by Mike Farrell
“Can’t leave it. We got no room for it.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t wait, so what do you suggest we do?”
“When it’s done I’ll put it in the lot next door. Cost you twenty bucks.”
“That seems a bit steep.”
“How long’ll you be?”
The interview is supposed to start at 12:30 and take twenty minutes, so I say, “I can be back by 1, maybe 1:30.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks,” I say. “The information you’ll need to contact Hertz is in the glove compartment.”
“Yeah, yeah,” and he turns away.
Refreshed by this pleasant exchange, I hail a cab and am dropped outside the 44th Street studio for Good Morning America Radio. This is, I had thought, to be one of the interviews that primarily focused on my friend John O’Donohue’s book, To Bless the Space Between Us. John, a wonderful man—a former Catholic priest who had gone on to become a renowned poet and philosopher, an Irishman with a booming laugh, a great big heart and a silver-tongued brogue that could charm the birds from the trees—had died suddenly in January at the age of fifty-two. A stunning, heartbreaking loss to all of us who knew and loved him, his death came just as his new book was to be released, leaving this beautiful work orphaned, without this lovely man to introduce it to the world. So I and other friends agreed to try to help get the word out about it.
Beth Grossman, the book’s publicist, has arranged a number of things for me to do in John’s place, often generously trying to see to it that my own book is mentioned, though I’d assured her that wasn’t necessary. And this is one of them. Or it was supposed to be. Meeting me outside, Beth tells me that the host of the show has read my book and wants to focus primarily on it, but will bring John and his book into the discussion.
This really isn’t comfortable for me given our understanding, but Beth insists that she’s happy with the agreement they have come to and urges me to go ahead with it. So I do. And it actually turns out very well. The host is smart, interesting, interested and very generous, not only about my book, but in the way she introduces John and his book into the conversation, weaving in our relationship and allowing me the chance to not only promote his book but to explain what a powerful influence he had become in my life. Among other things, I’m able to cite what he called his “unfinished poem”: I would love to live / like a river flows, / carried by the surprise / of its own unfolding.
Ah, what a man. What a great loss. But I think we did him proud. And Beth was very pleased with the way it all went.
I take the subway down to 23rd Street and walk over to pick up Mule. She is done, parked on the street, and as I go to get the keys, Eric says, “That’ll be forty bucks cash, no tax, no problem.”
“That’s to be taken care of by Hertz.”
“Who says?”
“Well, I do, for one. That’s what we talked about when I left the car.” “We didn’t talk about nothin’. It’s forty bucks.”
“Look, pal,” I say, feeling the heat rise, “maybe you misunderstood me awhile ago, but you got a call this morning explaining the situation and it was made clear that this is a Hertz car, that you folks have an agreement with Hertz, and that they’ll pay for the oil change.”
“I didn’t get no call, so don’t say I did nothin’. It’s forty bucks.”
Now I’m getting steamed. “Maybe we should get Hertz on the phone.”
He doesn’t like that. “You got a problem, talk to the man in there,” he says, jerking his thumb toward yet another door into yet another bay.
I step through and find a little guy with a big belly on the phone. After a few minutes, he looks up at me and says, “Yeah?”
I explain the situation—rather calmly, I think.
“It’s tough to get Hertz to pay, takes a long time.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But an agreement was made.”
“You’ll have to wait a few minutes then, cause right now I’m dealing with people who pay,” and he returns to the phone.
I stand there, trying to think of what to do. I consider simply paying the money and arguing it out with Hertz at the end of the trip, but I can’t let these creeps get away with this. I think about going back to Eric and grabbing the keys, walking out and taking the car—and, of course, dealing with whatever response that might prompt on his part. As I’m going through the various possibilities in my mind, this guy took yet another call. Standing there with the anger building, I can’t help hearing what he’s saying, which turns out to be about something he is using to deal with a health problem. It isn’t working for him and it has to do with sleeping. As I pick up more words from his side of the conversation, it begins to sound like he is having trouble with a device he has to wear at night to treat sleep apnea, a condition a friend of mine suffers from. It’s apparently very tough to deal with.
CENTER FOR CONSTITUTIONAL RIGHTS
The Center for Constitutional Rights is dedicated to advancing and protecting the rights guaranteed by the United States Constitution and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Founded in 1966 by attorneys who represented civil rights movements in the South, CCR is a nonprofit legal and educational organization committed to the creative use of law as a positive force for social change.
CCR uses litigation proactively to empower poor communities and communities of color to guarantee the rights of those with the fewest protections and least access to legal resources, and to train the next generation of civil and human rights attorneys.
Formed in order to work hand in hand with people’s movements, CCR has lent its expertise and support to a wide range of movements for social justice. We are dedicated to defending the right to political dissent, combating the mass incarceration of both citizens and immigrants, and fighting government abuse of power. We strive to complete the unfinished civil rights movement through targeting racial profiling and other modern-day manifestations of racial and economic oppression, and through combating discrimination based on gender or sexuality.
For decades, CCR has pushed U.S. courts to recognize international human rights and humanitarian protections—and we have had groundbreaking victories that have established the principle of universal jurisdiction in this country and extended human rights standards to abuses committed by corporations and other nongovernment groups. CCR also works to inform lawyers, policymakers, other organizations, and the public about ongoing legal and human rights violations.
CCR is currently engaged in several campaigns, including the 100 Days campaign, which focuses on the need to restore, protect, and expand the Constitution within the first 100 days of the next presidential administration. The campaign includes a series of white papers, videos, and a national speaking tour addressing key issues of ending torture and arbitrary detention, protecting the right to dissent, and rolling back executive power. CCR’s Campaign for Telephone Justice won an historic victory in New York State, ending the prison telephone contract which charged the families of incarcerated people outrageous rates to maintain contact with their relatives. The Campaign for Telephone Justice is now working with other groups around the country, stressing the importance of maintaining family connections.
Hearing this, I’m thinking that maybe there’s a better way to handle things. Maybe I can say something that’ll put the two of us on a more human level and find a way to resolve this without turning it into a brawl. There’s the chance, of course, that he’ll object to my having overheard his private conversation and tell me to go fuck myself, but it’s worth a thought, at least.
Just listening to him talk to the person on the other end of the phone helps me lighten up a bit. He’s clearly appreciative of the sympathetic hearing he’s getting and gradually seems to be easier, less tough and abrasive.
Finally he hangs up, takes a deep breath and looks up at me.
“Sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Sounds like sleep apnea?”
He nods.
“Friend of
mine has had a hell of a time with it. I guess it’s a bitch.”
He gets up from the desk and comes around, saying he has to wear this device and he can’t keep it on when asleep. “You stop breathing,” he says, “until your brain wakes you up and tells you you gotta breathe. It’s makin’ me nuts.”
“I’m sorry. That’s got to be tough. But they’re going to help?”
“Yeah, I think so.” He pauses. “So where’s your car?”
We go out, passing Eric, and I point to Mule.
“Has it been done yet?” he asks.
“I think so. They said it was.”
We walk back in and he asks Eric, “Is it done?”
“Yeah.”
He takes the key and we walk back out. He starts writing down the license number and other identifying information. I get him the rental agreement and we head back to his desk, again passing Eric, who says nothing.
As he sits back down and starts on the necessary papers, one of the workmen walks in behind me and says, “Hey, you Trapper John?”
“Nope. BJ.”
“Hey, yeah, BJ! I love that show.”
The guy at the desk now looks up and says, “You know, I thought you looked familiar. I watch that show every night.”
“Yeah,” the other guy says. “Where’s Alan Alda?”
“He’s out on Long Island, I think.”
The guy at the desk says, “Farrell. Sure. Hell, I shoulda known. I thought you looked familiar!” Then he hands me the rental agreement. “Here. There’s no reason to keep you here. I can take care of this.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want it to be a problem for you.”
“Nah, no problem.” He sticks out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
I shake his hand, thank him, shake the other guy’s hand and walk out past Eric. I consider saying something to him, but then think, Nah.
Driving away with Mule, MAINTENANCE no longer REQUIRED, heading for an interview with my old friend David Bender on Air America, I find myself thinking that even though the message was a bit mixed—the big change coming with the realization that I was “somebody” in his mind—there was something happening even before that. I think I learned an important lesson back there.
Air America with David is a hoot. It’s great to see him and be able to tear into America’s bad guys a bit on the air. And when we’re done I tape a short piece for the Center for Constitutional Rights about what President Obama should do in his first 100 days: close Guantánamo, end torture, end electronic spying (and lying), end the war in Iraq, join the International Criminal Court, open relations with Iran, end the embargo against Cuba, etc., etc. I also did a ninety-second rant against the death penalty on tape for Laura Flanders’s new Dish Network TV and online show.
A rather productive afternoon.
In the evening, the Nation magazine and the Center for Constitutional Rights cosponsor an event at the Strand Bookstore in the Village, featuring yours truly and the wonderful writer Walter Mosley, talking about literature and politics and the future of this country.
I first met Walter when he accompanied Edwidge Danticat, the powerful young Hatian writer, around the Brooklyn Book Festival in 2007. We next saw each other at Harry Belafonte’s “Gathering for Justice” for young activists in Oakland, California. Sharing the podium with such a talented man, a serious and accomplished author, was more than a bit intimidating for this neophyte, but Walter was charming, gracious and more than generous. I found him to be a very bright guy with a skeptic’s eye and a sardonic wit. He’s always ready with a challenge and is in serious danger of becoming a friend.
The discussion is moderated by an articulate woman named Annette Dickerson, an officer of the CCR, who had stepped in because Michael Ratner, who heads the organization and was scheduled to handle it, had been called away. Annette told me that she had read and loved my book, which is nice to hear. But then she makes a point of telling me again, which is even nicer. Coming back to the subject later, she says, “I cried when I read it. I cried when I read about ‘The House.’ I wish there were places like that for everyone.”
I wish there were as well.
Some old friends are in the audience. Al Ruben, a highly regarded veteran who wrote the script for Incident at Dark River, a clumsily titled (not our choice) movie my partner and I produced, surprised me by showing up. And in the front row is a pal, the always-sassy Alysse Minkoff, who, having survived serious challenges in life, is making sure she misses nothing. Years ago, after reading of my adventures in Bosnia, Alysse decided she had to go there and do what she could to help—and did. And here she is again, not only showing up and being supportive, but accompanied by two lovely friends who pay close attention and seem to enjoy themselves as well.
Perfectly in character, Alysse is now taking New York by storm—but that’s yet another story.
DAY NINETEEN
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
CITY OF ORIGIN: NEW YORK, NY
CITY OF DESTINATION: PITTSBURGH, PA
MILES TRAVELED: 372
VENUE: JOSEPH-BETH BOOKSELLERS
EVENT COSPONSOR
ACLU of Pennsylvania
Up early for an interview this morning, an Iowa paper interested in my upcoming visit. Today Mule and I will head west, beginning to close the big circle.
Interview done, I go get Mule, who is hobbled in an underground stall two blocks away, this being New York City, then load up and try to figure out how to get out of town. The directions take us through concrete canyons and right up to what I now recognize as Ground Zero. We’d passed it before, but I hadn’t grasped its significance, thinking it was simply another huge construction project. Seeing it now, remembering the horror, the pictures of panicked people running through these very streets in the dust and smoke, trying to escape from the collapsing buildings, remembering the bodies falling … to be there is … hard to put into words, but deeply moving.
But back to here and now, on this route the cars are fighting for inches. Traffic is a monstrous, groaning caterpillar that moves like glue. A fire engine turns into the street ahead of us, blaring its siren and honking its horn, but it’s almost impossible for those in front of it to get out of the way. Progress, such as it is, slows even more.
Finally, a block away from the street my directions tell me I need to get to, we’re stopped by police and directed away. The fire, it appears, is on that block. The mess here is insane. At this rate I’ll still be trying to find my way out of Manhattan when the people show up at the bookstore in Pittsburgh tonight.
And then, magic happens. For all the embarrassment I sometimes feel from the special, if unwarranted treatment the impact of having been part of M*A*S*H can bring my way, it can once in a while seem heaven-sent. Diverted from the street the directions call for, Mule and I are in a sea of frustration with drivers honking, swearing and maneuvering for advantage, and I have no clue which way to go. Movement to my right gets my attention and I see it’s a police car, so roll down the window and yell across to the officer, “How do I get to the Holland Tunnel?”
He points straight ahead and says, “Get on the Westside Highway,” then turns away.
Okay, so we’ll wade through this mess until … And a horn honks beside me. The same cop, now smiling, yells, “You still acting?”
I call back, “Sure. Once in a while.”
He turns to say something to the guy beside him, then turns back and yells, “Turn here!” pointing to his right. He stops to let me by and I turn, then he races around and signals me to follow him. In a flash, with Mule on his tail, we move around lines of cars, making quick rights and lefts.
“This is very cool!” I shout to Mule, but then it occurs to me that maybe I misunderstood and he’ll look back, see us, pull over and say, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
But no. After one more corner he pulls over, waves us up beside him, points straight ahead and says with a smile, “Go to the end and turn right. Once you get to C
anal Street, follow the signs.” I yell my thanks, he gives a thumbs-up and we’re off. Suddenly we’re on the Westside Highway and in a few minutes going through the Holland Tunnel.
What a guy. God bless him. And thank you M*A*S*H!
Through the tunnel the signs are confusing and I’m sure we’ve made the wrong turn, but at least we’re in New Jersey, so I’ll figure it out. A few miles down the road it’s suddenly clear that it wasn’t the wrong turn at all; we’re just where we ought to be. These signs are crazy-making.
Racing westward, we’re soon out of the ugly industrial part of New Jersey, the oil refinery, junkyard part that brings to mind bodies, their feet encased in cement, at the bottom of deep water. The bright green forests, rolling hills and quiet communities that now appear run counter to the popular image of the state. I remember how surprised I was to find this beautiful New Jersey many years ago when my partner Marvin and I met with the writer J.P. Miller (Days of Wine and Roses) at his home in one of these rural communities. Nice man, J.P. Too bad we couldn’t get that project off the ground.
It’s a long drive to Pittsburgh, lots of time to think.
Passing a number of dead deer at the side of the road brings a pang. Even in death they bespeak innocence and grace. There’s something about these shy, beautiful, harmless creatures with the life smashed out of them by onrushing, unfeeling machinery that seems a metaphor for what is too often lost in the pell-mell “advance of civilization.”
Looking out at the simplicity and grandeur of the tree-covered mountains makes me think again of the Native Americans who roamed this area before our arrival, living off the land, yet living with it. Lucky, aren’t they, that we’ve been able to teach them so much?
New Jersey leads to Pennsylvania, less aggressively green but still beautiful. More tree-covered rolling hills here, but a softer contour to it as they give way to farmland.
Passing through Amish country brings to mind the stunning, heartbreaking, awe-inspiring dignity of the Amish community when dealing with the horrifying murder of so many of their children those many months ago. Their grief palpable, the pain unimaginable, they embraced one another, took solace in their faith and remained unwilling to stoop to a vengeful response.