by Rick Goeld
“Yes. It reeked.”
“You actually went to see it?”
“Yes.” She raised her eyebrows. “Didn’t you?”
He grinned broadly. “No.”
“Then how can you say . . .?” She punched him on the arm.
“Hey,” he cried, “Meryl Streep always wins!” She pummeled him lightly about the head and shoulders. “Okay, okay, stop … you’re messing me up.” He rearranged his shirt. “Seriously, I like Annette Bening for Best Actress.”
She smiled. “You’re still crazy. Hilary Swank will win.”
An hour later, as the ceremony dragged through Best Foreign Film and Best Cinematography and Best Who-knew-what, Eddie, feeling comfortable, steered the discussion to more personal matters.
“Do you have a steady boyfriend?” he ventured.
A steady boyfriend? She grinned. “What are we, teenagers?”
He raised his hands as if to surrender. “It was an innocent question.”
“You might say I have an unsteady boyfriend.”
“Unsteady. Does that mean he drinks a lot?”
Ouch. Was that a Freudian slip? Phil, “The Wine Merchant,” as he sometimes referred to himself, had been known to have a few too many. On a couple of occasions, pissed off with his devil-may-care attitude, she had declined to accompany him to a hotel. Denied sex, he would drink until he could hardly stand.
“Yes, he does drink too much on occasion. But he’s not what you’d call a boyfriend. We just date occasionally.” Let’s get off this subject. “Tell me about your situation. You said you were separated?” She watched as he shifted on the sofa.
*****
“Yeah, we’re separated. Have been for a few weeks.” I might as well be honest about it.
“What’s your wife’s name?” she asked.
“Alison.”
“Nice name. How long have you been married?”
The reporter never sleeps. “Can I just give you the condensed version of my marriage?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, I want to be upfront with you. No secrets.” No big ones, anyway.
“Okay . . .” She leaned back on the sofa. “Give me the condensed version.”
He took a deep breath. “We met at Rutgers during our senior year. We got married right after we graduated. We’ve been married, uh, seven years. We live in an apartment near Rutgers. We separated almost a month ago. That’s about it.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. We’ve just grown apart in the last few months.”
“What kind of work does she do?”
“She’s in advertising.”
“Oh. And no rugrats crawling around the apartment?”
“No. No kids.” He seemed to cringe as he said it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” She extended her hand to him in a gesture of reconciliation.
Me, uncomfortable? “No, it’s all right.” He took her hand.
She slid over to him and glanced at the television. Kevin Spacey had just won for Best Actor. “I told you so.” She smiled.
He leaned over, touched her cheek, and kissed her lightly on the lips. “I still liked Denzel better.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion.” She kissed him back. “It’s not your fault that no one agrees with you.”
Soon he was nuzzling her neck, and his hand was under her sweater. He felt her nipples harden as he worked his fingers under her bra.
She pulled away. “Let’s take it a little slower.” She removed his hand and slid back across the sofa.
A little slower. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. It’s just that, well, we hardly know each other.”
We hardly know each other. He shrunk into the opposite corner of the sofa.
“Hey, don’t be hurt,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“I do like you.” She smiled at him.
“Well, that’s encouraging.”
She slid back next to him, snuggled close, and took his hand. “I wouldn’t have agreed to come here if I didn’t like you.”
He put his arm around her, leaned down, and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
She kissed him back. “I’ll behave if you behave.”
“Such a deal.” He smiled.
They watched as Hilary Swank won for Best Actress.
“I told you so,” she said.
32
Monday, March 27, 2000
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Return of the Dark Brothers!
Eddie, did you see the article about Fagen and Becker in Rolling Stone Magazine? It’s terrific. I can’t remember the last time I saw such a good article about them.
I’ve been following your exploits in The New York Post. Are you more clever than you appear to be? Did you have this Steely Dan thing all planned out in advance? I mean, I know you’re a smart guy and all (and good looking, let’s not forget that!) Did you plan it, or did things just fall into place? Someone must be watching out for you.
I still feel guilty about what happened between me and Mark. We (you and I) didn’t have a committed relationship or anything, but still. I keep telling myself that chemistry between two people “just happens,” but I still feel bad. I don’t know what else to say. It’s just how I feel.
Did you see the Academy Awards last night?
…Marcie
*****
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Feeling guilty
Marcie, stop feeling guilty about what happened. Things happen. It hurts, but you get over it, eventually. You are 100% right about chemistry. Some people just hit it off, and others just don’t. I’m okay, and I’m truly happy for you and Mark. Please don’t worry about me.
I read the article in Rolling Stone! I agree, it’s fantastic. The description of how Fagen walks and sits is priceless. And it says Becker is the sarcastic one. Who would have known?
Funny thing about the magazine: I had “borrowed” a copy from the store’s magazine rack, which is a “technical” violation of policy. So I’m sitting in the storeroom, reading and eating my lunch, when my boss wanders in. I figure he’s gonna chew my ass out, but all he says is: “Eddie, you work here, right? Why don’t you use your employee discount and buy the damned magazine. It’s cheap, but it’s not free.” Can you believe it?
Thank you very much for calling me smart and good looking! Not many people have called me that lately—or ever!
This thing with The Post newspaper articles just kind of happened. I am clever, but not clever enough to engineer that whole thing. You’re right, someone may be watching over me. But who?
I did watch the Academy Awards. Hilary Swank over Meryl Streep? Please!
…EZEddie
33
Tuesday, March 28, 2000
They had agreed to “dress up” for this, their second “not-a-date,” or their third “not-a-date” if you counted the dinner at Friend of a Farmer.
Eddie admired his reflection in the storefront windows as he hurried along Eighth Avenue toward 63rd Street. He was wearing a white button-down shirt, black slacks, black loafers, and a charcoal grey sport jacket that his brother had graciously loaned him. As he approached the entrance to Iridium, he spotted Lois standing outside, her arms crossed, and one foot tapping impatiently on the sidewalk. She was wearing a black dress that had a pattern of silver swirls, a black leather coat draped over her shoulders, and an outrageous pair of high heels.
She heard his footsteps and turned. A flash of spectacular thigh. “You’re late.” She frowned at him.
He glanced at his watch. “I’m five minutes late.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds before she broke down and pecked his cheek. “You clean up nice, anyway.”
“That’s why I’m late.” He spread his arms and spun around. “This takes a while.�
�
“Really!”
“Hey.” He grabbed her and gave her a proper kiss. “You look fabulous.” Her eyes twinkled.
Soon they were escorted down a flight of stairs, and seated at a tiny table in what was a converted basement. A waitress took their drink orders.
“So why did you pick this place?” she asked.
He thought for a few seconds. Lois had suggested they meet in front of the Village Vanguard, which was near her apartment, and wander around, checking out the dozen or so jazz clubs that were sprinkled around the Village. But he had done his research, and wanted to start at Iridium.
“A number of reasons. First, it’s near River Sound, and what I thought was Fagen’s apartment. If they sit in anywhere, this might be the place they’d do it.”
“Okay. That makes sense, for someone who thinks like you.”
He smiled. “Second, the Pharoah Sanders Quartet is playing here tonight. See the piano up there?” He gestured toward the stage. “Fagen’s instrument. Guitars? Becker’s instrument.”
“Along with thousands of other musicians, I would guess.” She looked doubtful.
“And third, a couple of fans told me this would be a good place to look, in emails they sent me. And it’s mentioned in a couple of chat rooms.”
“Oh, well, that clinches it.”
The waitress arrived with a glass of chardonnay and a mug of Sam Adams. Starving, Eddie asked if there were any snacks. The waitress said she would see what she could find.
Lois sipped her wine. “What do you think the chances are of those two guys showing up, on this particular night, at this particular club?”
He thought for a moment. “It’s worth a shot.”
“Uh, huh.”
“We’ll catch the first set. If they don’t show, we’ll head down to The Village.”
“Eddie. This is a useless exercise.”
He smiled and mouthed the words “trust me.”
The lights dimmed, the Pharoah Sanders Quartet was introduced, and they began with a subdued version of “You Don’t Know What Love Is.” But after a few numbers, it became obvious that Sanders was going to focus on more experimental stuff, and that no one was going to be sitting in with them.
He whispered to her, “No Fagen, no Becker. Let’s go.”
She hissed back. “Are you crazy? We paid the cover. Anyway, this is too good to walk out on.”
She’s right. He grabbed a handful of peanuts and signaled the waitress for another round.
When the set was over, he stood and put on his jacket. “Let’s go,” he said.
Lois didn’t move a muscle. “That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna do?”
“What else is there?”
“I thought you were going to ask around?”
He gestured around the room, which was emptying rapidly. “Who am I gonna ask?”
Lois signaled for the waitress, who dragged herself away from a conversation with a bartender and strolled over to their table. She looked puzzled; she’d already cashed them out. “Need something else?”
Lois took charge. “Is there a manager or someone else I can speak to?”
The waitress looked concerned. “Was everything all right?”
“Yes, fine,” Lois reassured her, “you were wonderful. I’m a reporter from The New York Post. I just want to ask a few questions.”
The waitress popped her gum. “Just a minute.” She walked away and soon disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later she returned with a tall black man in tow.
The man was gleaming with jewelry and dressed to kill. He glanced at Eddie, took a good, long look at Lois, and smiled. “How may I help you?” The waitress made herself scarce.
Eddie guessed that the man was in his mid-thirties. This guy makes Puff Daddy look shabby.
Lois was all business. “Are you the manager?”
“I’m one of the managers.”
“Good. I’m Lois Lane Smith of The New York Post. Could you join us for a few minutes?”
The man turned, grabbed a chair from the next table, and sat down. “Wonderful to meet you, Ms. Smith. I’m Darius Williams.” He turned to Eddie. “And you are?”
“Eddie Zittner.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Zittner.” Williams turned his attention back to Lois. “The Post? Is this official business?”
“Oh, no,” she replied coyly, “we’re just out socially.”
“On a date,” Eddie chimed in.
Lois ignored him. Williams continued, “Did you catch the first set?”
“Oh, yes, we did,” she replied. “It was terrific.”
“Cool,” Eddie added, trying to get a rise out of her. All he got was a withering glance. I’ll be on my knees tomorrow.
“Well.” Williams’s eyes flicked from Lois to Eddie and then back to Lois. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
Lois continued, “Mr. Williams . . .”
“Call me Darius.” He smiled.
“Darius. Can we ask you a few questions?” She glanced at Eddie for support.
“Certainly,” Williams said.
She continued, “First, how long have you been at Iridium?”
“Oh, six or seven years now.”
“So you’ve seen lots of acts.”
“Yes.”
“Lots of musicians.”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever heard of the group ‘Steely Dan’?”
Williams smiled. “Yes, absolutely. Great music.”
“We agree,” Eddie said. Everyone was smiling.
“But as far as I know,” Williams continued, “they’ve never played here.”
“We assumed that,” Lois said. “They don’t usually play clubs like this one. Have you ever heard the names Donald Fagen or Walter Becker?”
Williams looked thoughtful. “No. Who are they?”
“Steely Dan,” she replied. “Fagen and Becker are the two men that founded the band. They just released a new CD.”
Williams searched his memory, but came up empty. “The names don’t ring a bell.”
“Do you think it’s possible one of them came in to sit in with one of your acts?”
“No. I would have remembered that.”
“How so?”
“I meet all the musicians. We hang out after the sets.”
She smiled. “Smokin’ and jokin’?”
Williams grinned. “Yeah, somethin’ like that.” He looked around the room, which was beginning to fill up for the second set. “Hey, Lois Lane Smith from The Post, I’ve got to get busy.” He winked at her, then stood and offered his hand to Eddie. “Mr. Zittner?”
Eddie extended his hand and had it crushed in a vice-like grip. Williams smiled, turned, and worked his way toward the bar.
“Some journalist you are!” Lois gave him another withering glance.
Minutes later, they were riding a southbound subway, heading for Greenwich Village. They watched with amusement as two guys in Yankee caps argued about how loud one of them was playing his Walkman.
Yankee fans everywhere. “Did you ever play baseball?” he asked her.
“Baseball?” She looked confused.
“Yeah. I’m wondering if I’ll get to second base tonight.”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “You’ll be lucky if I kiss you good-night.”
34
Working title: Yankee Fans
An unpublished short story
by Eddie Zittner
Black Boots
So I get on the A train heading south toward Sheridan Square. It’s after eleven, so it’s not the express anymore, it’s the local, which is a big pain in the ass for me. This is what I get for helping Julio, my brother-in-law, fix up the store he rented. We’re installing new display cases and light fixtures, and I’m getting filthy—dust and insulation shit inside my clothes—and the son-of-a-bitch won’t give me a ride home. No, he’s got to drive to Washington Heights to get more supplies out of the storage locker he’s got up there. I say,
what do you need with more supplies this late at night? He says he wants to get the stuff tonight. Load up his car. It will save him time tomorrow. Okay, so I take the subway. But he’s a slimy bastard. If I find out he’s fooling around on my sister, in Washington Heights or anywhere else, he’s a dead man.
I’m waiting for the doors to close, so we can start the slow trip down the West Side. I’m sitting in my usual seat, right next to the middle door, so I can stretch my legs and show off my black boots a little. These were my father’s boots for as long as I can remember. My father loved westerns. He always took me to the movies when I was a kid. John Wayne was his favorite, but any western movie was okay with him. He always wanted to take a trip out west, to see what it was really like out there. But he never made it, never got farther than Chicago. My mom gave me the boots when he died two years ago. I know he wanted me to have them. They’re old, really old, but still in good shape, new soles and all, and I keep them shined up pretty good.
I can look out the window across the car, not that there’s much to see, just an empty platform. I’ve got my player on, earphones on, listening to music. There’s only one other person in this car, an old guy, not very big, dressed like he just walked off a golf course. Mr. Khaki. He reminds me of Rabbit Angstrom. Run, Rabbit, run. But he’s not running anywhere, he’s already half asleep.
Just as the doors are about to close, another guy runs up to the train and jumps into the car, right in front of me. He shouts “Made it!” and sits down, just to my left, not next to me, but on the seats facing forward. He stretches his legs out right in front of him, as far as he can, blocking my foot space. Grey overcoat. Yankee cap, just like mine. He’s not carrying anything, no briefcase, nothing. Ordinary looking guy, maybe forty, big, maybe 6’1”, 220. A little soft in the middle, but big. Huge hands. His eyes look a little red, bloodshot, whatever.
The doors close. The train jerks a couple of times, and then begins to roll south, slowly gathering speed. Grey Overcoat still has his legs out, stretched straight out, still blocking my foot space. His arms are behind his head, eyes closed, butt balanced on the edge of his seat.