by Simon Rich
Physicians’ Lounge, April 1st
-You wanted to see me, sir?
-Yes, Dr. Metzger. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. I’ve been receiving complaints from your patients. And I’ve decided I can’t allow you to make April Fool’s jokes this year.
-Oh my God.
-I know you’re disappointed, but my mind is made up.
-What about the one where I tell the patient I’m out of anesthetic?
-No.
-What about the one where I put on a janitor’s outfit, grab a scalpel, and walk into the operating room just as my patient loses consciousness? So he thinks he’s about to be operated on by a janitor?
-No.
-What about the one where the patient wakes up after his operation and I start shouting, “Where’s my stethoscope? Where did I leave my stethoscope?” And then I stare at the patient’s torso, with a look of horror, like I maybe left it inside his body?
-No.
-You can’t do this to me! April Fool’s Day is the highlight of my year. It’s the only reason I finished medical school—to experience the holiday as a doctor.
-I’m sorry, Sam, but my hands are tied.
-What about the one where the patient wakes up and I’m wearing a robot costume, so he thinks he’s been in a coma for eighty years. And I’m like, “Welcome to the future, Mr. Greenbaum. The world you remember is gone.” You know, in a robot voice. So he thinks I’m a robot.
-I get it. The answer is still no.
-How could you be so cruel? I mean, for God’s sake, what happened to the Hippocratic oath?
-“First do no harm”?
-That’s what that meant?
-Yes.
-You sure it wasn’t something about April Fool’s?
-Yes.
-What about the one where I tell the patient his kidney operation was a grand success, but then, while I’m talking to him, I have an intern come in and say, “Dr. Metzger, you’ve got some dirt on your left shoulder.” And I start to brush my right shoulder. And the intern’s like, “No, your left shoulder.” And I’m like, “This is my left shoulder.” And he’s like, “No, it’s your right shoulder. What’s the matter with you, Dr. Metzger? Don’t you know your left from your right?” And then we both look at the patient’s torso, with a look of horror, to imply, like…
-I know where you’re going with this.
-…to imply, like, maybe I operated on the wrong kidney? Like, maybe I did the left one instead of the right one because I don’t know the difference between my—
-No.
-At least let me workshop it!
-I’m sorry, Sam, but my decision is final.
-…
-April…Fool’s.
-No way!
-I can’t believe you bought that!
-Man, you got me good! Guess that’s why you’re the head of surgery.
-Pass me my robot mask. It’s time to make the rounds.
Menlo Park, 1891
—Still from Newark Athlete, Edison Studios, 1891
“Sorry to bother,” Jed murmured, “but I think I maybe made another mix-up.”
Thomas Edison squinted at the boy. He’d known for some time that Jed was unintelligent. But lately he’d begun to suspect that the boy was an actual medical idiot.
“What is it now?” Edison muttered.
“Did you say to mix in five centiliters?”
“No,” Edison said. “Five milliliters.”
A nearby beaker exploded, showering them both with shards of glass.
“Sorry,” Jed said.
Edison closed his eyes and rubbed his throbbing temples. He’d hired the local high school boy to help with basic lab work. But even the simplest of tasks were beyond his capabilities. The boy’s best hope of contributing to science was to let doctors dissect his head, so they could study the brain of a moron. There was simply no other use for him.
Except, perhaps, for one.
“What do I do?” Jed asked.
“Just stand here,” Edison said. “In this spot.”
He roughly positioned the boy in front of his new apparatus, a square contraption built of tin and glass.
“Okay,” he said. “Action!”
“What?” said the boy.
“Do some action,” Edison said. “With your body.”
“What kind?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Edison said impatiently. “Here.” He handed the boy a pair of oblong wooden clubs. “Swing these around.”
Jed took the clubs and flailed them spastically over his head. It was upsetting to watch, but of course it didn’t matter what Jed did. The point was to showcase his glorious new invention: the kinetograph. Thanks to its novel high-speed shutter system, the device could produce a living photograph—what Edison liked to call a “motion picture.” The phonograph had brought him fame. The light bulb had brought him riches. But this machine would bring him immortality. This machine, he knew, would change the world forever.
Edison entitled his film, somewhat sarcastically, Newark Athlete. He knew the reception would be positive, but when he screened it in his lab, the response surpassed his wildest expectations. Hundreds of reporters were crammed into the space, and when the film was over, they stood up and cheered, laughing and hollering like children.
Edison rarely smoked, but the occasion seemed to call for a cigar. He snapped at Jed, and the boy ran over to bring him one.
“Any questions?” Edison asked the crowd.
Before he could call on anyone, the reporters began to shout, as if alarmed.
“What is it?” Edison asked, looking around in confusion.
“It’s him!” cried a reporter, pointing his finger at the boy. “The Newark athlete!”
Edison turned to Jed, who was smiling stupidly, surprised by the attention.
“Ah yes,” chuckled Edison. “That’s the boy I used to display my invention. Anyway…questions?”
A reporter raised his hand. “Is it okay if I ask the boy a question?”
Edison was baffled. Jed had not had any involvement whatsoever in the invention of kinetography. But he saw no harm in obliging the reporter.
“I suppose that’s fine,” he said.
The reporter turned to Jed and blushed. He looked a bit nervous. “Wow,” he said. “This is exciting. First of all, I just want to say, I love your movie.”
Edison choked a little on his cigar. It wasn’t Jed’s movie—it was his. He watched with mounting annoyance as the reporter continued to ramble.
“I think something we’d all like to know is: what kind of preparation did you have to do for your role?”
The boy shrugged. “Not much,” he said. “I kind of just stood in front of the lens.”
The reporter nodded. “So you just, like, channeled it. You were like, ‘I’m going to be this Newark athlete’ and then you were.”
The boy shrugged. “I guess.”
“Wow,” the reporter said, shaking his head with awe. “Holy shit.”
Edison smiled curtly. “Okay,” he said. “That was fun. To interview the boy. Any questions for me? The inventor of kinetography?”
“Jed!” shouted a reporter in the back. “Do you have any advice for people starting out who want to be in pictures?”
Jed shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Please!” the reporter begged.
Jed scratched his head. “I guess…follow your dreams?”
The crowd applauded.
Edison tried to regain their attention, but it was too late. The reporters had rushed past him and were surrounding the boy, peppering him with questions about his personal life.
“No, I’m not seeing anyone right now,” he heard Jed say.
“Not seeing anyone, like, at all?” asked a reporter. “Or, like, not seriously dating anyone?”
Jed shrugged. “I guess, like, ‘not seriously dating.’”
“So you, like, hook up and stuff.”
Jed nodded. “I hook up.”
Edison realized with amazement that somehow he had been pushed out of his own laboratory. Reporters wrestled past him, brandishing cameras and blasting flash powder in his face. Edison coughed as his throat filled up with phosphorus. And as he sunk to his knees, it occurred to him that his prediction had come true: this time, he’d changed the world forever.
Tom Hanks Stories
“I saw Tom Hanks at a drugstore in West Hollywood. He didn’t try to cut the line or anything. He just got in the back and waited, like he was a regular person. I couldn’t believe he was buying his own toothpaste! I figured a movie star like him would have someone to do that for him. But not Tom Hanks. He’s just a down-to-earth, classy kind of guy.”
“I drove Tom Hanks to the airport once. He was normal the whole ride. Didn’t scream at me or threaten my life. Craziest thing: he stayed in a seated position the entire time. No levitating.”
“So I’m waiting outside the Paramount lot, hoping to see a celebrity, and out comes Tom Hanks. Just walking, using his legs. So I say, ‘Would you please sign my tee shirt?’ Then I brace myself: you know, expecting him to vomit bile on me, out of pure disgust. But instead, he says, ‘Sure,’ and signs my shirt! Here’s the craziest part: he used a pen. I figured he’d probably plunge a syringe into my chest and sign his name using blood from my heart. You know, to make a point about my comparative worthlessness and the expendability of my life relative to his. But, no. He uses a regular pen. Like the kind you would find in a store. If there’s a classier guy on earth, I’d like to meet him.”
“I’m sitting on a bench with my family when Tom Hanks walks by on the sidewalk. I don’t know what to say, so I just shout out, ‘Hey, Tom!’ And he stops. So I figure okay, this is it. I’m going to die. He’s going to take out a gun and shoot me point-blank in the face, which, let’s be honest, is what I deserve. I mean, the guy has a million important things to do, he’s a huge celebrity, and here I am, stopping his walking. At the very least, I figure he’ll make love to my wife or my daughter in front of me. You know, to prove a point about how the world is his and he can take what he wants and I’m just like an insect to him. But none of this transpires. Instead, he just smiles at me and says, ‘Hey.’ Class act all the way.”
“I once saw Tom Hanks from across a crowded parking lot. Get this: the guy was wearing pants. Like, regular, human pants. With a button and a zipper and the whole deal. You don’t have to believe me. But I swear to Hanks I’m telling you the truth.”
Adolf Hitler: The GQ Profile
Adolf Hitler has a question about the fries.
The waiter is clearly stunned. We’re at Fork and Twig, one of the most exclusive eateries in Beverly Hills. Customers don’t typically ask questions. But, as our server will soon learn, there is nothing typical about Adolf Hitler.
“Can I get the fries without all that truffle shit?” he asks.
“You mean the aioli?”
“Whatever the fuck it’s called.”
The waiter can’t help but smile at Hitler’s brashness. He dutifully marks the request down on his notepad and hurries off to tell the kitchen. Hitler leans across the table and flashes me a conspiratorial grin.
“Sometimes,” he says, “you just want what you want.”
Adolf Hitler has made a career out of wanting what he wants. I could go through the superlatives, not like anybody needs me to: one war, two fronts, six million Jews, all before the age of sixty. Even by celebrity standards, the numbers are impressive.
“Hitler exists in his own category,” says Smithsonian magazine editor Chris Davenport. “I mean, you’ve got your Pol Pots and your Stalins. They’re major brands. But let’s be real. When you’ve got to move units off the newsstand, there’s only one face you’re sticking on the cover.”
Given his global celebrity, you would expect Hitler’s presence to attract more attention at Fork and Twig. But despite the occasional stare, we seem to be flying below the radar. It’s obvious why: Hitler is not a typical celebrity. There’s no handler, no agent, no sycophantic entourage. There’s just, well, Hitler.
“It’s easy to forget where you came from,” he says. “Especially in this town.”
The fries arrive—plain, of course—and Hitler shoves a wad of them into his mouth.
“These aren’t going to be enough,” he tells the waiter. “Bring us another order.”
The waiter runs back to the kitchen, and Hitler flashes me a wink.
“It’s the Austrian in me,” he says. “I can’t resist free food.”
Another thing he can’t resist these days is Brazilian jujitsu. He was thirty minutes late to our encounter because a sparring match went long.
“This guy tried to arm bar me,” he says, smirking. “Let’s just say it didn’t go exactly as he planned.”
It’s a classic Hitler statement. Humble, witty, understated—but burning with competitive fire.
Yes, Hitler’s style has mellowed since his heyday in the forties. Gone are the Hugo Boss power suits of old, replaced by a muted ensemble from Rag & Bone. But don’t let the understated cardigan fool you. Hitler’s ambition glows as bright as ever.
“Everyone knows he’s working on something,” says UN spokesman Carol Torres. “No one knows exactly what it is. His people won’t reveal much to us. But rumor is, it’s his most ambitious genocide in years.”
When I ask him for specifics, he’s evasive. “You’re gonna get me in trouble,” he says. He picks up my tape recorder and talks directly into the microphone. “No comment!” He laughs, and I can’t help but join in. This isn’t his first rodeo.
You would think someone as accomplished as Hitler would be content to rest on his laurels and cede the limelight to the next generation of homicidal dictators.
But that would be typical.
“I don’t sleep much,” Hitler admits when I ask him about his legendary work schedule. “I know my hours are nuts. Anyone who saw me work would say, ‘That’s unsustainable.’ But look, when you love the work? When the work means something to you? You don’t want to waste a day.” He smiles ruefully. “Of course, sometimes there are casualties.”
I don’t press him for details, but it’s obvious to what he’s referring. Hitler recently ended a long-term relationship with iconic supermodel Öo. The breakup, by all accounts, was amicable. But a source close to the pair told me that Hitler’s obsession with his work is what ultimately tore them apart.
“It’s hard to be a good boyfriend when you’re in Brazil forty weeks a year, planning a major genocide.”
Hitler grabs the last fry, a crisp, burnt nubbin, and tosses it into his mouth.
“Where’s our second order?” he asks. “It never came.”
A younger Hitler might have reacted with anger. But the man sitting across from me just throws up his hands in frustration. It’s a gesture that speaks volumes. There are some things in life you can’t control—no matter who you are.
A funny thing happened to Hitler when he lost his iPhone. He realized that he didn’t really miss it.
“I was helping with some project in Iraq,” he says with characteristic modesty. “And the rain started pouring from the sky. And everyone started running. And I thought, There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here. Right now.”
In the six months since this epiphany, Hitler’s been operating in a different gear.
The Brazilian jujitsu is just part of the puzzle. He begins each morning with a wellness routine designed to “counteract the bullshit.” It all starts with a long solo hike into the hills, followed by an hour of sun salutations.
When I point out that yoga isn’t exactly “on brand,” Hitler nods good-naturedly. “Don’t tell CAA,” he says. “They’ll drop me like a bag of shit.”
He’s in the middle of a hearty laugh when the moment is interrupted. A teenage fan has walked up to our table.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he says. “Is there any way I can get a selfie?”
“
Make it quick,” Hitler says.
He gamely poses while the teenager bursts into action, snapping the shot with the precision of a seasoned paparazzo. Hitler winces at the flash and shakes his head wearily as the teenager heads for the door without even so much as a thank-you.
I try to steer the conversation back to Hitler’s exercise routine, but it’s clear that a pall has been cast over our meal.
I ask the obvious question. Doesn’t Hitler like having fans?
“It’s nice when people appreciate the work,” he says diplomatically. “But this…” He gestures at the fan, then my tape recorder. “This is not the work. This is…something else.”
Hitler goes to take a call from his publicist, and I realize, with shame, that Hitler is absolutely right. What is the point of this interview? What is the point of our entire bankrupt culture?
I force myself to look outside the window. Flashy cars whiz down Rodeo like shiny neon bullets. Teenagers pose with selfie sticks, sucking in their cheeks like models in some nightmare acid freak show. The air is thick with man-made smog. You don’t need to ask Siri to find out what’s happened; the times have changed.
I feel myself begin to cry: for our future, for the world, and for myself.