Yeah, I know. But that’s what I thought as I left the batting range. That and, Jesus, my arm is killing me. Then, Jesus, my ankle is killing me.
Commie, I’m aging at a breakneck pace.
Before heading home, I stopped at my health club, where I sat by the side of the hot tub with an ice pack so I could ice my ankle before dunking it into the scalding water. Over and over. That’s the way they treat these things now. Hot, cold, hot, cold, hot, cold. They also use ultra-sound. I have one in my office, but I wasn’t about to go there to treat myself. I mean, I’m middle-aged. It’s not like I have to get myself ready for a fucking NCAA Tournament.
The health club locker room is pretty peaceful on Saturday afternoon anyway. Guys draped in towels, sitting in the steam room, or the Jacuzzi, mindlessly gazing at the toll the week took on their bodies before weighing themselves, shaking their heads and scouring the room to see if everyone else is decaying at the same pace. A bald guy used to sit on a chaise lounge right at the nexus of the Jacuzzi, the steam room, and the showers, and somewhat discreetly watch naked bodies walk by. I figured he was gay but, really, I didn’t give a shit. Of course, not everyone at the gym agreed. After a few complaints, the guy was given a warning by management and I haven’t seen him since. The one time I’d caught him checking me out, my only reaction was to wonder, If a gay guy finds you attractive, should you be flattered? I brought it up with Alyse and she said, “Why not? They’re shopping the same aisle as straight women.”
I grabbed another bag of ice and plopped down in the empty steam room, spreading out on the tiled ledge along the back. The image of a crying Alyse bubbled up in my head and, Commie, I had the weirdest thought: Other than the miscarriages, this is the only time I’ve ever seen her unflappable nature broken. I know that may not seem like such a weird thought to you, but it was for me. I don’t usually analyze things on such a basic level. And, if I do, it usually comes weeks or months or even years after the event. And, after that thought about Alyse, my head went even more basic: What does Alyse want out of life?
Don’t you think that’s a pretty incredible thing, to actually contemplate what your most intimate partner in life truly wants from this world? It’s really mind-blowing. For the first time in twenty-something years of marriage, I was actually really considering what my wife wants. Of course, I got so caught up in the wonder of actually asking myself the question that I didn’t even get around to trying to figure out the answer. The closest I came was allowing myself to think: Wouldn’t it be amazing if the main thing she wants is me?
V.
Then the door to the steam room flew open. Usually, I hate when guys have conversations in there, the tiled acoustics pumping up their voices to a million decibels. But I’d had enough deep thoughts for one steam and, as it happened, two guys entered in mid-conversation about “the vandalism on Stratification Boulevard.” They sat up front, a blinding blanket of steam standing between them and me.
“With my wife being a shiksa, I felt like I had to seem concerned, you know, just to keep the home fires burning. But I’m not so sure it was anti-Semitism.”
“Well, the fact that it was a bottle of horseradish . . .”
“So what? Everyone eats horseradish. Mormons probably eat it.”
“But it was that Mossad shit.”
“Still, that’s a long way from spray-painting swastikas.”
“But the guy they busted for it—”
“See, even that sounds fishy to me. He comes here all the way from Brooklyn for the first time in his life just to smash a window and go home?”
“Yeah but, A) He also stole some street signs and B) The guy whose window he smashed is a big deal in Jewish circles.”
“Whatever that means.”
“How did you know it was the suspect’s first time here?”
“Jennifer’s brother’s a cop. So I’m not totally talking out of my ass like I usually do.”
The two guys burst out in laughs that sounded like they were break-dancing off the walls, and the tumult went straight through my eardrums. Still, fairly certain they didn’t know I was even in there, I didn’t make a sound.
“So this cop, he doesn’t think they got the right guy?”
“He’s uh, well, between you and me, he’s got his doubts.”
Commie, you won’t believe what I decided to do next. I’m somewhere between a limp piece of spaghetti and a prune by the time the two guys leave the steam room, but then I barely wait a minute before flying out of there to try to find them. I grab a shower stall across from the two they’re in—mind you, they’re still talking throughout their showers—and then I follow them to their lockers. I should explain: When you get to the locker room, you hand the attendant your membership card and he puts it in a cubbyhole with a number on it. Then he takes a key from the same cubbyhole and gives it to you. From the voices, I figured out which of the guys was the one with the brother-in-law who’s a cop, and so I nonchalantly checked out his locker number, went to the attendant, asked him to get me a few band-aids from the back, went around the counter, found the number of the cubbyhole, grabbed the guy’s card, looked at the name, reached up to put the card back in its cubbyhole—
“What the fuck are you doing?”
The attendant was lanky, maybe 19, kind of white trash-y. He held the box of band-aids in front of him like a Glock. Maybe because I’d just been playing baseball, my first thought was: Kid looks like Randy Johnson. I don’t know if you remember, but looking like Randy Johnson without actually being Randy Johnson is not a good thing.
“Are you stealing ID’s? I’m getting the manager. He’s gonna kick your ass out of this club so fast. He’ll probably call the cops as well . . .”
Kids don’t say “too” anymore. They say “as well.” Like, for this one tiny tic of the English language, I’m going to sound really British. “So I hooked up with that skank ho . . . as well.”
The fear of being busted finally rushed through me and I went out of body again, hearing myself say, “Look, I’m sorry. It’s not what you think.”
The kid just looked at me, the band-aid box still trained on my chest.
“I’ve been a member here for a long time. You’ve probably seen me around. I saw a guy, another member, who I’ve seen a million times and I couldn’t remember his name. It was driving me crazy. Believe me, when you hit my age, you’ll understand how nuts your lame memory can make you. Anyhow, I happened to know about what locker he was at and I just was so fixated on getting his name, and I was standing here waiting . . . So, I did what I did. It was a totally uncool thing to do, but it was innocent. I mean, really, I have my own ID, so what reason would I have to steal someone else’s?”
The kid slackened, pondering my question.
“Actually, forget I asked that question. Your job is to protect the members and their property so you shouldn’t have to figure out my motives. The truth is, you’re right. I deserve to be busted. But I’m telling you the truth and I’m asking you to give me a break this one time. I’m sorry. I guess I’m just a little . . . brain-damaged.”
The kid almost smiled, handed me two band-aids, and grunted, “It’s cool. Forget it. But don’t do it again.”
You know those old over-told stories about adrenaline allowing mothers to lift cars to save their kids? I think, for me, adrenaline just turns me into a really good liar.
Anyway, can you believe I did that? Sneaking around and grabbing the ID? It was like All The President’s Men, when Bernstein got rid of the secretary to barge into the office of that guy in Florida who had all the Committee to Reelect checks written to the Watergate burglars. Only Bernstein was taking down the President of the United States and I was trying to exonerate a two-bit Jew-hater.
You know, I’m starting to feel a tiny bit guilty about the number of “Jew” references I’m throwing at you. It’s like, whenever I want to
say something funny to you, I throw in the word “Jew.” I should stop doing that. It’s the same as in college when anyone could get a laugh just by saying the word JAP. Hey, great idea for a TV show: Jappy Days. It’s just . . . it’s cheap is what it is. And, for what it’s worth, it is our religion. Besides, you’re not laughing. So, what’s the point?
Maybe in lieu of laughing, you’re wondering what I planned to do with the guy’s name. Which, by the way, was Greg Pompian. Or maybe you already knew that.
I went into the gym’s “quiet room” and Googled the living crap out of Greg Pompian on my BlackBerry. Like most people you Google, his most cyber-worthy achievement was finishing third in a 5K race, followed by a tiny wedding announcement from Newsday, October 16th, 1988.
Jennifer McNeill and Greg Pompian were married October 16 at Temple Israel of Tenafly. She is an accountant for Blitz Advertising Inc. of Sands Point and is the daughter of Jack and Eileen McNeill of Summit. The bridegroom is the chief financial officer of Amherst Corp. in New York and is the son of Herbert Pompian of Littleneck and Denise Kramer of Boca Raton, Fla.
Another search turned up Detective Chris McNeill, also gracing the pages of Newsday, curtly commenting on the raid of a photography supply facility that, in lieu of matte paper and stop bath, housed just over 12,000 marijuana plants. “We’ve watched the place a long time. That’s all I’ll say.”
The Internet is totally amazing, but if I were a reporter today, I think I’d feel like it’s cheating. Twenty-five years ago, this information would have taken some real digging. Now, it’s all just there, waiting to be found. It takes a lot of the fun out of it.
On the other hand, if you’re an investigative journalist with a podiatry practice, a family, and maybe three free hours a week, it’s pretty great.
I took Don Graydon’s card out of my wallet and emailed him. In the subject box, I wrote: “Deep background from Deep Throat.” Underneath: “Nassau P.D. Detective Chris McNeill has serious doubts about the guilt of their chief suspect.”
Upon hitting “send,” I was now taking an active role in trying to clear You-ey. But I convinced myself that Graydon would assume I was a bored family man getting off on playing journalist. That was certainly more reasonable than his assuming I was a bored family man who committed the crime myself.
Chris McNeill. Wasn’t that the name of the character in The Exorcist?
Whatever.
As I put the phone in my pocket, it rang loudly, knocking another three days off my life. Did I mention that my ring tone is the beginning of The Perry Mason theme? You’re supposed to turn your phone off in the quiet room, and a guy lying there with a towel over his head jolted up like Raymond Burr had hit him over the head. He peeked out, rolled his eyes at me, and then burrowed back under his towel. I guess he thought I was an asshole, but what can you do?
“Honey, where are you?”
Quietly, I said, “Just leaving the gym. Ankle rehab.”
“Oh. Long rehab session.”
“Yeah. You feeling better?”
“Uh huh. I don’t know what happened. I’m so sorry. I’m just sick that I said what I said. I know your panic attacks were a purely physical thing, and for me to make a snide comment like that about it was just horrible. I can’t believe I did that.”
“Alyse, you’re entitled to lose it on occasion.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like cracks in my armor.”
“You can cover them with a scarf before we go to dinner tonight.”
“That’s a good idea.” Then, “Oh, and by the way, I heard there was another chant by the mob waiting outside the police station when they brought You-ey in.”
“What?”
“They were chanting, ‘No Justice, No Shalom!”
“You’re joking.”
“Yes. I’m joking. I just thought of that. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Yup. I’ll probably steal that line.”
“I know you will.”
“Look, I gotta get out of here.”
“Okay. I love you.”
I hesitated.
Alyse said, “Guess you’re not alone, huh?”
“No. But you’re a really good person.”
It was good to hear Alyse laugh. While driving home, I thought it was also good to see Alyse cry too. Occasionally, I need to view my wife as a mere mortal. Between us, Commie? Sometimes, when Alyse goes to the city, I picture millions of people passing her on the street without being the least bit affected by her presence, and I wonder who’s crazy, me or the world?
Maybe in your state, you’re freed from such dopey thoughts. I hope so.
I got home, showered, and got ready for our triple-date dinner. Yes, another shower. I think the gym shower leaves me smelling chlorine-y.
VI.
“I’m sorry if I’m a little fablunged.”
“What’s wrong, Meri?”
“Our sitter . . .”
“Are you still using Marissa Prager?”
“Uh-huh. She’s been Emily’s sitter for two years. Always responsible, a good role model. Until tonight. She comes in, leans over to hug Emily, and I see this giant tattoo over her tush.”
“So what? It doesn’t mean she’s a degenerate.”
“I’m getting rid of her. Who do you use, Alyse?”
“Chelsea Gotbaum.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Meri!”
“It’s just that I did Rita Gotbaum’s den and guest room and Chelsea had a bit of a problem.”
“What?”
“If you must know, she refused to poop.”
“Excuse me?”
“Chelsea would do anything to hold it in. Sometimes Rita would give her a pill to induce diarrhea. She was four at the time.”
“Meri, she’s sixteen now.”
“Yeah, I’m sure she’s over the problem. Look, I shouldn’t be talking about diarrhea at dinner. Besides, every kid goes through a difficult pooping period.”
“Not my kid. Every time I saw one of his shits, it was so perfect, I felt like scooping it out and taking it to a fucking taxidermist.”
That was pretty much Arnie’s first contribution to the evening’s dinner conversation.
Diagonally to my left, Meri Katzen looked at Arnie like he was Bin Laden. Alyse, to my immediate left, doubled over laughing. Meri’s Civil War freak husband, Ira, blinked on Meri’s left, a silent partner in his marriage. To my right, Arnie was looking pleased with the image he’d put out there. To Arnie’s right, Fumi, not wearing her surgical mask (the psycho-pharmaceuticals kicking in?), gazed off at the exposed kitchen of The Peace Pipe Grill.
The restaurant was a pretty groovy place, copper-colored with an open kitchen and exposed beams. When it opened in ’97, Alyse got the idea of re-naming it, The Meeskite Grill, where ugly girls get the best tables. Funny, no?
Anyway, that night—you remember Greg Weinstein? He was in Phi Sig Delt? Oh wait, of course you remember Weinstein. You kicked his ass in an early round of the one-on-one tournament. Oh, and his best friend was Greg Kolker. We used to call them, “The Gregs of Society.” I caught his eye. We nodded hello and I scanned the rest of the room. So many of the guys there struck me as lost. Dressed too hip for their age, wearing shirts from Abercrombie, those yellow LIVE STRONG bracelets, growing late-breaking soul patches, fumbling with half-moon glasses so they could see the menu. I actually felt moved by that, like there was something touching in how people try so hard.
Of course, for all my feelings of superiority, I still filled my role of making everyone at our table comfortable again after Arnie’s taxidermy line: Meri, Arnie’s humor just takes a little getting used to. Anyway, if you need a good taxidermist, I’m sure Arnie can recommend one. So Ira, is it more fun to be on the Confederate side or the
Union? Fumi, I’m so glad you’re here. I need to read more and you’re always in the middle of a book. What do you recommend?
It’s too easy to charm people. The tiniest bit of interest in their lives disarms. Even the art world people I met when Alyse worked at the gallery in Chelsea were affected by my methods—one genuine-sounding question about their lives and they were all, Gee Alyse, your husband’s such a cool guy.
At the restaurant, however, Arnie made charm and diplomacy trickier.
When Fumi recommended a book by Joan Didion, Meri said, “I saw her on TV. She’s stick skinny!”
So Arnie said, “I think she won the Pulitzer Prize in the featherweight division.”
When Ira mentioned the Dalai Lama, Arnie said, “That Dalai Lama’s so full of shit. He’s spent so much time hanging out with Richard Gere and all those hot actresses that, if they freed Tibet, he’d be like, ‘Wait, I have to go back to that shithole?’”
Alyse laughed hysterically at everything Arnie said, which pleased me to no end. I wanted her to know why I liked Arnie so much. But I got the feeling Meri was annoyed by how Alyse enjoyed Arnie’s jokes. And, maybe I’m extrapolating a little too much here, but I think she was just trying to reel Alyse in with a sobering conversation topic, when she asked, “So, this client of yours they arrested today. What kind of art does he do?”
Alyse took a sip of her wine before replying, “What do you mean?”
“Does he do classical paintings or what?”
Alyse took another sip. “You mean like classical impressionist paintings that always have titles like, Girl In Green Dress Sitting In Garden Drinking Nectar Moments After Hearing Her Lover Has Chlamydia?” Another sip. “Uh, no, Meri. You-ey Brushstroke doesn’t do classical.”
“Jesus, Alyse. I just asked a question.”
“I’m sorry. He’s my client and he’s in jail, so I’m a little touchy.”
Meri was about to add something (stupidly) when the waiter broke in. He was skinny with what my mother would describe as “some head of hair,” a beard, and an incongruous diamond stud in his nose that looked to me like a preemptive strike against Nerdom. Everyone’s their own image consultant these days, you know? As he ticked off the specials, Alyse leaned over and whispered to me, “Meri’s getting on my nerves.”
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