by Rick Goeld
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?
12
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.”
13
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 t
he 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.
14
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?”