, his father asked him about the money situation: Did he understand how expensive it was to live in Manhattan? Did he need some help getting by? No, he replied, he was in good shape. He and Alison had socked away some money, and he didn’t think Alison was nasty enough to keep him from having access to it. Anyway, we were talking about a few weeks, or maybe a month or two. He would find a job, a temporary job, in Manhattan. And he could always sell his car, he thought, if it came to that. He wouldn’t need a car in Manhattan. His Honda Accord, three years old and completely paid off, should be worth something like ten grand. But he would need a car when he moved back to Somerset.
Then, in his own subtle way, his father steered the conversation back to those same points that a few hours earlier had been bludgeoned into Eddie’s head by his mother. They talked about Eddie’s career, his father making many of the same points, quietly and rationally, that Alison and his mother had made, and then advise, predictably, to focus a little more on his career and his marriage, and a little less on music. The soft sell, Eddie thought—as smooth as the opening riff of “Babylon Sisters.” He nodded absently as his father spoke, and shoveled more cereal into his mouth.
After breakfast, his father went upstairs to finish dressing, and Eddie sat down to make some phone calls. The first one, to his boss at the drugstore, would be easy, he knew, because his boss didn’t get in until noon. He left an apologetic voicemail, quitting for personal reasons—a family emergency, if you will—compelling him to take care of matters in another state. He planned to find the time to pick up his personal stuff “one of these days.”
The second call, to his friend Jerry, was a little tougher. After a short discussion, he convinced Jerry to pick him up that afternoon at the apartment in Somerset and give him a ride to Manhattan. A pain in the ass, Jerry had complained, and he had countered that having a car in Manhattan was an even bigger pain in the ass, which was the reason why he wasn’t driving himself. And anyway, Jerry was the store manager now, wasn’t he? Couldn’t he give himself a few hours off? Before Jerry could answer, Eddie had promised to explain that afternoon in the car. Case closed.
The third call, to his brother, Mark, was the tough one.
They had been close as children—two boys raising the usual kinds of hell in the neighborhood—but had grown apart in their early teens. Eddie had always been an avid reader, starting with comic books and progressing to adventure stories, mysteries, and science fiction. He still had stacks of comic books, and paperbacks, and a few years worth of Mad magazines stored somewhere in his parent’s house. Mark had shared Eddie’s love of comic books, but by his early teens had gotten interested in business, and making money, thus endearing himself to his father. Mark was the kid with the newspaper route; the kid selling magazines door-to-door. He learned how to use spreadsheets. He saved his money, and wanted to invest it in the stock market.
An interest in music was something else that the brothers had shared, initially with great reluctance, and then eagerly, but along diverging paths. Their parents, wanting to expose the boys to “culture,” schlepped them to numerous plays and children’s concerts. Elaine Zittner insisted that both boys take music lessons, and bought a baby grand piano specifically for that purpose, and to insure in-house compliance. After struggling through months of lessons, Eddie had begun to like it, surprising both himself and his parents. At fifteen, he was playing keyboard in a pick-up band that fooled around with rock and blues—anything they could play at school functions that might improve their chances of attracting girls. Mark had gone in another direction, taking to classical music, opera, and show tunes, yet another thing he had in common with his father. There were times Mark and his father would sit in the den, both doing their “math homework,” listening to Brahms, or Mozart, or Leonard Bernstein. But Mark had also caught the downside of the gene pool, having begun to lose his hair in his late teens.
Eddie glanced at his watch: eight thirty. His brother was probably on his way to work. He dialed Mark’s cell phone.
A few seconds later, Mark picked up: “Mark Zittner, may I help you?”
Formal, aren’t we? “Mark, it’s Eddie.”
“Hey, Eddie. How are you?”
He sounds surprised that I called. How long has it been? “I’m fine, Mark. Uh, where are you? I figured you must be on your way to work.”
“I’m already at work. Been here for an hour.”
“You must be busy.”
“No. We always start at eight.”
How early did Mark wake up?
“So, Eddie,” Mark continued, “what’s up?”
“I need a place to stay for a few days. Do you mind if I crash at your place for a while?”
Silence on the line. Eddie knew Mark was quickly calculating his options. He figured his brother would weigh the benefits—what benefits?—against the risks—loss of privacy? What else? Mark must think I’m desperate, Eddie thought, to ask him for a favor.
Mark broke the silence. “Eddie … what’s going on?”
“Alison threw me out.”
“Oh.”
“Look, I’ll explain it to you later, you know, tonight, when I get there. I’ll buy dinner.” Trying to close the deal . . .
Mark hesitated, then replied. “How could I refuse an offer like that?”
Eddie sensed his brother’s uncertainty. He took a deep breath. “Thanks, Mark. I really do appreciate it.”
“Uh, what time are you coming?”
“What time do you usually get back to your place?”
“Around seven. You remember where it is?”
“I have it written down somewhere. On Third Avenue, right?”
“Good memory. The Future Condominiums, on the southeast corner of 32nd and Third.
“Got it. And Mark, thanks again. I really mean it.”
“No problem.” Mark said.
Eddie again heard the uncertainty in his brother’s voice.
Eddie sat at the kitchen table, staring into his coffee, thinking about his next move. Call Alison? Stop by her office? No, too much anger and frustration, on both sides, to try that now. He could leave her a note at the apartment. He made a mental note to call Jerry again and ask him to come by at five-thirty. Then he gathered up his toiletries, repacked his bag, locked up, and headed south.
It was a cold, bright day. Last night’s storm had cleared the haze that usually hung over the city, and had left a dusting of snow on the ground. Having decided to take Interstate 287, which was the long way but avoided the dense city traffic, Eddie first headed west on Route 17, stopping at a Dunkin’ Donuts for a mid-morning sugar fix. This state gets a bad rap, he thought, as he chewed on a glazed donut. Once you get away from the cities, it’s a beautiful place. He drove west and then south, through rolling hills interrupted by small towns and housing developments. He and Alison had driven out here many times, looking for a place where they might someday settle down, and even have a baby or two. He listened to Can’t Buy A Thrill as he drove. Traffic was light and he made it to Somerset in just over an hour.
He pulled into the apartment complex wondering if Alison might be working from home, but her car was nowhere in sight. He went inside, tossed his bag on the sofa, and spotted a handwritten note sitting dead center on the coffee table. Alison had cleared off everything else: the wicker basket filled with assorted junk, the stack of magazines, the crystal bowl he had bought for her birthday a year ago; all of it had been moved to the mantle over the tiny fireplace. The only thing missing was a flashing neon sign that said: “READ THIS!!!” He sat down and picked up the note.
Eddie,
I think it best that we don’t see each other for a while.
We need some time apart. Don’t you agree? Call me
in a couple of weeks—perhaps we could talk then.
- A
He leaned back and closed his eyes. Perhaps we could talk then. He turned the phrase over in his mind. Perhaps … what did that mean? After thinking about it for a minute, he concluded that she was probably right, that they did need some time away from each other. He thought some more, then leaned forward and wrote below her note:
Am I that predictable? Were you sure I would come back today???
- E
After further thought, he decided to scratch that, and wrote instead:
I agree…Eddie
A minute later, he picked up the note, crumpled it, and put it in his pocket.
*****
Jerry pulled up in front of the apartment at a quarter to six and honked the horn a few times, waking Eddie from a sound sleep on the sofa. A minute later, he was out the door, wearing one winter coat, carrying another, shouldering a large duffle bag, and pushing a huge roller-boy suitcase in front of him. The suitcase was filled with jeans, slacks, shirts, sweatsuits, and a variety of shoes—most of his wardrobe. The duffel bag contained his CD collection, CD player, keyboard, earphones, laptop computer, back-up floppies containing every short story he had ever written, and various other items, all packed in t-shirts, underwear, and socks. He had also packed his Steely Dan memorabilia: baseball caps and programs from the 90s tours, and a framed photo of Fagen and Becker taken in the late 1970s. That was it. There wasn’t much memorabilia out there.
“Haitian Divorce,” from The Dan’s The Royal Scam, was blaring from Jerry’s stereo. He turned down the volume, popped the rear door of his black Ford Explorer, and stuck his grinning head out the window.
“Hey, Zit.”
“Hey, Jerome. Is there gas in the car?”
Jerry was momentarily confused, but then remembered the classic line from “Kid Charlemagne.” “Yeah, there’s gas in the car,” he replied.
Eddie moved toward the back of the Explorer. “Jer, skip to the next track, will ya?” Nice that Jerry was playing The Dan—he was a fan, too—but he really didn’t want to hear that particular track. Not today.
“Oh, yeah, sorry, man,” Jerry said as he turned and punched a button on the dashboard. The first notes of “Everything You Did” began, just as Eddie knew they would. He had all the Steely Dan CDs, all except the latest one that is, and knew all the track sequences by heart. He loaded the suitcase, duffle bag, and spare jacket into the cargo space, slammed the rear door, and climbed into the passenger seat. The Explorer started rolling through the parking lot.
“You must have everything you own in those bags.” Jerry had known Eddie for almost six years. He knew Eddie wasn’t big on owning a wide variety of clothing—or anything that smacked of “fashionable.” Eddie was a meat-and-potatoes dresser.
“Pretty much everything,” Eddie replied.
“You don’t have that many clothes.”
“Hey, I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”
“So why Manhattan, man? You’ve got plenty of places to go.”
But not your place, right, Jerry? That would cramp your style. Realistically, he hadn’t expected Jerry to offer him the spare room at his place, a two-bedroom apartment in New Brunswick. Jerry usually had a steady girlfriend. He did pretty well with the grad students at Rutgers. But it was more than that: in the last few months, it seemed to him that Jerry had better things to do than hang out. It was almost like his best friend was avoiding him.
Jerry continued, “What about your parents’ house?”
“You’ve met my mother. Enough said.”
“Is she really that bad?”
“Yes. She’d drive me crazy from day one.”
Jerry thought for a minute. “Hey, you could stay at my place for a couple of days.”
What? Maybe old Jer wasn’t doing so well between the sheets.
“You know,” Jerry continued, “until you get your own place. My girlfriend is out of town this week.”
That explains it. “Thanks, Jerry, but I really think I need to get out of town. You know what I mean?”
“But why Manhattan? You hate Manhattan.”
“I don’t hate Manhattan.”
“Come on, Easy. Too many people and too much pollution: your own words.”
“My brother, Mark, offered me a place to crash for a while.” Jerry had never met Mark.
“Hey. I know why you’re going.”
“Why?”
“Remember that night we got drunk? You’re going to see the man: the Dan Man.”
Eddie was surprised that Jerry had remembered, as wasted as both of them had been that night, what, six months ago? The man—the Dan Man—was Donald Fagen, who lived in Manhattan and was one of the two founders of the band. Fagen played keyboard, and was thought to be the jazzier side of The Dan. Not that he had anything against Walter Becker, the other half of The Dan. Walter was very smooth, very cool on bass and lead guitar, and was thought to be more the rock and roll influence on the band. But who really knew? Little was known about the band and how their music was created.
Eddie looked east over the wasteland that was Elizabeth, New Jersey, with Staten Island a smudge in the background. They were driving north on the New Jersey Turnpike, heading right up the industrial gut of the state. Fields of railroad tracks and stacked metal containers spread out as far as he could see. Through the cloud cover he spotted the World Trade Center dominating the Manhattan skyline. Newark Airport was coming up on the left. The stereo was playing “Black Friday” from The Dan’s Katy Lied. “Bad Sneakers” would come next.
That night we got drunk. It seemed like only yesterday. It had been a night when Alison was off somewhere, shopping, carrying on, or whatever it was she and her friends did together. After work, yet another day escorting browsers around the furniture store, he had picked up a pizza and a couple of six-packs and gone straight to Jerry’s apartment. After eating the pizza and drinking most of the beer, they had gotten to talking about The Dan, and how sad it was that Fagen and Becker were so publicity shy—almost reclusive. Steely Dan had never been a mainstream band, not like Aerosmith or Journey, in large part because they had never toured when they were at the peak of their popularity. Except for some brief touring they did in the early seventies, they were a so-called “studio band.” After a long quiet period, Fagen and Becker had come out again in the early nineties, first as participants in shows around New York City, and then with full fledged Steely Dan tours in 1993, 1994 and 1996. But Fagen and Becker were still reclusive. Since the 1996 tour, they hadn’t been seen very often in public.
So Eddie had gotten pissed off—pissed off that good, loyal fans like the two of them couldn’t see their heroes on television, couldn’t see them flogging new CDs on Letterman and Leno, couldn’t even see a candid photo, captured by paparazzi on the street. Couldn’t get an autograph! Eddie had made a vow, right then and there, after consuming another couple of beers, that he would find Fagen and Becker, track them down, and meet them, shake their hands, congratulate them, get their autographs, and then, maybe, buy them a beer—or a cup of coffee, if they preferred. Or whatever.
Before, Eddie had been a fan, an avid fan, but now he really started to dig, doing research with a vengeance, trying to find out what made those guys tick. He went to bookstores and libraries and pored over reference books. He re-read the liner notes on all his Steely Dan CDs, and searched the web for any shred of information that might give him a clue as to their whereabouts. But there was very little; next to nothing. Those guys were invisible. Who were they? Where did they live? What the hell did they do all day? And slowly, like a newborn turtle crawling toward the ocean, the idea hatched in Eddie’s mind: he would find out where they lived, the reclusive Fagen and Becker, and seek them out.
After what he thought was a prodigious effort in a noble cause (and what his wife thought was a colossal waste of time), he determined that Fagen had been spotted at a few jazz clubs in Manhattan. From this, and other evidence, he concluded that Fagen lived in Manhattan, most likely in the Upper East Side, at least part of the time. Becker was easier to find: the liner notes of a couple of CDs indicated that he lived in Hawaii, on the island of Maui. Eddie had never been to Maui, had never been to Hawaii for that matter, but he figured, hell, how big was Maui, anyway? How difficult would it be to find one person?
But Fagen was closer, so he’d start there, looking for him, probably camped in a nice, quiet, secluded, whatever-kind-of-place-he-lived-in, right across the Hudson River. There were, however, a few minor details. The first, and, perhaps, the biggest: Fagen’s exact address, a closely guarded secret. And, once he had that, there would likely be security people who would discourage his quest. Obstacles to overcome, sure, but were there not obstacles in every noble endeavor? Wasn’t this worth doing?
An even bigger problem: he wasn’t all that comfortable in Manhattan. Jerry had been right: Eddie didn’t like the crowded streets and the pollution. Not that northeastern New Jersey was the Garden of Eden, but Manhattan was definitely worse, with lots of cars, trucks, and people, some of whom were pretty unsavory. And aggressive. People who, perhaps, wouldn’t take kindly to someone loitering on the sidewalk.
Alison hadn’t understood at all, hadn’t understood why her husband would be interested in meeting a couple of aging rock stars. Hero worship was for teenagers, she had said. After a couple of attempts, he had stopped trying to explain it to her. But it would have been hard for him to explain it to Jerry, who was a friend and a Dan Fan. He had trouble stating precisely what it was he was feeling to anyone. His life was on a downward spiral—going to shit, really—and he couldn’t seem to get it back on track. Meeting The Dan was something that might somehow inspire him, might somehow give him some new ideas. It might even get him writing again.
Eddie gazed out over a tangle of iron bridges, steel towers, and smokestacks that seemed to fade into the gloom. As they approached the entrance to the Holland Tunnel, “Any World (That I’m Welcome To)” was playing on the stereo. He glanced over at Jerry. Not only does he not have a care in the world, Eddie thought, he’s probably getting laid a lot more often than I am.
Thirty minutes later, Eddie dragged his suitcase and duffle bag through the revolving glass doors of The Future, a high-rise condominium in the Murray Hill section of Manhattan. What happened to the heat? And the lobby’s stark grey marble interior only added to the chill. He spotted an older man, perhaps sixty, wearing what passed for a guard’s uniform, sitting behind the podium reading The New York Times. A portable heater blasted hot air over the man’s shoes. Eddie identified himself, and the guard, not looking up, buzzed him into the elevator lobby. Great security! Two minutes later, he was on the twenty-eighth floor, shoving his luggage through the elevator doors.
Having heard the doors chime open, Mark came out of his apartment, turned toward Eddie, and, inexplicably, raised his left arm as if hailing a cab on the street. “Hey, Eddie,” he said.
Eddie, struggling with his luggage, looked up and replied, “Hey, Mark, can you give me a hand?”
What happened next was one of those awkward moments when people who know each other well, but have drifted apart, perhaps more than a little apart, come together and attempt to greet each other. Mark, caught unaware by his brother’s request for help, at first hesitated, and then took a faltering step forward. Seconds later, Eddie arrived at the apartment door, dropped his luggage, and extended his right hand. Mark, however, had reached down with his right hand and grabbed the duffle bag’s strap. Noticing his brother’s hand extended toward him, he offered his left hand, palm turned outward, in an awkward attempt to reciprocate. Thus began a clumsy handshake, with Eddie’s right hand grasping Mark’s reversed left. Both realizing the awkwardness, they released their grips, grinned, and proceeded to the next stage: a brotherly hug while leaning over two large pieces of luggage. Disengaging, the brothers finally worked their way around the luggage and consummated the hug, complete with a few slaps on the back and mumbled greetings of “long time no see,” and “good to see you, too.”
Five minutes later, having stowed the luggage in the spare bedroom, and Eddie having duly noted and admired the remarkable view overlooking the East River and the boroughs of Brooklyn and Queens, the brothers were back on the sidewalk, heading in the direction of Ming’s, a good Chinese restaurant that Mark knew. It was near freezing, and a salty grit crunched under their shoes as they walked. Eddie remembered the smell, the unique smell of commercial Manhattan: a mixture of diesel exhaust and spilled garbage and cheap food and who-knew-what-else.
In short order they were in the restaurant, sitting at a booth by the window, drinking beer, and waiting for the food to arrive. It seemed to be a decent place, Eddie thought, as he scanned the crowd. He spotted a few Asian families, and considered that a good sign.
Neither brother had yet broached a serious subject. Mark, whose philosophy was that the best defense is a good offense, made the first probe, the tentative jab of a boxer trying to get the feel of his opponent.
“So, Eddie, what’s going on with you and Alison?”
Right to the point. At least he remembered her name. “Well, Mark, it’s been coming for quite a while now. I just think we need some time apart.” As he said the words “time apart,” Eddie thought he detected a flash of concern on his brother’s face. Careful, he thought, I don’t want to scare him before I even unpack.
“What do you mean, it’s been coming for quite a while now?”
“Well, you know,” Eddie replied, “we both have our own interests, and, you know, we’re both pursuing our careers, so . . .”
His brother continued to probe: “So?”
He fumbled for the right words, “So, it’s just gotten pretty tense in the last few months.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Mark said, leaning back in his seat.
“Yeah.” Eddie sighed, took a deep breath, and plunged on. “But, you know, deep down, we love each other, and, well, I think … I hope we’ll be together again, soon.”
“What’s Alison doing now?” Mark asked. “Still at the ad agency?”
“Yeah, she’s still there, five years now.”
“Five years. She must be running the place.”
“No,” he parried as he finished his beer and signaled to the waiter for two more. “No, not quite yet. She’s a junior account executive.” Emphasis on the junior.
The food arrived, and the waitress arranged the platters and bowls in the center of the table. The sizzling black pepper shrimp was still sizzling, but the egg foo yung just sat there like malignant pancakes coated with congealed maple syrup. Eddie dug into the shrimp, while Mark grabbed a couple of barbequed ribs.
“Mmm,” Eddie said, chewing on a shrimp, “that is so good.”
“Chinese food,” Mark smiled, “medicine for the blues.”
Eddie popped another shrimp into his mouth. “Mark, do you mind if I ask you kind of a personal question?”
His brother sampled the egg foo yung, made a face, and dropped it back onto his plate. “Go ahead.”
“How can you afford that apartment?”
“It’s a condo. I know the owner from work. He’s been in London for a year, opening a new office. I’m doing him a favor by looking after it.”
“Some favor. What’s it cost you, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“I pay him two thousand a month, and I’m responsible for the utilities.” Mark smiled. “Shit, I couldn’t afford to own a place like that.”
Eddie whistled softly. “When does the owner come back?”
“In a couple of years.”
“Nice.” Eddie helped himself to a spare rib, and more shrimp. “So, Mark, what else is going on with you?”
“What else?” Mark pondered the question. “Well, things are going well at work.”
“What are you doing these days?” Eddie knew very well what his brother did for a living. His mother reminded him every chance she got.
“I’m still in investment banking,” Mark replied, as if that answer was sufficient for someone like Eddie, who didn’t understand the world of finance and big business.
“I still don’t understand what it is you do there,” Eddie continued, perhaps subconsciously playing for time.
“I analyze deals.”
“What kind of deals?”
“All kinds. You know, real estate, mergers and acquisitions, stuff like that.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“I’m just doing analysis, verifying facts, running the numbers, doing on-site evaluations; that kind of thing. It gets really interesting when you get into the negotiations.”
“On-site? Does that mean you travel?”
“Some … once or twice a month.”
Eddie decided to change directions. “So, how’s your love life?”
Mark put down his chopsticks and wiped his mouth.
“Pretty good, I guess. Slow at times.”
“You dating anyone in particular?”
“No. Not really.” Mark attempted to reclaim the initiative. “So, Eddie, where are you working now?”
I should have seen that one coming. “Uh,” he hesitated, “after this thing happened with Alison, I had to quit my job.” No way I’d commute from Manhattan to Somerset every day! “I’m just going to find something around here. You know, something temporary.”
“Do you need some help?” Mark asked, reflexively leaning forward and extending his hand toward his back pocket as if reaching for his wallet. “You know, just to tide you over?”
“Thanks, Mark, but I’m okay.”
The conversation drifted into less troubled waters. When the check came, Eddie grabbed it, as he had promised he would.
Thursday, March 2, 2000
Eddie woke, sat up in bed, and looked around the spare bedroom. It was small but well organized, with desk, dresser, leather chair, and bed fitting snugly around the room’s perimeter. The desk and dresser had a deep mahogany finish, and the leather chair, piled high with pillows and bed spread, was a rich shade of tan. Eddie’s suitcase and duffle bag sat in the middle of the room, right where he’d dropped them last night. He got out of bed and walked to the window, which faced south. The view was completely blocked by an office building. Can’t have everything. He put on a flannel shirt and corduroy pants—the same clothes he wore yesterday—straightened the sheet and blankets, and strolled into the kitchen.
Eddie didn’t know what to expect, but the smell of bacon and coffee put a smile on his face. He found Mark humming something from West Side Story as he scrambled eggs in a porcelain bowl. Over breakfast, the brothers talked, not jabbing away at each other as they had done the night before, but instead talking about the ongoing battles between Mayor Guiliani and Hillary Clinton, the local sports teams, and, of course, their parents. After breakfast, they moved into the living room and quickly scanned through the Times as clouds rolled across windows overlooking the East River. Minutes later, the sky cleared, and the boroughs of Brooklyn and Queens spread out before them, backlit by the morning sun.
Mark asked Eddie if he wanted to join him at his fitness club, which was a few blocks away. After they worked out, he would take a cab to work and Eddie could come back to the apartment. But Eddie declined, explaining that he needed to get out and start looking for a job and a place to stay, a good cover story for hitting a few music stores. He appreciated his brother’s hospitality, but didn’t want to get quite that comfortable in Mark’s world.
After showering and dressing, Eddie locked the apartment and took the elevator down to street level. No guard on duty, he noted, and the lobby was still freezing. He hopped on a northbound bus, and by early afternoon had purchased a copy of Two Against Nature at a Tower Records store in Midtown. Back out on the sidewalk, he loaded the CD into his Walkman, adjusted the earphones, and began listening as he walked south. It was bright and sunny, but the wind had picked up, and he was blasted with dust and dirt at every intersection. The streets were jammed with shoppers, hawkers, and drifters, more than he expected on a Thursday afternoon, and there were times he had to weave through the crowds.
By the fourth track, “Janie Runaway,” he was frowning. The CD was, he thought, a bit of a disappointment. Yeah, sure, it was Steely Dan, but it was somehow different. Some of the old riffs were there. Some of the music was vaguely familiar, reminiscent of the great old stuff, but it was mostly too new, too “jazzy,” and, even, in a strange way, alien. By the time he reached 40th Street he was shivering, and he flagged down a taxi. No point freezing to death.
Minutes later he was back in the apartment. He decided to give the CD another shot. After all, it was The Dan, and sometimes you had to listen to music a few times to get the feel of it. So he stretched out on the bed, turned on the Walkman, plugged the earphones into his ears, and began listening. The music was a little more familiar, sure, but still, well, strange. Yet another reason to track down Fagen and Becker. By the end of the third track, he was asleep.
*****
Mark banged the door open and flipped on the overhead light, waking Eddie from a sound sleep.
“Hey . . .” Eddie said, momentarily disoriented. He squinted up at Mark, who was a blurry silhouette in front of the window. “Hey, Mark. What time is it?”
“It’s almost seven, Eddie. I thought you might want to get up.” Mark was wearing a maroon turtleneck under a charcoal-grey suit that looked like money, Eddie thought, and he had a black overcoat folded over one arm.
“Yeah,” Eddie said, “thanks. Where are you going?”
“I’ve got a date.”
“Oh … good. With who?”
“One of the girls at the office.”
“Oh. Where are you going?”
“Just dinner. Look, I’ve got to run. You’ve got the whole place to yourself tonight.”
“Okay … good.”
“I’ll see you later. Don’t wait up, I might be late,” Mark said, going out the door.
“Okay, Mark. Have a good time.”
A few seconds later, he heard the apartment door close. He rolled out of bed and stretched, and then went into the bathroom to take a leak and splash cold water on his face.
He was starving, and there was nothing interesting in the refrigerator. Scrounging around in the kitchen cabinets, he found a pile of take-out menus, including one from Ming’s. He grabbed the phone, dialed the number, and was soon ordering the sizzling black pepper shrimp and vegetable fried rice. An hour later, he was eating while listening to the CD again, this time on the Bose stereo system in the living room. Still strange, he thought, as he finished off the shrimp.
He spent the next hour planning what he needed to accomplish in the next few days. Find a job and an apartment; those had to be items one and two on his “things to do” list. What else? Track down Fagen’s address, that was item three. He could do some more web searching and try to narrow it down to at least a neighborhood. And call Alison. Try to re-establish communication. Or maybe an email would be better. Or maybe he should just wait. He’d have to think about that for a while. He spent the rest of the evening reading Richard Russo’s Nobody’s Fool. Russo was special, he thought, an author who told great stories using beautiful prose. Finishing the book, he speculated on where his brother might be. Probably out painting the town. Eddie went to bed at the stroke of midnight.
Friday, March 3, 2000
Eddie smiled as he arranged placemats, dishes, silverware and napkins on the kitchen counter. He was making progress, at least on some fronts. This morning he had started looking for work, and had lucked into a pretty good job at the brand new Borders on Second Avenue, just a long city block from his brother’s apartment. The manager, a “take charge” guy who reminded Eddie of his mother, had asked him to browse around the store while he checked out Eddie’s references. Twenty minutes later, after verifying his credit history and phoning Mark and Jerry, the manager had hired him on the spot, guaranteeing twenty-five hours a week, with more possible if he was willing to work. He had worked four hours this afternoon, quickly learning the ropes, and would work a ten-to-six shift tomorrow.
He’d also spent some time surfing the web, researching Fagen’s address. There were plenty of places to look: an official Steely Dan website, purportedly run in cooperation with Fagen and Becker—no way of telling how true that was—and literally dozens of sites run by fans that contained guest books, obscure lyrics, and just about any kind of trivia one could imagine. But there were damned few clues about Fagen’s address. There were the names of a number of New York based recording studios that The Dan had used, and he looked up those addresses in the telephone directory, or on-line. He did find a few candid photos: one of Fagen on the sidewalk somewhere in Greenwich Village, another of Fagen coming out of Iridium, a jazz club on the Upper West Side, and a third of Fagen walking near the Guggenheim Museum. Eddie knew that musicians like Fagen had money, and lived in upscale neighborhoods. Perhaps near the Guggenheim.
Thinking about nice neighborhoods, and not-so-nice neighborhoods, Eddie remembered his father’s comments earlier in the week about the cost of living in Manhattan. He had looked at one tiny studio apartment in SoHo, which was barely within his ability to pay, even for a few weeks. A sublease anywhere in Manhattan would pretty much eat up his take-home pay, and he still felt obligated to help Alison pay the rent on their apartment, not that he’d spoken to her about that or anything else. And then there was the cost of the subway, and bus fares, and other details, like eating every day. He looked out the window and wondered what it would cost to live across the river.
A minute later, his brother unlocked the front door and walked into the kitchen, a brown paper bag hanging from each hand. “Hey,” Mark said, placing the bags carefully on the counter.
“Hey. How was work?” Eddie asked.
“Good. I got a lot of things done. It was pretty quiet today.”
Eddie picked up the aroma of garlic and oregano. “Italian food?” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
“Yeah, from La Pizzaria, across the street. We’re Zittner’s, remember? We eat Italian at least once a week.” Mark’s voice boomed as if he were about to break into operatic song; then he started to unload plastic containers. “Let’s see, two giant servings of lasagna in this one, and garlic bread in this one.” He loaded the lasagna into the microwave and started the warming cycle. “Eddie, can you get the salad? It’s in the other bag. And grab a bottle of red wine?”
“Will do,” Eddie replied, unloading a container filled with lettuce, cherry tomatoes, sliced onions, and peppers. Minutes later, the brothers were sitting side-by-side at the kitchen counter, savoring beefy lasagna covered with a rich tomato sauce.
Mark was in a good mood, Eddie thought, the happiest he’d seen him since, well, yesterday, over breakfast. But, having spent the last few years separated by more than just the Hudson River, his brother was a bit of a mystery to him. In high school, Mark had been a serious student, and hadn’t dated much. Then he’d attended Northwestern University in Chicago; not that far from New Jersey, but far enough to create more distance between them. Now, his brother seemed to be a workaholic, focusing on his job, but, surprisingly, he’d gone out last night, a week-night, coming home well after Eddie had gone to bed. Mark hadn’t said anything about who he was dating, other than identifying her as a girl from work, perhaps implying that more than one was in-play. Eddie realized that, other than that first dinner, and yesterday morning, they’d hardly seen each other. At least they were getting along, if not completely comfortable around each other.
“So,” Mark asked, “did you get that job at Borders?”
Eddie remembered that the store manager had called Mark. “Yeah. I even worked four hours this afternoon. I guess I have a special talent for working in bookstores.”
“Well, great,” his brother replied, biting into a piece of garlic bread, “at least you found something. Did you look at that sublet you saw in the paper?”
“Yeah, I took a look at it.”
“And?”
“Well, it was small, a studio, you know, but it was nice enough. Expensive, though.” He picked at the lasagna with his fork. “With my finances being what they are, it’ll have to be a place like that, or some flea-bag hotel, I guess.”
Mark put down the garlic bread and took a sip of wine, then swiveled to face his brother. “Eddie, look, I’ve been thinking, why don’t you just stay in the spare bedroom?”
“Mark, I couldn’t put you out like that.”
“It wouldn’t be putting me out. Not really. Hell, we hardly see each other.”
Eddie, embarrassed, dropped his eyes and took a large gulp of wine. Yeah, he thought, we’re like two ships passing in the night. Then he thought Mark might be talking about more than just the last couple of days.
His brother continued, “I mean, look at my schedule, and yours, now that you’ll be working. We’ll probably cross paths what, once or twice a day, tops? And I’ll be traveling some of the time.”
“Mark, I really don’t want to impose. That wasn’t my intention.”
“You wouldn’t be imposing. Brothers, remember?” Now Mark looked away, perhaps worried that he was getting too close. But then he turned back toward Eddie with a grin, “Anyway, we’re talking about a few weeks, right?”
“A few weeks … hopefully.”
“It’s no big deal, Eddie.”
“Hey,” Eddie said, punching his little brother lightly on the shoulder, “you’re going to embarrass me. See?” he said, pointing at his face. “Tears.”
“You always were a crybaby,” Mark snorted as he grabbed the last piece of garlic bread.
Eddie smiled. Memories rush over me. We called each other “crybaby” when we were kids.
Saturday, March 4, 2000
A persistent buzzing, like flies caught in a screen window, woke Eddie out of a sound sleep. He glanced at the clock radio—just after seven—reached under the bed, and picked up his cell phone.
“Hey,” he mumbled.
“Zit, it’s me, Jerry.”
Eddie yawned. “Jer. Why you calling so early?”
“Did you see The Dan on Letterman last night?”
“What?” He sat up.
“Steely Dan. They were on Letterman last night. Didn’t you get my message?”
Eddie turned on a lamp and held the phone under it. The message indicator was blinking away. “Shit no, I never got your message. I must’ve crashed after dinner. When did you call?”
“Right before they came on. After midnight. I turned it on just by chance. It was just dumb luck, my friend.”
“No shit.”
“No shit. The Dan on Letterman. It was unreal. They were hyping that new CD they just released.”
“Two Against Nature.”
“Yeah. They played something from it.”
“What? What did they play?”
“I don’t remember … but I taped it for you. Right over The Sopranos.”
“Shit. I don’t believe I missed it.”
“You missed it, Zit.”
“Shit.”
“Zit, I’ve got to go. I’m opening the store today.”
“Okay. Hold on to that tape for me.”
“I will. Hey, Zit, you know what this means?”
“What?”
“Fagen and Becker. They’re both in the city. In Manhattan.”
From: EZEddie32@nyc.rr.com
To: HeyNineteeen@dandom.com, AlbertW500@nyc.rr.com, GGrimme8@cornell.edu, RSF6729@aol.com, MarKau55@nyc.rr.com, KBalla42@earthlink.net, Fuzzy77@yahoo.com, CoolK567@bellsouth.net
Subject: REQUEST FOR HELP
I am a big fan of Steely Dan. I got your email addresses by searching the web. You guys all maintain SD related websites, or refer to SD on your website, or are mentioned as “knowledgeable fans.” You might be able to help me out.
I have not been able to find much SD memorabilia. There is almost nothing worth buying on eBay or any of the other sites that sell memorabilia. I’ve checked some stores in Manhattan and also struck out. By the way, I’m from New Jersey but living in Manhattan temporarily. Any of you living in the City?
So anyway, I figured, maybe I can at least get an autograph at one of Fagen or Becker’s “infrequent” appearances in Manhattan. I know they’re in the City since they appeared on Letterman this week. Do any of you know where they hang out? I thought about hanging around Fagen’s neighborhood (the best address I could come up with is 1675 Madison Avenue) and see if I could spot him, and maybe get his autograph. Or, maybe I would have better luck hanging around their recording studio (River Sound at 312 East 95th Street).
Any suggestions or help would be greatly appreciated.
Thanks in advance…
EZEddie
*****
To: EZEddie32@nyc.rr.com
From: KBalla42@earthlink.net
Subject: FUCK OFF, PSYCHO
Hey, psycho, if you know anything about the Dan, you would know that they value their privacy. Real fans know enough to leave them alone. So go back to your hole in New Jersey.
*****
To: EZEddie32@nyc.rr.com
From: Fuzzy77@yahoo.com
Subject: Re: REQUEST FOR HELP
Thanks for your email!! It’s always good to hear from another Dan Fan!!
Anyway, I live in Seattle and run the SD Fan Club out here. We have over 100 people on our mailing list!!! I’ve never been to New York, and have no idea how to reach Fagen and Becker. Hey, you know Becker lives in Hawaii, right? Most of the memory-belia I’ve seen out here is from the tours the Dan did in the 90s. I’m not much for memory-bilia myself. I just groove to the sounds!!
Have you listened to Two Against Nature yet? (assume you have if you are a Dan Fan) It is unbelievable!!!!!!!!
Have a nice life!! Give me a shout if you are ever in Seattle!!
Fuzzy
*****
To: Fuzzy77@yahoo.com
From: EZEddie32@nyc.rr.com
Subject: Thanks
Hey, thanks. Yeah, I know Walter lives in Hawaii. I forgot to mention it in my first email.
…EZ
*****
To: EZEddie32@nyc.rr.com
From: AlbertW500@nyc.rr.com
Subject: SD
EZEddie, I get all the SD newsletters and monitor all the websites. Fagen and Becker are nearly invisible. Of course, Becker lives in Hawaii, but he hangs in New York quite a bit, if you believe the newsletters. Sometimes Fagen sits in at one of the jazz clubs in Manhattan. You might try asking around at Iridium or the Blue Note.
Albert
*****
To: EZEddie32@nyc.rr.com
From: MarKau55@nyc.rr.com
Subject: You’ve got the wrong address
EZEddie, your search must have picked up the reference I have on my personal website. (Steely Dan Rules!) I don’t know how you came up with 1675 Madison, but that’s not it. I have it on good authority (I’m not saying how I found out) that Fagen lives at 59 East 88th Street. You’re right on with River Sound, but that’s no big secret, you can probably find it in the telephone book.
Hope this helps
MarKau
*****
To: MarKau55@nyc.rr.com
From: EZEddie32@nyc.rr.com
Subject: Thanks
MarKau55, thanks for the info, it helps a lot. I see we have the same domain. We can IM each other. Where are you located?
EZEddie
*****
MarKau55: I live in the East Village, and work at Zabar’s on 80th and Broadway. Have you ever heard of it? We have the best smoked fish in the city…MK
EZEddie32: I’ve heard of it, but never been there. Hey, as a way of thanking you for your help, can I buy you lunch? How about tomorrow (Tuesday)? I don’t have to be at work until two…EZ
MarKau55: Why not? We both have to eat, right? I’ll do you one better, I’ll bring the food (you can pay me back). How about nova, sable carp, bagels and cream cheese, etc? I can meet you at noon, right in front of Zabar’s … Okay? If it’s not too cold, we can eat on one of the park benches…MK
EZEddie32: Sounds good. I love nova, but never tried sable carp. How will I know you? EZ
MarKau55: I’ll be wearing my SD hat from the 1994 tour. Sable carp is just another kind of smoked fish. See you tomorrow…MK
Tuesday, March 7, 2000
Standing on the corner of 80th and Broadway, Eddie scanned the sidewalk, looking for a Steely Dan hat. Zabar’s had five doors facing Broadway, each under its own archway, with each archway sporting a bright orange “Zabar’s” sign. A bit redundant … He wore his own hat from The Dan’s 1994 tour, figuring if he didn’t spot MarKau, at least MarKau would have a shot at spotting him.
It was another one of those cold, beautiful days in March: bright and sunny, with no wind. Perhaps forty degrees, Eddie thought. Trucks and busses lumbered by, spewing exhaust in his direction, and every so often he felt the rumble of the subway beneath his feet. The sidewalks were relatively clean, but still crowded with shoppers and delivery men.
He walked north, noting that the first door was the entrance to Zabar’s coffee shop, the second was an entrance to the store itself, and both the third and fourth doors were exits. There was still no sign of MarKau as he approached the last door.
“Hey, Easy Eddie,” someone shouted from behind him.
He turned and spotted a Steely Dan hat sitting on the head of a pretty young woman carrying a shopping bag. He waved and walked in her direction.
“You must be MarKau,” he said, hiding his surprise as he approached. She was wearing a black leather jacket, a red sweater, jeans, and sneakers. He offered his hand, and she took it.
“Marcie Kaufman,” she replied.
Nice smile. “I’m Easy Eddie … Zittner,” he stammered, then managed to blurt out: “Eddie Zittner. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, Eddie.”
“Uh, you’re not what I expected,” he replied, then immediately added, “I mean, I don’t know what I expected . . .”
“What did you expect?” she said, frowning, adding to his embarrassment.
“”Uh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything. I just—”
“You expected a guy, huh?”
“Yeah … I guess so.”
“The Dan has a lot of female fans, you know.”
“What can I say . . .?” I’m blowing it.
“Look, do you still want to have lunch?”
“Yeah, sure, why not? Always happy to meet another Dan fan.”
“Well, it’s too cold to eat outside.”
“Agreed.”
“We can eat in the coffee shop. You’ve never been to Zabar’s, right?”
“Right.”
“Follow me. I’ll give you the nickel tour.” Marcie turned and pushed through the last door. He followed as she worked her way through the store, first squeezing past waist-high barrels of fragrant coffee beans, and then turning left into baked goods, where he was overwhelmed by the smell of warm onion rolls. Continuing on, Marcie introduced him to Sal and Morey, the two guys that ran the smoked fish counter. They finally exited through the cheese department, another olfactory delight. A minute later, they were in the coffee shop. Marcie put the bag of food on the table, and then took off her jacket and swung it over the back of a chair.
“This is it. Nothing fancy, but it is warm.” She smiled, her eyelids fluttering over blue eyes that reminded him of Liv Tyler. Finally, she took off the hat and shook her head—just a little, just enough to free up her auburn hair—and sat down. Very nice. He swung his jacket across the chair opposite hers. After standing for a few seconds, looking like a nebbish, he sat down and tried to think of something intelligent to say.
“Oh, this is great.” He grinned. “They won’t hassle us about bringing food in here?”
“No. It’s all the same food. Anyway, I work here, remember?”
“Right. What kind of work?”
“Oh, this and that. Mostly I work behind the counters. Sometimes I do check-out.”
“Well, thanks again. This is great.” She had a nice smile, he thought; cute, with a dimple on her left cheek. She had those little stickpin-style earrings: two on the left, and two on the right. He didn’t know if that was significant, not being up-to-date on the latest trends in ear fashion. He hadn’t seen much of her body, but she looked slim and athletic. He guessed she was in her mid-twenties.
As he watched, Marcie busied herself unpacking the food. First she laid out the nova and sable on the paper it had been wrapped in, which was stained with grease. Then she took out four bagels, already sliced, and laid them across a couple of paper napkins. Good selection, he noted, spotting a sesame, a plain, an onion, and one with what looked like everything on it. Then she took out two containers of cream cheese, one plain and one with chives. Finally she laid out napkins, plastic knives and forks, and two bottles of water.
“Do you want coffee?” she asked.
“Uh, later would be fine,” he replied as he spread chive cream cheese over half a sesame bagel. Then he laid a generous piece of nova on top. “This is great.”
“You’ve already said that.”
“But it is … great.”
“That’s four times now.”
“Okay, I’ll stop.” he said, and, attempting to sound at least semi-intelligent, continued with “So, how long have you worked here?”
“I’ve been here for a couple of years,” she said, carefully chewing a mouthful of sable and onion bagel. “I’m working my way through law school: N.Y.U.”
Law school. He re-assessed the young woman sitting opposite him. “When do you finish?”
“December 16th.” He started to respond, but she interrupted: “No need to say ‘great’ again.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
They grinned at each other. Marcie continued, “So what do you do?”
“I’m just living in Manhattan, you know, temporarily. Working at a bookstore.”
“No kidding. I guess you just pick up girls on the internet as, what, a hobby?”
“Uh . . .” He stammered again, glancing down at the wedding band still on his left hand, “yeah … I mean, no. Hey, I didn’t know you were a woman.”
“True. I’ll give you that.”
“And, uh, I’m separated from my wife. She left me,” he quickly added.
“She back in New Jersey?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“You said you were from Jersey in your email.”
Time to re-assess again … a lawyer-to-be, and sharp as a tack. He finished his half bagel and reached for another.
“Why don’t you try the sable this time?”
“Okay. What’s good with it?”
“Try it on the onion bagel, or the everything. No cream cheese.”
“No cream cheese?”
“Well, that’s how I like it, but it’s up to you.”
He picked up half of an everything bagel, forked a couple of slices of sable over it, took a bite, and chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds.
“Good?” she asked.
“Yeah, not bad at all. Moist. A little salty. Different.”
“Subtle flavor, right?”
“Subtle would be a good way to describe it. I like it.”
“What’s not to like?” Smiling, Marcie decided to try the nova, layering it over chive cream cheese on the remaining half of the sesame bagel. “So, being a Dan Fan, I assume you’ve listened to Two Against Nature?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “It’s pretty good.” He had listened to it numerous times, and had grudgingly conceded that it was quality stuff. When played on the stereo system at his brother’s place, some of it was outstanding.
“I think it’s a little too jazzy,” Marcie said. “I guess I like the old stuff better.”
“Yeah, I can see your point.” He took a huge bite of his sandwich.
“I really like ‘Jack of Speed,’ though. You know, track six?”
“Mmm . . .” He nodded agreement as he wiped his mouth. “Yeah, you’re right, that’s one of the better ones.” He was relaxed now, and feeling more comfortable. “So, how did you know Fagen’s address?”
“Oh, I never give away my sources,” she replied.
“Come on, at least give me a clue . . .”
“A friend of a friend knows him. Or, rather, lives in the same building.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. And,” she continued, “I really had second thoughts about sending you that address, privacy laws being what they are.”
But you can’t very well retrieve an email once it’s sent.
The conversation rambled over less weighty subjects. They were washing down their third half bagels with cups of coffee when Marcie came back to the subject of Fagen’s address:
“So, what are you planning to do? Walk right in and knock on his door? Ask for his autograph?”
“Uh, I don’t know yet. I haven’t figured out that part of it.”
“I doubt that would work.”
In fact, he had thought about it. He knew very well that the wrong kind of approach would get him tossed on the sidewalk, or perhaps worse. “Why?” he replied.
“Security. You wouldn’t get close.”
“Well, then, I might just hang around outside and wait for him to come out. Maybe carry a sign on my shoulder.”
“What, march up and down the street? Like a parade?”
“Yeah. Like a parade.” He hadn’t pictured it that way, but there was something to the idea. A parade … maybe he could recruit some followers.
Marcie thought about it for a moment. “Might work,” she concluded, “although, in that neighborhood, people don’t take kindly to that sort of thing.”
“What people?”
“The people that live there. And security. Doormen. Cops.”
“What about free speech? Or the right to walk up and down the street?”
“Yeah, there is that.”
“Hey, if I get arrested, will you defend me?” He grinned, and she grinned back at him. He continued, “Suppose I were to hang out—parade, as you said—on the sidewalk and wait for him to come out. Would you hang out with me? You know, strength in numbers?”
“Uh, I don’t think so.”
“What’s the matter? No guts?”
“I just don’t think hanging around on the street is a good idea. Too suspicious-looking.”
“I’m harmless. I just want an autograph.”
“This is New York City, remember?” she said, glancing at her watch. “Hey, almost one o’clock. I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Well, thanks, Marcie. It was great … I mean, very nice to meet you.”
“Same here.”
“Hey, I’ll send you an email if I have any success. Maybe we can stay in touch, you know? I’m new to Manhattan.”
She weighed the pros and cons. “Yeah, send me an email. I’d like that.”
They stood.
“What about the mess?” he said.
“I’ll clean it up.”
“Well, good-bye then. I’ll send you that email.”
“Eddie. Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What?”
“You owe me fifteen bucks for the lunch.”
*****
He was euphoric as he walked south on Broadway. She was pretty, and smart. What if things didn’t work out with Alison? Then, reaching the bus stop, he felt a strong surge of guilt. Yeah, 1675 Madison was a real address, and a real condo, a fancy one at that, but he had no idea whether or not Fagen lived there. He had “gone fishing” on the internet to see if someone would take the bait. Hadn’t that been his intention? And it had worked. He had bluffed someone—Marcie—into disclosing Fagen’s address. On the other hand, he hadn’t coerced her or anything, had he?
Four hours later, Eddie Zittner was sitting at a table at the Café Indulge, stuffing his face with apple pie, washing it down with coffee, and staring out the window. Waves of students and mothers pushing baby carriages moved along the sidewalk. Across Second Avenue, people were lined up around the block, waiting to get into the Loews movie theater complex, which was adjacent to the Borders where he worked. He looked around for the waitress with the Russian accent, the one who reminded him of Julie Christie in Doctor Zhivago, but she was nowhere in sight. Sighing, he pulled out his cell phone, flipped it open, and punched in Jerry’s number. Jerry picked up on the third ring:
“Brunswick Books, Jerry speaking.”
“Jerry, it’s Eddie.”
“Easy, my main man, long time no hear from.”
Long time? “Jer, you called me, what, Saturday? Remember? About the Letterman show?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s right. Hey, hold on a minute.”
Eddie heard voices in the background—people arguing?—and then Jerry’s voice, telling them—ordering them—to hold it down. Seconds later, Jerry was back on the line.
“So,” Eddie asked, “what’s up?”
“Not much. Same old, same old.”
Eddie heard more voices in the background. More arguing.
“Hold on another minute, will ya?” Jerry said, sounding a bit frustrated. “Let me get rid of these idiots.” Eddie listened as Jerry gave his troops directions on the right way to stack books on shelves. “Okay,” Jerry breathed a sigh of relief, “I’m back.”
“Jer, what have you got going Thursday?”
“That’s what, the day after tomorrow? I’ll probably be in the store for a few hours. Why?”
“Why don’t you come to Manhattan and help me smoke out The Dan?”
“What? You’ve already tracked them down?”
“Not exactly. I’ve got a line on Fagen’s address.” Silence on the line. I’ve surprised him. “You still there?”
“Yeah, man,” Jerry finally replied. “How’d you get it?”
“I got it from another fan.”
“Amazing. I guess it wasn’t such a big secret after all.”
“I think it is a big secret, Jer. I just happened to find someone who knew someone who, well, you know what I mean.”
“That’s great. So, what do you mean, smoke him out?”
“Jer, I’ve got it all worked out. We’re gonna parade up and down the sidewalk, you know, with posters, and try to get his attention. He’ll come out. Eventually.”
“Zit, how’d you come up with that idea?”
“Well, we can’t very well just knock on his door, can we?”
“Uh, no. But what makes you think Fagen will even know you’re there?”
“I assume he looks out his window every so often.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Jerry said. “And what if he doesn’t?”
“Well, I assume there are people going in and out of the building all the time. Don’t you think someone will tell him there’s a parade in his honor, out on the sidewalk?”
“Yeah. Maybe. Zit, you’re actually going to parade up and down the sidewalk?”
“Yeah.”
“What about the cops?”
“What about them?”
“Won’t they stop you?”
“I don’t see why.” He popped the last piece of pie crust into his mouth, and downed the last of his coffee. Spotting the Russian waitress, he held up his cup and gestured for a refill.
“You might want to check that out,” Jerry said. “You know, before you go out there?”
“Jerry. We’re talking a few people, with signs, walking up and down the sidewalk. We’re not gonna disturb anything.”
“Well, look, Zit, I don’t think I can make it.”
“Oh, come on, Jer.” My hypothetical friend.
“Zit, it’s a long drive to Manhattan.”
“Jer. Buddy.”
“Buddy nothing. And it’s gonna be fucking cold out there.”
“It’s not that bad. Shit, the newspapers all say it’s been a mild winter.”
“Mild winter my ass. Out on the sidewalk it ain’t that mild.”
“So what? You have warm clothes, don’t you? I’ll buy you some coffee. All you want.”
“Then I can take a leak on the sidewalk, I guess.”
“Come on, Jer. Strength in numbers.”
“Look, Zit, I’ll tell you what. You go out there by yourself once or twice, and if you don’t get arrested, then you call me back.”
“Will you come then?”
“I’ll consider it. No guarantee.”
Eddie figured this was probably the best he would get out of Jerry. “Okay, deal. I’ll call you after I try it once or twice.”
“Deal. So, Zit, what else is happening? Are you still at your brother’s place?”
“Yeah, I’m staying in his spare bedroom. And I’m working as a temp in a bookstore.”
“No kidding. You been in touch with Alison yet?”
“No, not yet. But, Jerry, guess what? I met a girl.”
“You met a girl? No shit?”
He could tell he’d regained Jerry’s attention. “No shit, Jer. I had lunch with her today.”
“Zit. Let me remind you that you’re still married.”
“So? Alison walked out on me, didn’t she?”
“I guess you could say that. Technically.”
“So, what’s the problem? I just had lunch with the girl.”
“How’d you meet her?”
“On the internet.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. She’s the one that had Fagen’s address.”
“You son-of-a-bitch. Hey, Zit, just remember that you’re still married. Okay? To a beautiful woman, I might add.”
“I’ll try to remember.”
“Yeah. You do that. Zit, look, I gotta go. I’ve gotta get back to work.”
“Let me guess: your staff needs more of your guidance.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Okay, Jer, take it easy. I’m gonna call you next week.”
“Okay, Zit, you take care.”
Thursday, March 9, 2000
Eddie literally bounced along the sidewalk as he worked his way along Third Avenue toward the bus stop. This is the day. This is the day I meet the Dan Man.
Even though it looked like reasonable weather—the forecast was for cloudy skies with a high of forty-five degrees—he was prepared for the worst. He was wearing a black sweater over a red flannel shirt, navy corduroy pants, ski-style wool socks, and black hiking boots. He had his heavy winter coat on, a forest green monstrosity with wooden pegs for buttons. He had a scarlet-red Rutgers scarf around his neck, his CD player, earphones, and a pair of lined gloves in his pockets, and a Steely Dan baseball cap on his head. A handmade sign—with Steely Dan Rules! hand-printed on both sides—was tucked under one arm; Eddie had cobbled it together with a broomstick, poster-board, thumb tacks, and duct tape. He was ready for anything.
It was mid-morning, and the sidewalk was crowded with shoppers, but no one glanced at him as he boarded the uptown bus. Even with the sign, he looked normal compared to some of the characters on the streets of Manhattan. Twenty minutes later, he got off at 88th Street and headed west.
Fifty-nine East 88th Street sat in a quiet neighborhood that was primarily residential, a mixture of high-rise apartments, condominiums, and elegant brownstones. Some of the brownstones had been converted to the swank offices of lawyers, doctors, and trading companies. But it was still Manhattan, and the streets were dotted with restaurants, coffee shops, and boutiques. Stopping at the corner of 88th and Park Avenue, he took a minute to adjust his earphones—he was listening to Pretzel Logic—put on his gloves, and deploy his Steely Dan Rules! sign, drawing a few stares from nearby pedestrians. He watched as clouds rolled across the sky. It won’t reach forty-five degrees today.
Continuing west on 88th Street—parading, as Marcie had described it—Eddie spotted the canopy that led into the main entrance of the building. It was a modest structure—fourteen or fifteen stories, he thought—of red brick faced with white marble at street level. As he approached, he noticed a loading zone at the curb, and a pair of giant shrubs in ornate ceramic pots straddling the building’s entrance. Passing under the canopy, he glanced to his left and saw a doorman standing just inside the glass doors. He continued past, walked all the way to Madison Avenue, turned, and headed back. It was relatively quiet, with few people on the sidewalks.
After passing the building perhaps half a dozen times, he drew the attention of the doorman, who had come outside and was now standing under the canopy, watching him. He hesitated for just a second, but then, remembering his civil rights, he continued on, moving steadily forward. The doorman was tall and thin, and, dressed in a grey uniform with gold trim and a neat blue tie, somehow reminded him of Abraham Lincoln. All that’s missing, he thought, was the top hat and beard. As Eddie approached, he wondered how cold this guy must be without an overcoat, gloves, or, for that matter, any kind of hat.
Old Abe folded his arms across his chest and addressed him: “Hey, what gives?” Breath steamed out of his mouth.
Eddie pulled his earplugs out. “What?”
“I said, what gives?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what are you doing out here?”
“I’m walking up and down the sidewalk minding my own business.”
“What’s with the sign?” the doorman said as he rubbed his hands together.
Eddie could see that the man was uncomfortable. His cheeks were beginning to turn blue. “What about it?” he replied.
“You can’t demonstrate out here.”
A few passersby glanced at them, but kept moving. An old gentleman walking a wiener-dog stopped to watch and listen. The man looked Chinese, and the dog was some kind of dachshund mix. Eddie looked more closely. The dog … the dog had a giant penis!
The doorman turned to the man and said, “Hello, doctor. Did you enjoy your walk?”
“It’s a little too cold for walking today,” the doctor replied.
The dog growled and jumped at Eddie, only to be pulled up short by his leash. Eddie’s jaw dropped as he watched the dog’s penis bounce just millimeters above the sidewalk. It’s enormous! I should be so lucky!
Eddie gave Old Abe a “did you see that?” look, but the doorman, apparently having seen the dog many times, wasn’t impressed. The two men watched as the doctor entered the building dragging the dog behind him. The dog’s dick barely cleared the threshold. Eddie sighed. I guess nuisance is in the eye of the beholder.
As the glass doors closed, Old Abe turned his attention back to Eddie. “Like I was saying, you can’t demonstrate out here.”
“I’m not demonstrating.”
“You’re demonstrating. You’re making a public nuisance.”
“What public nuisance?” Eddie replied. “I don’t see any nuisance. There’s hardly anybody around.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said the doorman, now visibly suffering. “You can’t demonstrate out here.”
“I’m walking up and down the sidewalk with a sign. What’s the big deal?”
“Look,” said the doorman, quickly realizing that he was going to freeze to death in another minute or two, “I guess I can’t stop you from walking on the sidewalk.” He backed toward the glass doors. “Just remember, no disturbances. You hear what I’m saying?”
“I hear you.”
The glass doors opened. The doorman, still backing up, pointed a finger at him and repeated his admonition: “No disturbances.”
“Got it,” Eddie replied, counting this as a victory, however small.
*****
The next hour was uneventful. Eddie paraded up and down the sidewalk, and was pretty much ignored by everyone who passed, except for one elderly man who called him “Bozo” and told him to get a job. Few people entered or left the apartment building, and none of them looked remotely like Donald Fagen. The doorman occasionally left his desk to greet residents, and gave Eddie the hairy eyeball every chance he got.
Tired from parading in the near-freezing cold, and hungry from the exertion, Eddie walked over to Lexington Avenue, where he spotted a hot dog stand. The man tending the stand, an elderly guy built like an extra-wide fireplug, was wearing bulbous white sneakers, a red sweatsuit, and a black pullover hat that covered his head, ears, and most of his forehead. Eddie saw that the man’s already ample belly looked like it was wrapped with a garden hose. As he got closer, he saw that the man was wearing layers of clothing—thermal underwear for sure, he guessed—and the clothing had bunched up around his waist.
As he approached, the man waved to him and shouted, “Hey, Steely Dan, how about a hot one? All beef!”
Eddie looked up and down Lexington, but didn’t see anything better.
The man continued, “I know those Steely Dan guys.”
“Yeah? How?”
“They come around here all the time, you know? For hot dogs.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
“So,” Eddie probed, “what do they look like?”
“Steely Dan? A tall guy and a shorter guy.”
That could be Fagen and Becker. “What do they look like?”
The man put a finger to his lips, thought for a few seconds, and replied, “The tall guy is dark, and the shorter guy is not so dark.”
That could be them! “What else?”
“They usually wear raincoats.” The man’s eyebrows bounced, and he pursed his lips to stifle an impending grin. “You know what I mean? So they don’t rust when it rains?” The man winked at Eddie, and asked him what he wanted to eat.
Everybody’s a comedian. He ordered a hot dog with mustard and sauerkraut, and a root beer. As he stood on the sidewalk eating, his cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Eddie, it’s me, Dad.”
“Hey, Dad,” he replied, immediately feeling guilty that he hadn’t called his parents since he’d moved in with Mark. But he was always happy to hear his father’s voice. “How’s it going?”
“Well, I’m doing better than John McCain. How about you? And where are you?’
Eddie knew that his father followed politics closely. McCain had been hammered on Super Tuesday. The newspapers speculated that he was about to drop out of the presidential race. “I’m fine, Dad. I’m just standing on a street corner eating a hot dog.”
“So you’re not working yet?”
“No, I found a job, Dad. I’m working as a temp at a bookstore. I’m just not working today.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Yeah. Have you spoken to Mark?”
“No,” Harry Zittner lied. In fact, he had called Mark to see what was happening with Eddie, and then sworn Mark to secrecy.
“Well, I’m going to be staying at his place for a while.”
“That’s good,” his father said, having already heard this from his younger son. “At least you won’t be spending an arm and a leg on some crummy apartment.”
“Yeah. Mark said I could crash in his spare room, for a few weeks, anyway.”
“Eddie,” his father said, the preliminaries over, “Your mother and I need to talk to you.”
Something tightened in Eddie’s stomach. He tossed the last bite of hot dog into a nearby trash can. “Are you okay, Dad?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. My health is fine.” Eddie took a deep breath of cold air as his father continued, “Look, can you come to the house for dinner tonight? Around seven?”
Eddie checked his watch. Time was not the problem. He thought about how he might get from Manhattan to Saddle River, and concluded that he’d need to take the train over to Jersey, and then a cab to the house. “What do you want to talk about, Dad?” he probed. “And what about Mark? Do you want him to come, too?”
“No, just come by yourself. Your mother and I want to talk to you.”
“Okay, Dad.” He thought he had a fair idea of what they wanted to talk about. “I’ll be there. I’ll see you later. You and Ma.”
“Okay, Easy, take care. Dress warm.”
He flipped the phone closed, drained the root beer, tossed the bottle into the trash, and looked around for a bus stop.
As the taxi stopped in front of his parents’ house, Eddie glanced at his watch. He was ten minutes early. He paid the driver, got out, hunched his shoulders against the cold, and began climbing up the granite walkway. As he neared the house, he saw his father open the door, step outside, and wave a greeting. He waved back, noting that his father was dressed for the occasion. Well, not exactly dressed up, but he was wearing a powder blue shirt with a button-down collar, a navy sweater vest, charcoal grey slacks, and a well-shined pair of black loafers. This must be important.
Arriving at the entryway, Eddie offered his hand, which his father took as he pulled his son closer. “I’m early,” he gasped as his father gave him a bear-hug.
“I know.” His father released his grip. “I saw the cab pull up. How long did it take you to get here?”
“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.”
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 eyebrows. 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.
Sunday, March 12, 2000
To: MarKau55@nyc.rr.com
From: EZEddie32@nyc.rr.com
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: EZEddie32@nyc.rr.com
From: MarKau55@nyc.rr.com
Subject: Hi back
Eddie, I just got your email. I’m on-line, too. Switch to IM … Marcie
*****
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.
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.
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 quit 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?”
She gestured toward Ray’s Famous Pizza at the corner of 95th and Second. “Why don’t we go over there?” Soon they were seated across a table, Eddie with a greasy slice of pepperoni and a coke, and Lois with a cup of coffee. Eddie’s Steely Dan Rules! sign was leaning against the wall a few feet away.
She took out a pen and notepad. “Let me start by asking you who you are, where you’re from, and what it is you’re doing?”
“That’s a lot of questions.”
“Well, I am a reporter.”
“Okay. My name is Eddie Zittner. I’m from New Jersey, living temporarily in Manhattan.”
“Zittner with one ‘t’ or two ‘t’s?”
“Two.”
She started taking notes. “And what is it you’re doing out here?”
“I’m trying to get the musicians from Steely Dan to come down from their studio and give me their autographs.”
“Their autographs. Who’s autograph? And why do you want their autographs?”
“Do you know who Steely Dan is?”
“Yeah, they’re a rock and roll group. They have some good tunes.”
“Good tunes?”
“Yeah, tunes. Songs.”
Eddie stood up. “You don’t know anything about them, do you?”
“I’m not an encyclopedia,” Lois replied, giving back a little attitude. “I’ve heard some of their songs. Okay?” She stared hard at him.
“No, not okay.” Eddie grabbed his sign, ready to resume his quest.
Lois stood and confronted him. “Hey! I’m a reporter. I can’t know everything about everything.”
“Obviously.” He returned her stare. They stood there, eyeball to eyeball. An elderly couple at the counter turned and watched them.
“Hey!” She said, almost shouting. “Take it easy. I’m just trying to do my job.”
The elderly couple flinched and hurried out of the store. The man behind the counter hollered at them: “You two! You’re costing me business!”
Eddie ignored the man and continued to glare at Lois. “Tell your boss to send someone who knows music next time.”
Lois glared back. “Well, fuck this. I didn’t come all the way up here just to have you jerk me around.” She shoved her pen and notebook into her handbag, and headed for the door.
Eddie, shaken, did some quick thinking. Remember, idiot, that a little publicity might help your cause? And he hadn’t meant to come across like a jerk. “Wait a minute,” he said.
She turned back to face him. “What?” She spat the word at him.
“Hey … I’m sorry,” he said, calming down. “I’ve had a bad week. I’m sorry I lost it there.”
She took a deep breath. “You gonna cooperate?”
“Yeah,” he said, contrite. He sat back down and composed himself. Then she sat back down and took out her pen and notebook .
“Okay. Where were we? Tell me about Steely Dan.”
“Steely Dan . . .” He gathered his thoughts. “Steely Dan is probably the best rock group of all time.”
“Of all time. That’s your opinion, right?”
“Yeah, and the opinion of lots of other people.”
“Are you part of a fan club or something?”
A fan club? He’d never join a fan club. “No.”
“So you’re doing this on your own.”
“Well, sometimes other people join me while I’m walking.”
Lois looked out the window, down 95th Street, as if searching for his followers. “It’s pretty quiet around here. Not many people.”
“There are, sometimes.”
“Let’s go back to Steely Dan. What makes them so good?”
This was the question he had contemplated on-and-off for months—years, really. “It’s a lot of things. The music is excellent. Exceptional. And the lyrics are, well, unique. Sometimes funny, other times sarcastic.”
“So it’s really good music, with clever lyrics?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Okay, let me ask a different question. Why are you on this particular street?”
“River Sound, their studio, is just down the block.”
“River Sound.” She wrote the name in her notebook.
“Yeah.”
“And how do you know River Sound is their studio?”
“Research.”
Five minutes later the interview was over, and they were back on Second Avenue. Lois pulled a camera out of her handbag. “Do you mind if I take a picture of you holding that sign?”
He thought for a moment. A newspaper article was one thing, but his picture in the paper? After some discussion, she took a picture of the sign as it leaned against a tree. They said their good-byes, Lois thanking him and telling him to look for the article in tomorrow’s paper. She turned and walked down the street, looking for a taxi.
Uninformed, but she had a really nice walk.
Wednesday, March 15, 2000
Searching for Steely Dan
Exclusive
By Lois Lane Smith
Eddie Zittner is on a quest. He is marching up and down the sidewalks of Manhattan, trying to get the autographs of two of rock’s most reclusive stars.
“My goal is to meet them, shake their hands, and get their autographs,” Zittner said, referring to Donald Fagen and Walter Becker, founding members of the rock group Steely Dan.
Zittner, 29, marches in front of River Sound on East 95th Street. He believes that he will spot Fagen or Becker coming out of the studio. He has marched three times in the last week, dressed warmly and clutching a sign that states “Steely Dan Rules.” So far, no luck.
“I’m doing this on my own,” he said, noting that occasionally people march with him.
Zittner has been a fan of “The Dan” since he was a teenager. He is not associated with a fan club, or any other group. He is a New Jersey native, living temporarily in Manhattan, and manages the Borders bookstore in Murray Hill. He said he is married, but would not comment further on his personal life.
When asked if anyone objected to his marching, he said “I know my rights. I have the right to walk on the sidewalk, like anyone else.”
Steely Dan was well known in the 70s, when they had a number of hit records. They fell into obscurity in the 80s, but made a comeback in the 90s, playing oldies as they toured the United States. Zittner noted that the rock group has just released a CD—Two Against Nature—their first release in almost 20 years.
Zittner said, “Steely Dan is probably the best rock group of all time.” He plans to continue his lonely quest until he gets those autographs.
*****
Eddie woke up early—it was eight-thirty, and his brother was already gone—dressed, and went downstairs to get a copy of The Post. He buzzed with anticipation as he walked a block to the nearest newsstand. It was warm and breezy, so humid there were wisps of fog in the air. He bought a paper and stood on the sidewalk flipping pages. He found the article at the bottom of page seven, beneath a picture of his Steely Dan Rules! sign. He tingled with excitement as he read the article. His name in the paper! Publicity for his cause! How could Fagen and Becker ignore this?
He read the article a second time, and a feeling of concern began to creep over him. He wasn’t the manager at Borders, and he wondered how his boss would react to that. On the other hand, a little free publicity for the store wouldn’t hurt, would it? And Lois wrote that The Dan had fallen into obscurity in the 80s. Where did she get that idea? And oldies? He’d never thought of The Dan’s music as old. He folded the paper and tucked it under his arm as he hurried back to the apartment. Maybe he should call The Post and set Lois Lane Smith straight. Maybe they would print a clarification tomorrow.
Two hours later, he was sitting on the sofa, reading Harlan Coben’s Drop Shot and listening to Katy Lied on the stereo, when his cell phone rang. He used the remote to switch the stereo off, and noted the time: just before eleven. He needed to be at work by one. It was his father. After quick hellos, Harry Zittner came right to the point.
“I saw that article in The Post.”
Eddie could only respond with a tentative “Uh-huh.”
“What the hell were you thinking?” He kept quiet as his father began the ass-chewing. “How do you think Alison will react when she sees this? Have you totally given up on your marriage?”
He swallowed, trying to get the saliva flowing again. “No, Dad, I haven’t.”
“Then how do you think she’ll react? Did you ever call her?”
“No, not yet.”
“I don’t know what to say to you anymore.”
Eddie took a couple of breaths, thinking how he might respond. “Dad, listen, the reporter came to me, and asked to interview me. That’s how it happened.”
“Three times you’ve been out on the sidewalk, carrying a sign?” Eddie couldn’t think of an answer to that. His father continued, “I don’t remember you telling me or your mother about your plan to do this.”
“Well, I was trying to keep it quiet.”
He heard his father cough, or laugh, or maybe choke. “And this article, that’s part of keeping it quiet?”
In his mind, Eddie conceded that he’d lost this argument. He was never really in it. But he did want to try to have an adult-to-adult conversation with his father. “I see your point, Dad.”
“Well, it’s about time.”
“Has Mom seen it yet?”
“I don’t know. She hasn’t called me about it. But I’m sure someone will show it to her.” Eddie could tell that his father was calming down.
“Do you think I should call her?”
“I don’t know. Look, Eddie, I’ve gotta go. Tax time, remember?”
“Yeah,” Eddie remembered that he needed to get his and Alison’s tax records together. He’d have to get in touch with her about that. All the tax stuff was at the apartment in Somerset.
“I just don’t know anymore, Eddie,” his father said, hanging up.
*****
At three, his cell phone rang again. He had just finished unpacking the day’s shipment of hard covers and paperbacks. He glanced at the display: it was his brother. He picked up and said hello.
“Eddie,” Mark chuckled, “you sneaky son-of-a-bitch.”
Nothing like being subtle. “You saw the article?” Not really a question, was it?
“Yeah, I saw the article. I was wondering what you were doing in your spare time.”
Well, now you know.
Mark continued, “So where were you hiding the signs?”
“Under the bed.”
“And you usually come and go while I’m at work.”
“Yeah.”
“Like I said, you’re a sneaky son-of-a-bitch.”
Eddie detected a lightness in his brother’s voice. He wasn’t angry, he thought, he was just giving him the business. “I wasn’t trying to hide anything. I just didn’t think you’d be interested.”
“Hey, it’s okay with me. You can do whatever you want. Have Mom or Dad called?”
“Dad called. He wasn’t very happy.”
“I bet he reamed you out pretty good.”
“Yeah, he did.”
“The Post. You’re dragging the good name of Zittner through the mud.” Eddie could tell that Mark was having fun now. “Why didn’t you go to the Times?”
“She found me, Mark. The reporter came to me.”
“I believe you, Eddie. Look, I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Mark, will I see you tonight?”
“Yeah, I’ll be home. You take care of dinner, okay?”
“Will do.”
“Eddie?”
“Yeah?”
“One more question. What did she look like?”
“Who?”
“The reporter.”
“Not too bad.”
“Sweet. I’ve gotta go.”
*****
From: MarKau55@nyc.rr.com
To: EZEddie32@nyc.rr.com
Subject:!!!!
Eddie, I saw the article in the newspaper. I must say I’m impressed. And you haven’t been arrested. With this publicity, maybe you will have some success meeting Fagen and Becker.
I wanted to talk to you (face-to-face) about what happened on Monday night, but maybe it would be easier in an email. I am sorry that I came on so strongly. All I can think to say is that I am attracted to you, and I didn’t realize you weren’t ready for “that kind” of relationship. You never told me how long you had been separated from your wife. I now know (I’m guessing) that it must not have been too long. Am I right?
I would like to start again, if you are willing, and to take it slower (a lot slower if that is what you want.) How do you feel about meeting somewhere, a public place, this time?
Please let me know … Marcie
*****
Just before midnight, a buzzing sound woke Eddie from a fitful sleep. Where the hell am I? He fumbled with the light and then managed to locate his cell phone.
“Hello,” he mumbled, glancing at his watch.
“Eddie? It’s your mother.” Words that were the rough equivalent of ice water running down his back.
He gathered himself. “Oh, hi, Ma.” And to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?
“I’m sorry to call this late. Did I wake you?”
“No, Ma, it’s all right. I was just, uh, reading.”
“Eddie, I’ve been lying here in bed, but I can’t sleep thinking about that newspaper article.”
“Oh, you saw it?” He cringed. Could I have asked a dumber question?
“Yes, I saw it. I believe everyone in the office tried to show it to me at least once. Some people more than once.”
That can’t be good.
His mother continued, “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep unless I get this off my chest.”
Resigned to whatever fate awaited him, he replied, “What is it, Ma?”
“You’re an idiot, Eddie.”
He couldn’t think of a good response to that.
“You’re an idiot. You call me when you come to your senses.”
“Okay, Ma.”
He heard her breathe a sigh of relief. “There. Now maybe I can get some sleep.”
“Okay, Ma,” he said, as he heard his mother hang up the phone.
Thursday, March 16, 2000
Eddie sat on the sofa, sipping coffee and staring out the window. Across the river, Brooklyn and Queens spread out like a vast urban desert. The apartment was as quiet as a tomb. He thought about yesterday’s events: the newspaper article, the call from his father, the call and then dinner with his brother, and the email from Marcie. Not to forget the late-night call from his mother. He knew that what he really needed to do was call Alison. It had been more than two weeks since she had thrown him out, or had walked out on him—however he wanted to think of it—and if he was going to try to save his marriage, now would be a good time to start. He picked up his cell phone and speed-dialed her number.
She picked up. “Alison Zittner.”
“Alison, it’s me, Eddie.” Silence on the line. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Eddie. I see you’ve been busy.”
He had assumed she’d seen the article—God knows, everyone else had—and that she would give him some shit about it. “You saw the article?”
“Me and a few hundred thousand other people.”
He thought for a few seconds, but couldn’t come up with a meaningful response. Finally, he said, “What can I say?”
“There’s not much you can say, is there?”
“Look, Alison, I think we should sit down and talk.”
“Talk about what?”
“Us. Our marriage.”
After a pause, she replied, “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“I have, too. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”
“You must have plenty of time as you’re marching up and down the sidewalk.”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I was thinking about you as I marched.”
“Whatever.”
“Is this how you’re going to be? Nasty?”
“As opposed to stupid?”
“Look. Do you want to talk, or not?”
She paused for a few seconds, then replied, “Yes, Eddie, I think we should talk.”
“Okay,” he said, relieved. He didn’t think he could meet her today; he was scheduled to work a full shift. And Alison’s schedule … she might be anywhere. “Where are you tomorrow?” he asked.
“Where are you right now?”
Right now? “I’m at my brother’s apartment. East 32nd Street. Where are you?”
“I’m in Midtown. I’ve got a meeting with a client in half an hour. I could meet you after that.”
He glanced at his watch. Just after nine-thirty. “What time?”
“Say, eleven?”
“I can do that. I don’t have to be at work until one.”
“You have a job?”
“Yeah. I’m working at a bookstore. As a temp.”
“Another bookstore?”
Is that sarcasm? “Yes, another bookstore.”
“Well, at least you’re working. How about eleven o’clock at the corner of 50th and Broadway? In front of the Denny’s?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Okay. See you then.” She hung up.
*****
He arrived at Denny’s just before eleven, and stood near the entry, scanning the sidewalks as he tried to keep warm. The sun had disappeared behind ugly grey clouds, and a cold front was on the way. He soon retreated into the warmth of the restaurant. Alison showed up at eleven-fifteen, spotted him through the window, and pushed through the revolving door.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, “the meeting took longer than I expected.”
Right. She took off her scarf, gloves and overcoat, revealing a well-cut business suit. No skimping when it comes to dressing for work. Five minutes later, they were seated in a booth, opposite each other, waiting for coffee. Since sitting, Alison had busied herself making notes in her personal organizer. He tried to read her mood, but she was giving nothing away.
Finally, she put down her pen. “Eddie, I’ve been thinking about our marriage, too. I think I still love you, but …”
But what?
She looked around the restaurant before finally locking her eyes onto his. “But, we’ve just grown apart.”
That sounds rehearsed. The waitress arrived with coffee, and Eddie watched as she filled two cups and moved to the next table.
Alison continued, “I think we’re going in different directions.”
He felt a twinge of fear. “What do you mean?”
“Can’t you see it? Haven’t you felt us growing apart, these last few months?”
Since that night at their apartment, he’d done a lot of thinking. He believed that he was still in love with her. She was the only girl—the only woman—he had ever loved. Sure, he’d gone out with lots of girls in high school and college, but Alison was the only one he’d ever fallen for. And he’d fallen hard. But he had to be honest with himself, as much as it hurt: they didn’t seem to be on the same page anymore.
“I guess I agree with you, to some extent.”
“To some extent? Eddie, I’m trying to build a career. I work all the time trying to get ahead. I was trying to get us to the point where we might have been able to move to a nicer place. And what are you doing to help? You can’t hold a job, and you don’t even try to write anymore.”
“Alison—”
“And need I mention your fixation on Steely Dan? Parading up and down the sidewalk carrying a sign?”
“I just do it in my spare time. It doesn’t interfere with my job or anything.”
“Eddie, listen. You’re twenty-nine years old and you still act like a teenager.” He could see her anger building. “I’m not sure I want to be married to a person like that. I don’t understand you anymore.”
Don’t bother to understand … “Alison, it’s just a hobby. I don’t see why you object to me having a hobby.”
“A hobby? That’s no hobby, Eddie, that’s an obsession.”
He felt a narrow blade slide slowly and painfully into his belly. He took a deep breath. “Alison. I know I still love you. And you said you think you still love me. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Yes, Eddie, it counts for something, but it’s not enough anymore. Not for me, anyway.” She drained her coffee. “And I’m not really sure I’m still in love with you.”
Eddie felt the blade twist. “Alison, is there someone else?”
His wife looked uncomfortable. Maybe she blushed a little; it was hard for him to tell with all the make-up she wore. “No, Eddie.” She tapped her fingers on the empty cup.
There wasn’t much to say after that, and it quickly became uncomfortable to sit across from one another. Alison glanced at her watch and stood up. She had to get to her next meeting, she said. Eddie watched as she picked up her handbag, scarf and overcoat and headed for the door.
The rest of the day was a blur. Having lost his appetite, Eddie decided to skip lunch and go directly to work. Arriving just before noon, he worked straight through to six—no breaks, no nothing—and then hit the wall. Starving and exhausted, he told his boss he had to leave, and was surprised to find out that he’d been scheduled to work from one-to-five, not one-to-nine. Not a problem, his boss said; he appreciated the initiative.
Eddie walked west toward his brother’s apartment. Stopping at a hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant, he gorged on half a dozen egg rolls dipped in sweet and sour sauce laced with hot mustard. He washed the egg rolls down with a Coke, and belched the rest of the way home. Mark was out—another dinner date, he had said—so he could suffer alone. He decided to put on some Santana. By seven, he was stretched out on the sofa, popping Rolaids and listening to “Fried Neckbones and Home Fries” until he couldn’t stand it anymore.
Friday, March 17, 2000
It was a strange noise. Eddie opened his eyes. A fly in the room? He glanced out the window. The office building across the street was shrouded in mist. A buzzing sound … a bumblebee under the bed? His brain, foggy from sleep, finally kicked into gear. Still lying under the covers, he reached down and walked his fingers along the carpet until he found his cell phone. He picked it up and brought it to his face.
“Hello?” he mumbled.
“Eddie? Did I wake you?”
“Who is this?” Alison?
“It’s Marcie. Did I wake you?”
Marcie … “Oh, hi.” He sat up. “No, I was just getting up. What time is it, anyway?”
“It’s almost ten.”
“Almost ten. Man, I must have been zonked.”
“Out drinking?”
“Uh, no.” Think fast. “Just working too hard.”
“Oh. I thought you might have been out celebrating that newspaper article.”
“That article … . No, no celebration.”
“Did you get my email?”
“Yeah.” His mind was clear now. “Yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you.”
“Busy, huh?”
“Yeah. Like I said, working some long hours.”
“Eddie?” He heard hesitation in her voice. “I just wanted to apologize, again, for coming on so strong last week.”
“Uh, it’s okay, Marcie. I guess I’m just not ready yet. You caught me off guard.”
“Well, like I said, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“So, what do you think? Can we start again? A little slower this time?”
Slower … Eddie had been thinking about Marcie for days. Yeah, there was too much going on in his life right now. He did need to take it slower. But he felt his penis getting hard.
“Yeah, Marcie, I’d like that.”
“Me, too.”
“Well, you cooked last time. How about letting me take you out to dinner one night?”
“How nice. Thank you for asking.”
“There’s a good Chinese place I know, Ming’s, on Third Avenue at 34th. How about next week?”
“How about tonight?”
Tonight … He thought for a few seconds. He was working another one-to-five shift today. It felt a little sudden, but, what the hell.
“Yeah. I guess I could do tonight.”
“Chinese sounds great. What time?”
“Uh, why don’t we meet there at seven?”
“Ming’s on Third Avenue at 34th.”
“Yeah. You know the place?”
“No, but I’ll find it. Casual dress, I assume?”
“Yeah.” Yeah, why don’t you wear that denim skirt again … with no pantyhose. He remembered how smooth her skin felt that night. He was getting harder.
“Okay, I’ll see you tonight, Easy Eddie.”
“Oh, yeah. No one’s called me that in a while.”
“Easy Eddie. Take it easy, Eddie.” She hung up.
Two minutes later, he was in the shower, all soaped up and masturbating.
*****
Eddie arrived at Ming’s just before seven. Before he could get his name on the waiting list, he heard his name being called. He looked toward the windows and spotted Mark, sitting with a woman, waving him over. He waved back and started toward them. As he walked between the tables, he took a good look at his brother’s date. She was pretty enough—nice figure, as far as he could tell from far away—with a light complexion that contrasted sharply with jet black hair, deep red lipstick, and heavy, dark make-up. She was wearing black slacks, a red blouse, and a short black leather jacket. An average face, he thought, but the overall effect was striking. Almost Gothic.
The scene was, Eddie thought, a virtual riot of colors. The restaurant was decorated in traditional Chinese red, with gold trim and lots of wood paneling. Mark’s date was drinking something purple. Cranberry juice? And his brother was looking sharp in a navy blue suit—Mark must have owned dozens of suits—with a white shirt and a green tie. And drinking a large mug of green beer. Eddie realized that he had never seen his brother “out on a date.” He looked a little closer—did Mark’s hair appear to be a little thicker? Was he wearing a weave? Using Rogaine? And his skin … was Mark going to a tanning salon?
Mark raised his mug and said “Cheers.”
“Hey, Mark.” Eddie stopped beside the booth. “I almost forgot it was St. Patrick’s Day.”
“How could you forget that?” Eddie glanced at Mark’s date, who was eyeing him as she sipped her drink. His brother continued, “Eddie, this is Connie Lee Wilson. Connie, this is my brother, Eddie. Easy Eddie.”
Eddie offered his hand. “Nice to meet you, Connie.”
“Connie Lee,” she corrected.
“Connie Lee,” he repeated, nodding. She nodded back.
“So what brings you here?” Mark continued. “Take-out?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I’m meeting someone.”
Mark grinned. “You have a date?”
Shit! Eddie coughed, glanced at his watch, and tried to think of some way to avoid answering that question. But he was trapped. And he knew it. After another cough, he replied, “Uh, yeah, I guess you could call it a date.”
Mark raised his eyebrows, wondering, Eddie was sure, why his married brother was “out on a date.” Mark glanced at Connie Lee—who had a blank look on her face—and turned back to Eddie. “Well, why don’t you join us?”
Join us? “Uh,” Eddie stammered, glancing toward the restaurant’s entrance. Marcie was just coming through the door, wearing tightly woven fishnet stockings under a leather skirt. He felt a tingle in his groin. “Uh … sure, why not? Hold on,” he said, moving away from the booth. “My date just arrived.”
Minutes later, after a round of introductions, smiles, polite handshakes, and the ordering of food and drink, the couples were settled in the booth, Mark and his date on the window side, Eddie next to his brother, and Marcie, looking a little uncomfortable, sitting next to Connie Lee. The drinks arrived; Marcie going with a glass of chardonnay, and the brothers splitting a pitcher of green beer. Connie Lee had ordered another Portuguese Breeze; which, she said, was a mixture of madiera, vodka, and cranberry juice that she herself had “invented.”
Eddie tried to jump-start the conversation by asking how long Mark and Connie Lee had been seeing each other. A look passed between them, and Mark finally responded, “Oh, a few months,” with Connie Lee adding, “We work at the same place.” More details followed: Connie Lee had been hired a year ago by Mark’s boss, as secretary of the department. They had dated on-and-off, trying to keep it quiet, but their “thing” had soon become the worst-kept secret in the office. So now they were open about the fact that they were dating, but played it cool at work. It wouldn’t be long, Connie Lee figured, until she was transferred to another department.
When Mark had mentioned that he was in investment banking, Marcie’s eyes lit up like Chanukah candles. “That sounds so interesting,” she said. “What kind of deals are you working on?” This was an open invitation for Mark, who presented Marcie with one of his business cards and proceeded to describe his latest project, a merger between restaurant chains, and his recent trip to Miami as part of the negotiating team. That led to “Where did you stay?” and “What did you see?” and “Where did you eat?” kind of questions. It turned out that, as a teenager, Marcie’s family had vacationed in Miami Beach just about every year. She loved Cuban food—paella, fried plantains, the works.
And Mark was fascinated to hear that Marcie was in law school. “How long until you graduate?” he asked, and then, “What branch of law are you specializing in?” The word “branch” had gotten a chuckle out of Eddie, who remarked that he thought branches only grew on trees. Marcie politely ignored him, and responded to Mark with, “Well, I’ve always been interested in mergers and acquisitions.”
Eddie tried to engage Connie Lee in conversation, but now working on her third, or maybe fourth, Portuguese Breeze, she seemed oblivious to her surroundings. Finally, he shut up, occupying himself by pushing chunks of orange beef around his plate. He was miffed and embarrassed, but still smiled, nodded at the appropriate moments, and jumped into Marcie’s conversation with Mark whenever he could, which wasn’t very often.
On the sidewalk, they hailed a couple of taxis. Connie Lee was hanging all over Mark—eyes shining, cheeks glowing—perhaps, Eddie thought, anticipating another drink or two and some deviant sex before passing out. Mark guided her into the back seat, and then winked at Eddie and told him not to wait up.
As the first cab sped away, Eddie turned back to Marcie, who mumbled something about needing to get some sleep. Her shift at Zabar’s began at eight the next morning, she explained. After a polite good-bye kiss, Eddie helped her into the second cab, and watched as it pulled slowly away. Then he turned and began walking back to his brother’s apartment. At least the sizzling black pepper shrimp had been good.
Saturday, March 18, 2000
After another night of tossing, turning, and wrestling with sheets and blankets, Eddie dragged himself out of bed just after nine. He walked into the kitchen and spotted a post-it on the counter with I’m at work—Mark printed on it. He poured a cup of coffee—at least his brother had left him some—and scanned the headlines of The Times, noting that now it was The Reverend Al Sharpton who was blasting Mayor Guiliani and the New York Police Department. By the time he looked up, it was almost ten. He was working an eleven-to-five shift today. Time to get moving.
*****
Just after five, Eddie let himself back into the apartment, and was surprised to see his brother sitting on the sofa, sucking on a Heineken, and watching what sounded like CNN.
“Hey, Eddie, why don’t you grab a beer and join me?”
“Will do.” He perked up a little. He’d been depressed all day thinking about Marcie and last night’s dinner. He got a beer out of the refrigerator, walked back to the living room, and plopped down on the loveseat.
Wolf Blitzer was rambling on about the Middle East. “So, Mark, you worked today?” Then remembering that his brother had left him a note to that effect, he added, “I mean, how many hours did you work today?”
Mark used the remote to mute the television. “Nine to three.”
“Mmm.” Eddie tried to lip-read what Blitzer was saying.
A few seconds later, Mark switched the television off. “Eddie … we need to talk.”
Eddie looked at his brother. Mark looked a little tense, and cleared his throat before speaking: “Eddie, look, I don’t know any good way to tell you this. Marcie and I have been in touch with each other.”
Eddie stared at his brother. Shit. He had entertained hopes that Mark might apologize for coming on to Marcie over dinner. “And?”
Mark drained his beer. “I want to be straight with you, Eddie. We want to begin seeing each other.”
“Uh … how did she contact you?” Eddie remembered that Mark had given her his business card, but he thought he’d ask anyway.
“Email. She sent me an email at work.”
“I thought she was working today.”
“I guess she sent it before she went to work.”
“So you exchanged emails?”
“Well, she sent me an email, and then I called her on her cell. Hey,” he grinned nervously, “it’s hard to communicate with emails.”
Yeah.
Mark continued, “So, anyway, I hope you understand.”
Eddie thought back to last night’s dinner. At the time, he couldn’t tell whether Marcie had been flirting with Mark, or Mark with Marcie, or whether they had just “hit it off.” But what did it matter? He took a long pull on his beer. Act natural, like you don’t care. “Yeah, I understand. I saw that you guys were interested in each other.” It hurt to say it out loud.
“I know things have been rough on you, Eddie.”
“It’s okay, Mark. Hell, Marcie and I weren’t going together or anything.” Past tense.
“She said she was going to call you.”
“Mmm,” was all he could manage. He drank some more beer and stared out the window.
Mark got up. “Well, look, I’ve got to get dressed.” He turned and moved toward the master bedroom.
*****
From: MarKau55@rr.nyc.com
To: EZEddie32@rr.nyc.com
Subject: (no subject)
Eddie, I told your brother that I would call you, and I intended to call you, but maybe it will be easier in an email.
I assume by now (I’m writing this Saturday at 6 PM. I just got home from work) Mark has spoken to you. I am sorry things worked out this way. Maybe you saw it over dinner, that Mark and I were interested in each other. You know, chemistry between people is what it is. I can’t explain it. It just happened.
I know you are going through some tough times, what with the separation from your wife, etc. I feel guilty that I have contributed to your unhappiness. Eddie, I wish the best for you, however things turn out with your marriage. And I hope we can remain friends.
…Marcie
*****
From: EZEddie32@rr.nyc.com
To: MarKau55@rr.nyc.com
Subject: Thanks for the email
It’s okay, Marcie. Mark did talk to me, and I do understand. Hey, I learned something: not to take your date to your brother’s favorite restaurant.
Seriously, I want you to be happy, and I want my brother to be happy. If you guys hit it off, well, then, I’ll be happy, too.
…Eddie
Working title: The Story In Your Eyes
An unpublished short story
by Eddie Zittner
I met her in an internet chat room. We were debating the merits of Steely Dan’s new CD, Two Against Nature. She thought it was too jazzy; she liked the old stuff better. I agreed with her—it is too jazzy—but I thought I’d argue the point, just for the sake of arguing. So we argued, and when we got tired of arguing, we chatted, which is what I assume you call it when you’re in a chat room.
She said her name was Marcy, that she was 25 years old, and that she was in law school. Right! Did she take me for a fool? For all I knew, she was a bleached-out housewife, swilling bourbon and looking for some extra-curricular action. Or some teenager jerking my chain. Or some gay caballero really looking to jerk my chain. And what a coincidence: we both lived in Manhattan. So, after some more “chatting,” we agreed to meet Saturday morning for a “get acquainted” breakfast at The Stage Delicatessen, a tourist spot in Midtown. I don’t know why she insisted on The Stage, but she did. Maybe she knows someone there. Or maybe she gets a discount there. We agreed to wear our Steely Dan hats so we would recognize each other. She bought hers during the 1993 tour; mine’s from the 1994 tour.
Who knew if she really was twenty-five? Who knew if she would show up? Who knew if she was even a “she”? Nonetheless, I decided to go. Maybe I’d get lucky.
I arrived shortly before nine and stood waiting in the entryway. A few minutes later, here she comes, wearing the SD hat. And she hadn’t lied: she was definitely a woman, in her mid-twenties, I guessed, and pretty good-looking. I mean, I couldn’t be sure she was 100% female—if you know what I mean—but maybe I would get the chance to find out.
We introduced ourselves. She said her name was Marcy Koffman—probably Jewish, I guessed. We went inside, hung up our coats, and the hostess seated us.
I took a good look at her. Her most striking feature was her eyes—beautiful blue eyes, with soaring, dramatic eyebrows, just like Liv Tyler, whom I have worshipped, from afar, ever since I saw Armageddon. She had a pretty face, with a dimple on her left cheek, and she wore an array of earrings—half a dozen, at least. Her auburn hair fell around her shoulders. And, from what I could see, she had a nice figure.
The waitress brought coffee. I ordered my usual deli breakfast, nova with cream cheese on a sesame bagel. She ordered a plate of sable with an onion bagel, sliced but not toasted, on the side. This got my attention.
I didn’t want to appear completely ignorant, but I had to ask. “What is sable?”
“You don’t know what sable is? Sable Carp? It’s a kind of smoked fish.”
“No, I’ve never heard of it.”
“I’ll let you have a taste.” Her marvelous eyes narrowed. “Didn’t you say you were from the city?”
“Jersey. I grew up in Jersey. But I’m living here now.”
“Jewish?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah. You grew up in Jersey and never had sable?”
“I was deprived as a child.”
“You must have been.”
She sipped her coffee, and her eyes twinkled, and I started to fall in love.
(to be continued)
Monday, March 20, 2000
The ride uptown was slow and painful. As the bus snaked through horrendous mid-morning traffic, Eddie ate his jelly donuts, drank his coffee, stared out the window, and wondered how fate could have brought the unlikely trio of Alison, Mark, and Marcie together to make his life a living hell. Well, correct that; as far as he knew, Alison and Marcie had never met.
He got off the bus at 95th Street, and, carrying his Steely Dan Rules! sign, headed east. It was a mild, breezy day, and he kicked his way through dead leaves and blowing newspapers. The streets were crowded—cars double-parked, trucks jockeying for space, and delivery men pushing dollies overflowing with fresh produce. He walked past a teenager who was either trying to fix a car or steal it.
As he approached River Sound, he heard a window slide open across the street.
“Hey, Steely Dan person!” An old guy stuck his head out a third floor window. He was wearing a New York Rangers cap.
Eddie looked up and spotted the man. “Hey.”
“I saw that thing in the newspaper about you.”
“No kidding.” Maybe this guy knows something. “You ever see Fagen or Becker around here?”
“Who?”
“Steely Dan? You know, the musicians?”
The old man took off his cap and looked inside it, seemingly lost in thought. Maybe the answer to the question is in the hat? Finally he looked back toward Eddie.
“No, can’t say that I have.”
“You sure?”
“Wouldn’t know what they looked like.”
Then why bother me? Eddie started moving down the sidewalk.
Ranger fan continued, “Can’t say as I ever heard of Steely Dan.”
Then why the fuck bother me? He walked a little faster.
“That is, before I saw that thing in the newspaper.”
Then why not shut the fuck up? He stopped and turned. “Well, thanks anyway … for your help.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice.
“Glad to oblige,” the old man said, a satisfied look on his face. He pulled his head back inside and slammed the window shut.
Eddie began to parade.
Minutes later, Flagman was back, this time with two of his cohorts. Flag was wearing what must have been his traditional array of red, white, and blue clothing. His friends were less colorful, wearing jeans, grey hooded sweatshirts, and fake leather jackets, but all three sported the same “wild hair and thick glasses” look. An invasion of the nerds.
Flag led the group, shouting “my main man” as he raised his hand, expecting Eddie to high-five him.
Eddie was in no mood to high-five anybody. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Hey, man,” Flag replied, “I saw that article about you in The Post.”
“No shit.” Regret crept into Eddie’s gut.
“No shit, man! You’re famous! Eddie something, right?”
Regret gave way to resignation. “Yeah. My name is Eddie.”
“I knew it!” Flag smiled like he had made a new friend.
Eddie, not accepting defeat, decided to change tactics. “You guys must live around here, right?”
“Right. Right up there.” Flag gestured across the street at the building where Ranger fan lived.
“All three of you?”
“Yeah. All in the same building.”
The heartbreak of inbreeding. “You guys know the old man wearing the Ranger cap?”
Hooded Sweatshirt, looking proud, replied, “My old man.”
The four of them stood in a small circle, eyeing each other. Eddie did some quick thinking: He probably couldn’t get rid of them—hell, he figured, they were part of the neighborhood, just like stray cats and overflowing bags of garbage.
“Look, you want to parade with me?”
Flag, Hood, and Wild Hair looked at each other, shrugged, grunted, and nodded—lots of non-verbal communication between these guys—until Flag, obviously the leader, said yeah, why not.
“Okay,” Eddie continued, “but listen, you’ve got to be cool. No craziness.”
More shrugs, grunts, and shuffling of feet. “Oh yeah,” Flag said, “No problem. Just like last week.”
“No, not like last week.” Try to be diplomatic, Eddie … “We’ve got to be cool. Okay?”
“Okay … cool,” Flag replied. “Yeah, we can be cool.” More nodding, grunting, shuffling, and a belch from Wild Hair.
“Then let’s go. Follow me.” Eddie started down the sidewalk.
“Cool,” Flag said, leading his cohorts forward.
Eddie glanced at his rag-tag collection of followers. What the fuck am I doing?
Soon the procession was marching in a rectangle: East along the south side of 95th Street to River Sound, then across the street, then west back to Second Avenue, then across 95th again, and so on and so forth. To break the monotony, Eddie told them a little bit about The Dan, and seconds later heard soft chanting behind him, first “Steely Dan” and then just “Dan, Dan, Dan” over and over. Between chants, Eddie found out that his three “helpers” were just friends—not first cousins as he had suspected—and all lived with their parents. Flag and Wild Hair were part-time students with part-time jobs. Hood seemed to be more into web surfing and game playing. Eddie suspected that smoking weed occupied a good deal of their time—and he felt a twinge of sadness as he remembered his dinner date with Marcie.
But the parade was unproductive. There was no sign of Fagen, Becker, or anyone who remotely resembled them. No one approached them with news of The Dan. Other than a few curious stares, and an occasional “get out of the way,” they were pretty much ignored.
Just before noon, the four men stood in front of Ray’s Famous Pizza, discussing the improbable concept of having lunch together, when a police cruiser pulled up. The policeman rolled down his window and turned toward them. Eddie saw his reflection on a pair of aviator sunglasses.
The policeman addressed him. “Are you the ringleader of this motley crew?”
Eddie grinned nervously as Hood stepped forward and mumbled something about that being a good band, too.
The policeman got out of his cruiser, whipped off his sunglasses, and eyed Hood. “You better step back, son.”
Eddie stepped in front of Hood. “I’m the leader, officer.” Hood was going to fuck this up.
The policeman asked Eddie for some identification, which he handed over. After glancing at the driver’s license, the policeman handed it back and said, “You can’t demonstrate out here.”
Eddie studied the policeman—Officer Gregory, by his name tag—young, blond, and intense. This guy could have been a storm trooper in another life. “Officer, I was told that there was no problem with a peaceful demonstration.”
“Who told you that?”
“A policeman.”
“What policeman?”
“His name is Vince. That’s all I know.”
“Well,” Officer Gregory stood with hands on hips, “this is my beat, and I don’t allow any demonstrations.”
This is my beat?
Hood mumbled something about police brutality. Office Gregory gave him a quick glance and then turned back to Eddie. “Shut your friend up.”
Eddie turned toward Hood and told him to shut up. Unfortunately, he was still holding his Steely Dan Rules! sign, which caught Officer Gregory flush across the face. The policeman grabbed his nose, and things quickly spun out of control. A minute later Eddie was leaning up against the police cruiser, hands cuffed behind him. Flag, Hood, and Wild Hair—neighborhood guys who were just passing by, they had pleaded—beat a hasty retreat into Ray’s.