My daughters were very happy this morning. I watched them, trying to understand what they were happiest about and trying to share that happiness. Oh, you like blind bags and Barbie dolls? Let me help you with those. Oh, what is that? Cool! I try to be there for others and I feel guilty when I think selfishly, saying “What about me?” in my head. I’ve done less and less of that and now in the second year of COVID I wonder what else I will yield to another. More time, more energy, more money. Here ya go! Take a pound of flesh from over here. No, it’s not a passive-aggressive thing. If you need it, please take it. Just think of me as one of the good guys if you think of me at all.
If that sounds like I’m being a martyr then so be it.
*
I watched It’s A Wonderful Life today. Hadn’t seen it in over 20 years. I recall seeing the flick when I was too young to appreciate adulthood; thus, the notion that he would sacrifice his dreams for the good of the town did nothing to me emotionally. My hot take as a young man was: if he really wanted it, he would have taken his shot. He didn’t, so he got what he got.
But not now. Nothing, save maybe this movie, is so black and white. At the time I made that judgment I was having dreams myself. Where did they go? I feel the sting of them now because I realize the time to reach those dreams has passed.
I have thought about going out to that bridge, too. By some miracle, I have an ingrained notion of the sanctity of life that precludes me from considering suicide. But the loneliness I feel is crushing. Outside of my immediate family I feel as though I’ve lost the language to communicate anything beyond small talk. And small talk is just too damned small.
Don’t worry about me, though. I will trudge on at half speed.
I could write a book about It’s A Wonderful Life, maybe filed under ‘Philosophy’ or ‘Spirituality.’ Unlike my previous viewing, the film gave me surprising feelings. The scene where George is yelling at his kids – I’ve ranted at my kids in the same way and have had to apologize immediately afterwards. Calling my house a shithole and asking my wife why we ever had children – I’ve done that as my wife looked on as concerned as Donna Reed. Did I talk a big game about how I’d travel the world, make people around me feel lesser, only to eat so much crow you would’ve thought I liked the taste? Sure did.
*
One thing really got to me. Do you remember the scene where the market crashes while George and Mary are about to escape the town for a nice honeymoon? George goes back to the savings and loan office and convinces every one of the investors, who were just regular townspeople, to keep their money in the bank. Mary offers up their wedding cash to tide people over, which George gladly doles out one by one.
In that moment I wanted more than anything for one of the townspeople to reach out a hand, place it on George’s shoulder and tell him that he was going far beyond what any man would do to keep everyone afloat during the crash and to thank him, not for the money, but for the sacrifice that it represents. A simple “you’re alright, Mac” type of line that old movies like this always have. But nobody says anything that meaningful. The people are content because they are financially saved and that’s enough.
What kind of person would reach out a hand and say, “You’re all right. You’re one of the good ones?”
My grandfather would have. He would be the kind of person to not only say it to George’s face but also repeat it to anyone who wasn’t there. Years later, even decades later, he would retell the story in such detail that you were sure you were standing in that line.
*
This is the first Christmas since I was born without my grandfather, who we call Dziadziu. Last Christmas when I saw him I felt so awful about it. I knew it wasn’t going to be forever. I feel more alone now. Someone who protected me is now gone and I must fend for myself. One of the good ones is gone. A great one. If you met him, you would know.
When you’re talking to someone else it’s easy to tell when they are grieving. Anger, resentment, frustration, exuberance, and tears are always coming to the forefront at unexpected times. It’s difficult to see the grief in yourself. My grandfather died this summer at 97 and I haven’t dealt with it. It would be foolish to think I can process this all at once, and certainly not on Christmas. I never expected this old movie to bring out these feelings.
I’d like to say more about him, to explain who he was and why I think he touched so many lives. I can’t do it yet. But I can be honest. When people expressed condolences to me they mentioned their interactions with Dziadziu. In response, I always said, “I’m glad you got to meet him.” I truly believe people were better off once they did. I know I was.
I’m losing the thread of whatever this piece was supposed to be. I don’t think you can explain the greatness of a person or a thing that you love. You can just show it and hope it translates.
*
Look: you’ve given me your attention and I’m appreciative. I’m reaching across the counter now, from debtor to banker, shaking your hand for your kind mercy. But now I’m going to pull you by the hand towards me, and in confidence tell you that I think you must pursue whomever or whatever you love in this word because I promise it is running away from you at top speed. So get your running shoes. When you catch up, suck the love out of it until you think you can’t stand it. Then go back for more. You have to get goddamned gluttonous for that feeling. Don’t let other people’s opinions weigh you down. As long as no one is hurt, what you love is right and all else is wrong.
It’s been ten years since I published my first book. I am nowhere near done with my second, The Straw Man. I never thought it would take longer for Straw Man. I should be better at this, right?
Is it ok to not want it anymore? I want to be free of the expectation that it will be the RIGHT thing. I want what I write to be good, or fuck it. But I don’t care about what sells. I never was a “book seller,” I was a writer. I never was a “successful writer with a plan.” I just like to do it and it helped me. It always helped me. It always made me feel good. Even if it was bad. Even if the feelings were bad. Especially if the feelings were bad.
I have low self esteem. I rarely feel comfortable in any setting outside of my house. Even around my family I can feel awkward. Not my wife and kids, but the rest of them. They stare at me like I’m an alien. As they go, so goes the world.
When I was young I was jealous of all of my friends. They were confident, seemingly without effort. In contrast, I rehearsed what I said three times before I spoke, which was often too quiet. “Speak up!” my friends would say. Everyone would laugh. When I would get angry, they acted as though I was overreacting. Being too sensitive. I shyly smiled instead. Not because I was shy but because it afforded me the opportunity to stifle my anger. Count to ten, then utter, “What I said was …” Hating myself for it. Hating them. That’s exactly right: although I had close friends, I hated them in those moments.
When you have abundant confidence, things come to you too easily. I had to work harder. Rehearse the comment three times so that it landed; otherwise, be silent. It wouldn’t just be kinda funny, it would murder. It wouldn’t be sorta smart, it would be insightful. It wouldn’t be sad, it would make you cry. That’s exactly right. I wanted tears. I wanted them to feel pain.
When I was confident about my ability to do something, it was always after diligent training. Martial arts. Playing the trumpet. Writing. But I still couldn’t behave with confidence. I perceived every slight or criticism as an attack on my fundamentals.
But today those things aren’t me. This is who I am: I am loyal, maybe to a fault. If you go against my family, you are on my shit list. I’m thoughtful and I care about others. I’m a nurturer, clearly. I mean, all I do it futz around taking care of the house and the kids and my wife and the dog. I might complain or be tired of people’s shit, but I do it. I always do it. If I hated caring about others, I wouldn’t do it.
I am not afraid of taking complex information and breaking off a piece for myself. Whatever I can use. As I grow older, I find I don’t fear failure as much as I did. So yes, I haven’t finished Straw Man. But I don’t fear it becoming a mess.
It was the late 90s. The chain restaurant in town, the one that claimed to serve authentic Italian cuisine, was hiring for all positions. I applied to be a waiter, but they told me I could only be a host. A job where all you do is tell people where to sit. I had trained my dog to do that, so I figured I would do just fine.
The place was so big you needed a map. On my first day I got confused and sat too many people in one server’s section. Sure, I got a lecture. It was one of those places where the server is only expected to handle three tables in total, and by seating two in her section rather than evenly spacing them out, I had caused much stress, which was against company policy. I cared as much about it as you probably do, but I told them it would never happen again.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 5 out of 5.
There were Doric, Corinthian, Tuscan and Ionic columns in the dining rooms that, while providing no structural support, offered plenty of cover for employees seeking to avoid customers or management.
On many occasions I would see a train of employees who were clapping their hands as they followed a server carrying a cupcake with a lit candle in its center. As the caravan of minimum wage workers filed by, I was wrist-grabbed into the procession. I clapped and followed as the band of merry makers started up the company-penned birthday song. (They had to sing a corporate song because if they sang “Happy Birthday to You,” Warner Brothers would sue.) ((Apparently, the country of Italy never thought of suing this restaurant chain for defamation.))
Before long, the snake would curve near a column, allowing me the opportunity to slip out of sight. No one noticed, as they were all too busy clapping and singing lyrics like “happy happy birthday/ happy happy you/ your meal is fee at our house/ it’s what we like to do.” I never, ever sang the song. Not to one birthday boy or girl. Can you blame me?
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 4.5 out of 5.
I had to take a 500 question personality test in order to get the job. I heard it was to weed out any thieves or psychos. A 500 question Scantron card, like the SATs. For a minimum wage job.
⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 4 out of 5.
I was written up once by the assistant manager, Duncan, for being five minutes late. At least two other hosts were there to tell people where to sit during those five minutes, but whatever.
⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 3.5 out of 5.
Once, Duncan sent me out of the restaurant with five dollars to buy a gallon of milk. I got in my own car (not a company car) and drove to the nearest convenience store to buy a gallon of milk, which cost $2.49 plus tax. In the late nineties this was higher than normal, but it was because you were paying for the convenience. See, I assumed that this manager, who was so invested in me showing up to work on time and was willing to make an issue out of five missed minutes, wanted me to return as soon as my own personal vehicle could carry me.
When I returned, Duncan wasn’t happy. “Where’s the rest of my change?” He couldn’t believe that milk could ever cost that much. “You could’ve gone down to one of the supermarkets, where I know it’s only $1.69, $1.99 at most.”
I thought, Do some comparison shopping while I’m on the clock here? Got it.
⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 3 out of 5.
In retaliation, whenever a manager sent me on an errand, I deliberately took more time than the task could possibly require. If my immediate supervisor, Todd, sent me to buy an accounting calculator for the office, I went to all of the stores that sold electronics so that I could comparison shop. Each electronics store also offered media, so naturally I browsed the movie and music selections. Obviously, I had to compare prices on those items too. Media Play, Nobody Beats the Wiz, Sam Goody, Circuit City and the Wall. At some point during this ninety minute journey that should have been about 20 minutes, I purchased a nice calculator along with a healthy stack of CDs and DVDs.
Nobody seemed to notice that I was gone.
I began bragging to anyone who would listen that I had a job where I could screw off. Before this job, I was jealous of a friend who did maintenance for the board of education, a job where you never had to lift a finger after your lunch hour. He always had great screw off stories and now I finally had mine.
On my last day of work before I returned to college for the new school year, Todd sent me to buy a weed wacker and a few bags of mulch. He expected me to fit these items in the trunk of my frigging Nissan Sentra. Let me remind you that my job description was to say “right this way” and “your server will be with you in a moment.”
I basically farted around town for two hours. I could’ve seen a movie or done my Christmas shopping early. I think I bought something for my girlfriend, then more CDs. Nothing important, really. It didn’t matter as long as I knew I was wasting time on the restaurant’s dime.
I returned with the weed wacker and mulch two hours and forty five minutes after I was tasked with the mission. Todd, muttering under his breath, said, “I didn’t think you were coming back …”
And, in a way, I didn’t. I walked back into the place the following spring to see if I could get work for the summer. None of the managers managed to recognize me, neither the cool ones nor the dickheads.
I guess all that slacking off and farting around made (a lack of) an impression?
⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 2.5 out of 5.
I was invited out for drinks after work on many occasions. The usual place was a disused authentic Mexican joint. The pitchers of margaritas flowed.
I learned about another manager, Fabrizio, who had worked there for years and was part of this regular crew and their shenanigans. He began the past time of taking breaks in the back alley/loading dock area, breaks that would turn into epic slack-off sessions for anyone who joined him. Soon, the football came out and was tossed around. Frisbee, unicycle … don’t ask me how the customers never caught on.
Fabrizio started the ritual of after work drinks. He liked to bar hop with them, speeding though the center of town late at night past the strip malls. The reason I never met him was he died the year before I started working at the restaurant. While driving drunk, he crashed his car and killed himself. Thankfully, no one else was hurt. But his wife and newborn son suffered. If his coworkers felt anything for him, they didn’t learn anything from him. The bar hopping and drunk driving was still going strong a year after his demise.
⭐⭐
Rating: 2 out of 5.
When I worked at cheaper restaurants, I found that the clientele would become enraged if they thought the staff wasn’t paying attention to their every whim. Thus, there was no time to sit, and no time to chit chat in the back.
But at classier establishments it is clear that customers are less likely to complain. If they couldn’t get more breadsticks (likely because their waiter was in the midst of scoring a touchdown in the back), they simply waited. If you’re spending a small amount of money, deep down you think the food is cheap and the people who deliver it to you aren’t worth your respect. Once you put higher price tags throughout the menu and update the décor, you can expect more understanding from the customers. Why? Because to complain about something of high quality is to negate the experience of spending a lot of money, the kind of spending you do when you want to feel good or show off. Nobody seriously refers to their Ferrari as “that old jalopy.”
Whatever. You know what? If that’s your attitude, then don’t believe me. This is a free blog so you probably think I’m a shithead. Should I start charging $99 a month to get some classier treatment, maybe to test my theory?
Just kidding. I know nobody reads this.
⭐⭐
Rating: 1.5 out of 5.
Nobody worked at this Italian restaurant, not like I did when I busted my ass at the cheap places. I never saw one bead of sweat break out across woman or man’s brow, unless they were standing over a hot stove. Lazy cooking, too, if you want my opinion. The pasta simmered in large pots ahead of time, and they had a method of banking breadsticks before the dinner rush.
I was once asked to prepare desserts in a cooler early in my shift so that they would be ready for dinner. I loved that job. I’m great when I’m asked to focus on details, so getting the dessert decorated just like the picture was fun. There was a district manager who was in the building pumping me up and my dessert making skills to the regular, shithead managers. Once the district manager left to go to the next link in the restaurant chain, Duncan, while watching the nice district boy drive out of the parking lot, told me in no uncertain terms that I was no longer the dessert prepper.
⭐
Rating: 1 out of 5.
There were things that I can never forget. It was generally known that most of the cooks were ex convicts. One of the hosts, Maurice, who had both nipples pierced, was a fan of “dancing up on” girls at clubs and showing them off. Quite an ice breaker.
There was a rumor that three of the servers, one woman and two men, once had a threesome in the supply closet. I never could figure out if this was true or intended to smear the woman’s name, as she was a nose-up-in-the-air type.
I wish I didn’t remember these things. But I figure if I have to know about them, so do you.
⭐
Rating: 0.5 out of 5.
Other things happened, but just once. I suggested that the staff have an ugly tie day and it took off. I wore a brown plaid tie that was handsome in its ugliness. My coworkers really outdid themselves: piano key patterns, a dead fish tie and a neon paisley explosion come to mind.
Once, after closing time, Todd and Maurice strapped on rollerblades and did zoomies around the parking lot. I sat and watched with a few others who were smoking cigarettes. We were listening to the first Beastie Boys album, Licensed to Ill. I quickly learned by how adept my coworkers were at reciting the lyrics that all of them were massive fans. I asked Maurice if he had the Beastie Boys’ latest album, Hello Nasty, and if it was any good. He said, “Of course.” I could tell by his intense stare that he was answering both of my questions with one response. I made a mental note to buy that one the next time a manager sent me on an errand.
Rating: 0 out of 5.
There was a soundtrack to working at this Italian restaurant. As you paced the halls and dining rooms you were guaranteed to hear solid hits of yesteryear sung by Italian singers. You would hear Rosemary Clooney’s “Mambo Italiano,” Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore,” and Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon.” I think I began to hear it as a pleasant soundtrack that matched all that I saw around me: overdone Italianness. But I certainly didn’t mind, and eventually I liked hearing the tunes.
I liked having a job where there was a closing time; prior to this, I worked at a 24 hour diner, which I believe led to a recurring nightmare where I would look at a table and realize I never put in their order, which then would expand to an entire room of customers in the same predicament. Terrifying.
I also liked telling people that we were closed. “Yeah, but it’s …” Customer checks watch. “When do you close?” “Ten p.m.” “Yeah, but there are people still eating. I can see them!” “Sir, we stop letting in customers at ten, but patrons who are already in the restaurant can finish their meals.” And you know where guys like this probably went? The all-night diner where I used to work!
Management let us know that it was time to close by changing from Italian American standards to modern rock, and the song that began the playlist was always Semisonic’s “Closing Time.” A little on the nose? That’s the kind of place it was. I was a music snob, so had I been with my friends on campus, Semisonic would have been mentioned by me in my ongoing litany of “bands that all sound the same, volume 9.” But, being in my home town with no other music snobs to impress, I had to admit there was something charming about passing my coworkers in the halls as we all sang or hummed this tune. It truly is my only fond memory of working there.
Rating: 0 out of 10.
At Olive Garden. It was an Olive Garden. You thought I wasn’t going to say it, to protect the innocent or something, right? My coworkers referred to it as the “OG” like they were gangster rappers and every time I heard that I wanted to spit in their Pasta Fagioli.
The woman of my dreams is stalking a policeman in the desert somewhere outside of Reno. The cop is wearing mirrored shades, carrying two coffees, one on top of the other, donuts in the other hand. The stacked coffees are pinned under his chin.
I saw them licking each other s eyeballs in a hotel room. They were on ecstasy and they were having fun. They videotaped their approach in the minivan to the hotel, tinted windows, popping pills. Licking balls. The upstairs kind.
Kissing cheeks, upstairs and downstairs. Loving each other up. No insertion, as far as I could see from behind the closet door.
I will do the work for you. You are too busy after a long day at the office, picking up after the kids, making time for your spouse.
I will take a crowbar to your neighbor’s face. I will put on a mask and grab a knife and chase the high school girls who look like he ones who never gave you the time of day when you were young.
It doesn’t matter what I actually think about you and your problems.
$100 per day, $500 for a week. Really, past that you don’t want to know the true cost. Because it’s Halloween, this week only I will take out your boss too as a freebee.
Coupons can be found at any shooting range. Limit one per victim.
In the oven, burning, knowing it all ended too soon, VD, fucked too much till it was raw, the smell was unbelievable, the wetness, boners, Jack and cokes, breakaway panties, rumors, lies, anger, sexless television, bibles on the nightstand, vibrating beds, the oven left on in the suite kitchen, oils, expensive novelties, a hotel bill they now have to split. Regrets.
I was bowling at Northfield Park the other day. While waiting for a ball to return, I noticed the guy at the end of the alley was headless, a battle axe mounted on the wall above his head. Weird.
My ball returned and I picked it up, steadied it under my chin and rolled, only to realize I was rolling a skull, my thumb in the mouth, index and middle fingers in the eye sockets.
Fuck, I thought.
The skull hit five pins and they turned to ashes.
The headless man grabbed the battle axe from the wall and came for me.
It was then that I realized I was not in Cleveland, Ohio, but in Hell.
I bled out today. It was not only my nineteenth birthday, but the one year anniversary of my new life. I have regressed into my human form, this pathetic bald creature. My sweetheart, my best friend and my biology professor lured me to this cave. Sheila distracted me, Ben hit me in the head with a log and when I turned to thrash his punk ass, Professor Bennington plugged me three times in the heart with silver bullets. Some friends.
I wear my shades after the sun goes down and the curtains are drawn. I have bloody shins and bruises on my skull. I prefer to hang out in Pachinko parlors, and there ain’t many of them in East Lansing, Michigan. People call me the vampire punk. It’s better than Craig, the worst name in modern times. Craig isn’t a name, it’s the sound of projectile vomiting. I’d rather be called something really insulting, like Bill O’Reilly Jr. Sometimes I’m afraid people won’t recognize me without the shades. Sometimes I worry that real light will kill me, like a vampire. It’s a good thing that most of the time I’m too doped up on Prozac to care.
Vince wasn’t like the mad scientists in the movies. Instead of working out of some palatial estate or a lighthouse or something cool, Vince worked on his experiments in the attic of a Victorian three-story house in Tennessee. He was trying to prove that evolution was scientific fact, but it was hard. First, his wife cooked the worst, most fattening food. Everything was covered in lard. His kids were told in school to fear and hate evolution and scientists. All nine of them threw rocks at the tiny vents that lined the attic walls. Then, of course, there was the lack of results, which was directly linked to Vince’s inexperience. He learned all the science he knew from watching Mr. Wizard reruns on Nickelodeon.
Somewhere, in another dimension, exists all of the airlines that have gone out of business. In that dimension, TWA flight attendants still wear brown and crème colored outfits and pour coffee from glass carafes. America United stewardesses haven’t heard of the women’s movement and can be talked into anything. Soon the Ted airline, the hip offshoot of United, will travel through the Bermuda Triangle into this world and take its smarmy attitude with it.
Can you tell the difference between the intro dance class at Fred Astaire Ballroom Dance and a bunch of mental patients with lobotomies swaying from foot to foot? If people knew how ridiculous they looked they wouldn’t be paying four grand per year in lessons. You’d have to be brain dead to buy into that. That’s why I spend all of my money on booze and porn, cocaine and hookers, and beef jerky.
Your face is only an appendage, like an arm or leg. If you lost it, it wouldn’t be the same as losing another appendage. Your face is you, but it is also just a mask you wear to show the world. Your nose and eyes and mouth perform a complicated dance for strangers to silently communicate with them. Thanks, Kobo Abe.
I clearly cannot choose the strychnine in front of you. But since you are a Cramps fiend and cannot be trusted, I clearly cannot choose the strychnine in front of me.
My friend said that I could sit in the glove compartment, but otherwise there would be no room for me in the car, as he was already transporting himself and his massive ego. I went for it and found it surprisingly spacious. First, his car is a Ford Mondo SUV, the first to be the size of a semi. The compartment was plush in there, lighted and air conditioned. I stretched out on his map of Delaware. I used a treadmill in there too, but I had to stop after I got a cramp in my bullshit muscle.
My first real job was at the Orange County Fair in Middletown, New York working for a guy named Zogby who ran a bunch of food stands. I had been sent out into the world by my parents to make my fortune; the job I landed paid minimum wage, lasted two weeks, and consisted of a four hour shift every other day. I was fifteen years old.
An older kid, Gerry, showed me around the area where I would be working, which was a sausage and peppers stand. The stand functioned as a hub for the Zogby’s empire, with satellite ice cream stands nearby. I would not be allowed anywhere near food, I learned, and my interactions with the public would be minimal. I would only do the following: wipe down counters and picnic benches, wash dishes and run errands.
It occurs to me now that I could have been tapped for a more prestigious role in the company had I not botched my first task. Gerry took me to a food delivery truck to unload boxes of frozen food. He climbed into the truck while I waited on the ground to take the boxes from him and load them onto a hand truck. Easy. Gerry grabbed the first box from a tall stack and dropped it at the lip of the truck. For some reason, I decided that I had to catch the box in the air and then place it on the hand truck rather than let it fall to the floor of the bed first. I think this was my attempt to appear hard working and conscientious. Well, I did not catch the box so much as allow it to pin my fingers underneath it as it crashed to the floor. I can still feel the iced-over box and floor jabbing and scraping my skin. Gerry saw what happened and later examined my rapidly swelling, purple middle finger. I spent the rest of that shift soaking my possibly broken finger in dirty water while washing dishes in the sweltering kitchen of the sausage and peppers hub.
After my first day the only thing I was entrusted with was a soapy bucket of water and a few dish rags. My task was to clean every counter surface and picnic table around the sausage and peppers hub in between customers. This territory included a pavilion behind the hub with picnic benches shared by nearby Zogby food eateries and ice cream stands. During my two-week stint the pavilion was where I worked most often, and I was thankful for the shade.
In one corner of the pavilion near the back of the sausage and peppers stand there was a small bar similar to the kind you would set up for a house party. It had just enough room for the bartender to set up a few spirits for mixed drinks and taps for a few beers. Occasionally a musician would set up a keyboard, a microphone and amplification in the opposite corner. I only remember seeing this piano player there once, but that one time was enough to leave an indelible mark in the shifting sands of my memories.
The Piano Man
My mom is a fan of Billy Joel. I grew up in an era when you would hear his songs on the radio often. We’re talking about that radio station that played “the hits of the 70s, 80s and today!” Mom played An Innocent Man on cassette in the car until we had committed it to memory. I found The Stranger, 52nd Street and Turnstiles in my parents’ record collection and played those frequently. I still like that music because it brings me back to that era. “Movin’ Out (Anthony’s Song)” is one of my favorite tunes of all time.
But I’m not a Billy Joel fan when that nostalgic connection isn’t there. I’m not sure when I first heard the song “Piano Man” but it wasn’t something we played in the house. I typically heard it played in my school in the band room. A young man who was forced to take piano lessons would one day discover the awesome power he had (a power Mr. Joel certainly found too): when you play the piano, chicks dig you. You have to play a current pop song or an old standard that has just the right appeal. Classical can work – Moonlight Sonata does pretty well. The young man would soon discover that “Piano Man” magnetized the female population. It satisfied the need for complexity and sincerity, demonstrating the player’s technical prowess and sensitivity.
I saw this work so well I wasn’t sure whether I should punch him or take lessons.
The song has a weird stream of consciousness that you rarely if ever hear in pop music. Released in 1973 as a single, it was written from Joel’s point of view as a former piano player in a lounge in Los Angeles. The characters mentioned in the song are based on real people and his encounters with them. I think the music sounds just fine. My issue is with the supposed sincerity. Yes, it certainly sounds heartfelt. Could it be, however, that his chord progression is tugging at your heartstrings and distracting you from the lyrics? The characters in the song – the old man, Paul ‘the real estate novelist,’ John the bartender, Davy in the Navy, the waitress practicing politics – are very distant from the ‘Piano Man’ and he seems to sing about them like he is better than they are, as if he too isn’t “sharing the drink they call loneliness,” as if there wasn’t “someplace he’d rather be.” For me, the worst line is near the end, where it is implied, via the line “man, what are you doing here,” that he is better than this scene and everyone in the bar knows it.
I’m a big fan of Tom Waits. He wrote songs about getting drunk in bars with strangers and employed the same setting: early 70s Los Angeles. But his early stuff was appealing because he was in the thick of it, singing from the gutter looking up, not looking down from a piano bench. Billy Joel treated his subjects like Edward Hopper, while Waits was more like Reginald Marsh.
The Eye Roll Heard ‘Round the World
I was in the middle of cleaning a melty glob of raspberry ice cream off of the hot brown surface of a picnic table when I heard a conversation between the Piano Man and the bartender in the corner of the pavilion. “What’s your name, man?” I didn’t quite hear the response, but I assume the bartender’s name didn’t fit the meter of the song, because the Piano Man then said, “Can I just call you ‘Mike?’”
I looked up to see the bartender shrug his shoulders and go back to cleaning the shelves under his bar. “That’s great!” said the Piano Man. “Mike it is!” I watched as the musician crossed the pavilion to his keyboard and got his sheet music ready.
The air in the tent was hot and stagnant, the smell of sausage and peppers ubiquitous and the crowd, always pausing briefly at a table before moving on, was disinterested. Yet the Piano Man maintained his pep. I tried to catch the eye of the bartender to see if he too thought the man was goofy, but ‘Mike’ saved his energy to exchange pleasantries with his customers and was dead-eyed otherwise.
At some point in his set, the Piano Man began to play Billy Joel’s “Piano Man.” This was it, his big moment. Families brushing past pushing strollers may have been oblivious but he had my attention. And then the lyric, the one he had carefully set up with the bartender beforehand, came: “Now ‘Mike’ at the bar is a friend of mine/ He gets me my drinks for free.” He verily shouted it while gesturing with one hand to ‘Mike’ in the other corner of the pavilion. But when ‘Mike’ heard this line he did not play along. He wasn’t show biz about it. Oh, no. I watched ‘Mike’s’ eyes roll so hard to the left and down I thought they’d roll out of his head. In my mind I feel like there should have been a sound effect for this story when this happened, like maybe a bowling ball slamming into a gutter as soon as it was released from the bowler’s hand, the pins collecting dust in the distance. ‘Mike’ turned his back on the Piano Man and went about his business.
Coda
I pitied the Piano Man. While I might have been holding a slop bucket and a rag, I knew I wasn’t coming back the following year. He was an adult who could be playing any music he wanted, anywhere he wanted, and he ended up in this place. The Piano Man, who had probably been the guy in high school getting chicks with his piano playing, was having a good time and it was crazy. I had been playing trumpet for several years at that point and had done small concerts for faculty parties and board of education events via the jazz band. I know, pretty fancy. What I’m saying is, at fifteen the glitz and glamour of ‘show business’ had worn off. Here was a guy twice my age acting like he was playing the Garden.
But did the Piano Man quit? Did he lose confidence? Quite the opposite. He sang the shit out of that song until the last line, which is “Man, what are you doing here?” But while Billy Joel was destined to put out much better material in the years that followed “Piano Man,” this Piano Man was never asked that question. Why? No one doubted that this performer belonged in a stuffy hot pavilion behind a sausage and peppers stand for two weeks every summer.
from Purgatory: Five Years in Cleveland, a book by ME!
A knock at the boss’ door was not taken lightly. It was as if he was the Supreme Being himself. I was hesitant to bother him at all. It was such a trivial matter, but one that hadn’t taken care of itself. And I surely wasn’t the one capable of willing it away.
“Come.” The guttural voice inspired both fear and respect. He was seated at a modest desk in a cramped office stacked with contracts waiting to be filed. A fiery horizon burned through the windows and cast a reddish glow on everything in the room. The boss’ skin, too, had a reddish quality and I had always wondered if he had been born that way or if it was a condition brought on by the intense work in such a place as this. It seemed like the boss had been here a million years, but it had probably been only half that long.
“Sir,” I began, “there is a problem with one of the new people. He isn’t showing the . . . desired reaction to his daily routine.”
Even in a chair, the boss cut an impressive figure. He leaned back exhibiting a massive upper body and a cliff-like brow. His eyes burned right through me, making me feel small and weak.
The boss growled, “Lionel, is this my problem? You see the work I have to do.” He swung his arms wide to gesture to the stacks of contracts that needed his authorization. His wingspan was an impressive ten feet.
“Sir, I do appreciate the work you are doing, as do all of my colleagues. You taught me everything I know. You are beyond all criticism. I do not come to you to complain or to raise issues. I acknowledge my limitations, sir, and I come to you for help.” That was the way, I thought. Admit your weakness. He likes that.
Stroking a jet-black goatee, the boss considered my plea. “Very well, Lionel. I will speak with him. I can still inspire the proper reaction in my new recruits, eh?” He raised his eyebrow and looked in my direction. I nodded nervously in agreement.
I left to fetch the necessary files from the cabinet down the hall. Peering over the railing of the fourth floor I scanned the crowd on the first floor for the young man I was so worried about. I found him leaning against a wall with his hands in his pockets. He stared off into space, completely unaware of his circumstances. The fire was burning all around him. The young man nonchalantly checked his watch, as if time meant anything here. In such a crowd as ours he still stuck out like a bloody thumb.
“Thomas Kurtz, please report to the boss’ office. Thomas Kurtz, please report to the boss’ office.” There could have been thousands of Thomas Kurtzes in that crowd, but they all knew which one the boss wanted to see. The young man barely shrugged when he shoved himself off of the wall and slumped over to the elevators. He had no idea what he was about to encounter.
I sat across from the boss. Kurtz was marched into the office and he sat in the chair next to mine. He looked around the office only momentarily, and then simply gazed out the window with a blank expression at the fiery sky. His countenance didn’t portray stupidity or catatonia. Though I knew it was impossible, I couldn’t help but think that the man seemed bored.
It was the same look he had when I had first put him on the rack. Then I had moved him down to Layer Seven to slow roast over a bottomless pit. I swear he had his arms folded across his chest as he dangled there for two years. Then I had to get serious. Disembowelment. Decapitation. Peeling toenails and fingernails. Slugs. Rats. Snakes. Spiders. Bullets. Rocks. Spears. Kurtz never reacted.
“Lionel,” the boss said, “why don’t you leave us. Mr. Kurtz and I have a lot to talk about.”
“Sir? I just thought I could prepare the gentleman — ”
With a quick look the boss cut me off. In his eyes I saw horrible acts that I had never imagined and felt terrible emotions that threatened to destroy me. I looked away, squinting in pain. Arising, I put my hand on Kurtz’s shoulder and wished him luck. I knew that what I had just seen in the boss’ eyes was just a glimpse of what this young man had in store. Kurtz looked up at me blankly.
To take my mind off of Kurtz I went down to the seventh floor. It was my favorite spot to people watch. There were three rooms side-by-side that I observed from a viewing area. One of our managers led a new man past all three rooms and made a gesture for the man to take a look into each one. The first room was filled with rabid dogs, wolves and coyotes. At the center of the room, four people – two men and two women – were bound to a large wooden column. The animals attacked these people, tearing away chunks of flesh that grew back only to be eaten again. The people had their mouths wide open, screaming. The new man moved on to the second room where about 50 people were clawing and fighting each other to reach a cell door key suspended from the ceiling. They were equipped with various tools, including sticks, shovels and ladders, which they were using to fend off their competitors. Any time a person got close to the key the others would knock that person down. The third room was half filled with feces, and one man and two women stood waste deep in it. They were sipping coffee from coffee cups. They chatted with each other and smiled. The new man, who had breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing the third room, looked to the manager and pointed to his choice. This man was admitted to the cell where he waded into the pool of filth and greeted his cellmates. The new man, in order to break the ice, told the following joke to his cellmates:
“A man dies and goes to Hell where he is greeted by the devil:
Devil: Hey, why are you bumming out?
Man: If you died and went to Hell, you’d be bumming out too.
Devil: Hell isn’t what you think it is. It’s fun down here. Say, do you drink?
Man: Sure, I love to drink. Why?
Devil: Well, you’re gonna love Mondays because on Mondays all we do here is drink. Hell, we have whiskey, tequila, rum, vodka, all the booze you want to drink. We drink ‘til we puke, then we drink more.
Man: Ah, that sounds great.
Devil: Do you smoke?
Man: Damn right I do!
Devil: Cool! You’re gonna love Tuesdays. We get the finest cigars from all over the world. Smoke all you want. You don’t have to worry about getting cancer because you’re already dead anyways.
Man: No shit!
Devil: You like gambling?
Man: Hell yeah!
Devil: Great! On Wednesdays, we have gambling night here in Hell. We have poker, slot machines, roulette, craps, black jack, horse racing. You name it, we got it.
Man: My wife didn’t used to let me play poker.
Devil: Now you can. You like to get stoned?
Man: I love getting stoned! You mean…
Devil: That’s right man, because on Thursdays, it’s stoner night here in Hell! Help yourself to a huge bowl of crack, smoke a joint the size of a nuclear sub, do all the drugs you want and you don’t have to worry about overdosing because you’re already dead anyhow.
Man: Awesome! I never thought Hell was such a swinging place!
Devil: Are you gay?
Man: Uh, no.
Devil: Oooh, you’re gonna hate Fridays!
The three cellmates laughed at the new man’s joke and they all sipped from their coffee cups. A minute later a guard tapped his night stick on the third cell door and said, “Coffee break’s over, get back on your heads.” Going down to the seventh floor and seeing things like this always made me feel better.
I rode the elevator back to the fourth floor. As I approached the boss’ office I heard him faintly say, “Lionel, could you come here please.” It didn’t sound like the boss. The voice was much more earthy and worn. It sounded downtrodden. It sounded human.
I entered the office and closed the door. The boss stood by the window looking out to the blood red horizon. He had poured himself a drink and was gulping it, keeping the bottle in his other hand. I watched the boss slam two glasses of whiskey down his throat before he spoke. “I saw Kurtz’s file.” The file was on the boss’ desk flipped to the first page. “I don’t suppose you remember his background?”
I truly didn’t remember anything strange, and I said so. The boss countered, “You may not remember, but you saw it. You inspect all the new files. You looked it over and then looked it over again when you noticed his . . . problem.” The boss gulped another whiskey, then added, “His problem that is now our problem.”
“I don’t understand. His file is just random facts about his life. That shouldn’t have any bearing down here.”
The boss turned at last and I saw grief in his eyes. His shoulders were heavy and he slouched over his desk. Picking up the first page of the file, he read, “ ‘Kurtz, Thomas Frederick. Born 1976, New York, New York. Died 2001 in …”
The boss didn’t continue but somehow I knew the rest. It came back, the memory of reading the location of Kurtz’s deathplace, a small insignificant detail, but a detail that threatened to unravel all the work the boss had done for so many eons.
Died 2001, Cleveland, Ohio. The problem with torturing a New Yorker who moves to Cleveland is that no supernatural hellish torture compares to the one the man put on himself.
The boss said, “After I read this first page of the file I knew it was over. No interrogation was needed. I simply asked, ‘Why?’ He said, ‘A woman.’” The boss slumped even lower. I poured myself a drink and another and another and my boss and I sat in his office drinking and saying nothing. Later, the boss decided that Thomas Kurtz should be returned to Cleveland to suffer more in the mortal world. Reanimation was usually done for those wrongly sentenced or for contracts that turned out to be invalid. This was different. Kurtz could not exist is such a place as this. And we didn’t want him.
As a final comment on the Kurtz issue, the boss pointed his index talon to the immortal plane above and said, “And if the competition has a problem, tell them they can have him. I’d like to see what they come up with.”
The sun is rising on a warm spring day. A pink Cadillac is speeding down a lonely highway. In the car, DAVID SWIMMER turns to his brother, JASON BRIGGS, and asks for directions. They’ve been driving all night from Ohio State University and they want to make it to Spring Break before anyone else. But as David checks the highway signs, his heart sinks. He knows his brother, who was in charge of planning the trip, has let him down again. “What’s the name of the island were going to?” Jason nonchalantly says, “Rode’s Island … Rodey’s Island … something like that.” Wincing, David pulls off the highway onto the exit for Somewhere, Rhode Island. Under his breath he mutters, “You moron.”
The pink Cadillac pulls into a small food stand near the beach in Somewhere, Rhode Island. As they survey the beach, Jason marvels at the lack of people and partying; David wonders how long his patience will last. Suddenly the back door of the food stand pops open and two attractive young women emerge carrying bags of garbage. KATE RANCHETTE and ANGELINA MOLIE, childhood friends from Somewhere, are cleaning up their food stand to get ready for the throngs of beach goers that never seem to come. The stand hasn’t made much money the last few summers and Kate, the older of the two, is considering selling it. She hasn’t yet brought this up to Angelina, who is content to sell hotdogs and flirt with all the young men who pass by.
Jason is captivated by Angelina and wants to meet her, but David has his mind on the real parties going on to the south, nine hundred miles away. They agree to get some breakfast at the stand so that Jason can make his move. The initial introduction is awkward between the four of them: Jason gawks at Angelina who considers him too Midwestern for her tastes, while Kate’s cold professionalism doesn’t mix well with David’s urge to depart.
The two fellows are tired, though, so they decide to spend the night. Angelina offers them a place at her parents’ house, which is next to where Kate lives with her parents. While Jason charms Angelina’s mom and dad, David finds himself talking to Kate again in her backyard. She shares with him several ideas about where she wants to go in life. She’s kicking around the idea of taking the stand somewhere else. She says, “The big hunk of metal has wheels, right? Can’t I just tow it down to Florida and sell hot dogs there?” Though at first David was bored by her, the business major in him begins to see possibilities in her enterprise. Meanwhile, Jason is getting to know Angelina in her bedroom. Just as he is about to make a move, there is a knock at the front door. It’s ROLPH DUNDGREN, Angelina’s boyfriend, who is 6-foot-4 and drives a yellow Hummer modified with monster truck tires. They leave on a date while Jason stews. He is ready to leave the next morning, but David has changed his mind and wants to stay to be with Kate.
The next morning, David, Jason, Angelina and Kate are working in the food stand. David offhandedly mentions to Angelina that Kate is thinking of selling or moving the stand. Angelina confronts Kate and then storms out. Now Kate isn’t too fond of David, who is desperately trying to think of ways to win her back. Meanwhile, Jason consoles Angelina and it’s clear that she is growing fond of him.
David asks Kate out on a date to make up for his transgression and she reluctantly accepts. The date includes flowers, music, dinner and finally a balloon ride. But the shellfish isn’t agreeing with him and he vomits all over Kate, who pushes him out of the balloon. To her chagrin, he saves his life by grabbing a tether and swings in the night, screaming for help.
As the days progress, David and Jason work at the stand. David tries to charm his way back into Kate’s good graces, but nothing works. Jason’s crush on Angelina grows daily, but every day that he sees her go off with Rolph in his Hummer his envy grows.
One night at Angelina’s parents house, David devises a plan to boost the food stand’s profit margin by a staggering percentage and win Kate back in the process. The next day he opens the stand himself and sets up an array of bizarre condiments for the hot dogs: tomato soup, Spaghettios, popcorn, peanut butter, chocolate sauce and grape jelly. He has invited the press and local hot dog eating champions to attend the grand opening of the new stand. Kate is initially aghast, but she can’t argue with success.
Later that day, Jason professes his love for Angelina. She is conflicted about how she feels for him. Just then, Rolph shows up and a confrontation ensues. Rolph is about to beat Jason to a pulp over Angelina’s screams of protest when Jason suggests an air hockey match for her love. Rolph agrees and the match takes place on the beach in front of beachgoers and champion hot dog eaters. Rolph boasts that his competitive nature won’t let him lose; Jason relates stories about ditching his classes to play for days straight. It’s on! The game is tied 11-11. Jason slaps the puck over and Rolph blocks it just at the goal line. Grinning, he puts his paddle aside as he psyches out his opponent. But suddenly the score buzzer sounds for Jason. In their haste to get the game going it seems that instead of a puck they used a hermit crab, which had walked into Rolph’s goal for the win.
Kate and David are sharing a quiet moment after the crowds leave. She tells him she thinks she’s ready for a change. They agree to hook up the stand to the pink Caddy and leave for a real Spring Break. Once they’ve got it all hooked up, they drive into the sunset. As they pull out, Angelina and Jason run up and jump into the back seat. They drive off into the distance chased by a yellow Hummer with monster truck tires.
I am a shaved ape. They buzzed off my fur; it is still sticking in clumps to my forehead. They asked if I wanted gel and I told them to spread it all over my body.
Because I wanted to be a sexy modern man. I looked like Goose from Top Gun. I looked sexier than Richard Greco in a banana hammock or a greased up Hasselhoff. Sexy hairy bitches wanted me to lift them up where they belong. They wanted to practice dirty, hairy dancing. They wanted me to bust the ghosts of former lovers, be the kid to karate chop their old apefriends.
I was elected president of The Hair Club for Primates. I said the corny line that everybody says: “I’m not just a member, but I’m also the czar.” Then I said, “I could tell you the secret ingredient of our product, but then I’d have to kill you. And by kill you I mean blow you up with a nuclear warhead shoved into your urethra.” Then I said, “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, so get to your local pet store first thing tomorrow for the early bird special – one California condor and a bucket of worms.” (I was also the pitchman for Pets Mills Stores and I was able to work suggestive advertising suavely into my monologues.)
I got sent to prison for jaywalking on an airplane tarmac and kicking in the slats of a Cessna 182 when it crossed my path. Don’t even ask me if the thing that nobody wants to happen in prison happened to me. That’s a foolish question. I wanted it to happen every time.
Once I was out, everybody wanted to know me. I got a reality television show where I acted the fool, let my hair grow back, punched walls and said really racist things about other primates. I won’t even repeat my slur against orangutans.
It was around this time that my popularity inexplicably waned in the States. That’s when I found out that I was big in Japan. They had me all over their TV: variety shows, pro wrestling circuits, sumo wrestling matches and sushi evaluations.
From there I went to Germany and drank the entire country under the table. To Turkey for a bath and a hookah, to Egypt to swing from the Sphinx’s nostrils, to Finland to record a neo-glam album about snow and suicide, to England for a rousing discussion of the importance of Sherlock Homes in defining the characteristics of the detective in modern literature, to Ireland for a discussion about how fucked up the English are, to Denmark to stick my fingers in dikes, to Holland for hash and hoes, to Mongolia to make funny faces, to China to jog along the great wall, to Tuva for throat singing lessons, to India to lose some weight and pray to a cow, to blah blah blah.
I wrote about all of this on my blog. Upon my triumphant return to the States I was lauded as the new Mark Twain. My wit and wisdom were unparalleled in human history, but it was awkward as I am not human.
I devolved back to my Sasquatch ways and hid up in the Pacific Northwest. I wrote letters to world leaders and to other primates. “Kofi, keep it real.” “Koko, eat your meals.”
My posse and I hid from humans and partied. We have all the fool’s gold a man could want. We have the costumes that Walt Disney developed to fake people out. We have the bananas. We have most of our marbles.
Shored#Bitless 