I sat in the outdoor cafe overlooking Bryant Park, awaiting a drink I wasn’t sure would ever arrive. I didn’t care one way or the other at that point, and I wouldn’t have been surprised or upset if they had left me to sit there until closing time. Out of 36 or so waking hours in New York City, about a quarter had been spent by that moment; there was not enough time to do a lot, but plenty of time to do not much of anything. To simply be in the city was what I wanted, and fortunately I had nowhere else to be but in that wobbly chair, at that wicker table, in that pinpoint of Manhattan.
New York’s pulse is deafening at first, at least for those who pay attention. But if you listen, uninterrupted for even an hour, the pounding subsides and you find yourself pleasantly moved by it.
Within seconds of the notion, I caught a glimpse of my waiter carrying a tray upon which sat two perfectly mixed Bloody Marys. Obviously someone else knew what I knew, or was about to find out. Or maybe he felt bad about taking so long and decided to double me. But as he set the glass down on my table, he turned, and the second glass went instead to the table behind me. The guy at the table had been watching. I knew because, before I had even touched my drink, he was toasting his. ”Best bloody in the city, man. Cheers.”
“Cheers!” I replied, glass now in hand, having stretched my quarter-turn into a half. I lifted my glass to the stranger, took a long sip, and agreed; I actually had no idea if it was the best bloody in the city–I only knew it was the best I’d ever had.
An instant into lifting my nod, I saw this would be more than just a simple greeting. Strangely, I could tell right away he was not from the city. It’s not an easy thing to say that this guy stuck out; so many people in New York stick out that eventually none of them stick out.
It wasn’t his nature. He may have been a bit more outwardly friendly than you might find in New York, but that wasn’t it. It wasn’t his look. He wore designer jeans, a T-shirt that probably cost more than the jeans, and a pair of world-weary flip-flops. His hair and goatee looked as if they were typically well-kempt but had been let out to play for the weekend. A hipster on vacation from himself. Certainly not out of place. Perhaps it was his ease, lack of urgency… It could very well have been that he was to me what I was to him — someone who just wanted to be somewhere else for a few days.
“How long you been in town?” he started.
“Ahh, about 16 hours. Flight was delayed from Atlanta. Didn’t get to my room until almost midnight.”
“Atlanta. Yeah. Never been there. Hear it’s O.K. Some good restaurants. Hot in the summer, yeah? It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity, right?” he said a little less than half-mockingly.
“Yeah, sure, I don’t know dry heat,” starting to work on shaking him off. “Hot is hot. You wait for Spring and Fall.”
“I hear ya. Don’t have that problem too much in L.A.”
Yeah, that made sense.
He pressed. ”What’re you in town for?”
Within a breath, my knees got the burning, anxious feel they get when I want to either run up a mountain or kick someone in the balls. Bryant Park was no longer the place I wanted to be on this Saturday. But vacation said, “Just hangin’ out. Visiting some relatives. They offered me a free place to stay for a couple nights, so, you know, ‘Why not?’”
“Hell yeah, why not? Same here. Staying with my brother for a few nights. He’s working now; I’m just killing time ’til he gets off.”
“Nice.”
“So what do you do down there in Atlanta?”
I decided a long time ago that I would never answer this question by explaining what I do for a living, even though I know that’s the question. I’ve met so few people with jobs that are actually interesting enough to talk about that I make it a point to steer away from talking about mine.
“A lot of stuff. Play golf. Read. Watch movies. Love movies. A little light carpentry. Really whatever. I just try to keep from getting bored,” is what I said. Then, “No, I mean what do you do for a living,” is what I thought.
“No, I mean what do you do for a living?” he said with the predictable condescending half-laugh that always comes with the suggestion that I’m naive for not assuming that people always want to know where I get my money.
“Oh. I’m a paralegal.” And to answer the next question before it was asked, “Our firm handles foreclosures.” And wait for it, two, one…
“Haha, wow, so you guys are busy!”
I know there are less interesting jobs than mine. At least, I really hope there are. But thanks to the sub-prime mortgage market and its firm, unchanging spot in the news cycle, I have a job that anyone can talk about. Everyone wants the details of what actually happens when irresponsible people accept money from irresponsible lenders. And somehow it still surprises me that people wouldn’t expect my answers. Debtors call me, they cry, complain, curse me–I mean, it’s not hard. People blaming me and everyone else for their situation, and I can comfortably say that’s the easy part.
What people don’t know they don’t want me to tell them is that at the beginning of every month, I’m at the exact same point as I was at the beginning of last month. And the month before that. And before that, going back in perpetuity. I get a bunch of files, a month later I sell a bunch of houses, and then I get a bunch more files. It never goes anywhere. I don’t build anything and I don’t tear anything down–I just get dropped on my ass on the first Wednesday of every month. These kids I knew when I lived in Athens, well, I had their file, and it…
But I knew that’s not what this guy wanted to hear, nor what I felt like explaining, so I just drew my scripted conversation ender:
“Yep. Complete job security. Debtors are keeping me employed.”
Where I would normally get a shake of the head, along with a “Whew,” or “That’s tough, man,” I instead caught the guy in genuine thought. Something had gotten the wheels turning, but I didn’t know right away whether or not it was me.
“Man,” he finally offered. ”Sounds like something I could use.”
“What…” part of that sentence could he possibly…
“Debtors. Debtors.”
“…do you mean?” I finished, even though he hadn’t heard the first part. I guessed he wasn’t hearing me at all anymore.
“Fuck, man, sorry.” He had been listening. Well, hearing, anyway. “You know that show Hoarding: Buried Alive?”
“Ha, yeah. I watched it once. On purpose. Never watched it again. On purpose.”
“That was me. I mean, not me as in ‘I’m a hoarder,’ but that was my show. Debtors would totally work for TLC.” He looked at our almost had glasses and raised a finger no one saw.
He wanted to know, “So, are all of them just complete losers?”
I wanted to back up. “OK, sorry, I thought the hoarders show was on A&E…”
“Oh yeah, Hoarders is on A&E. My show is on TLC. Had to pitch it, but it wasn’t hard. I told them one show about hoarders wasn’t enough. Supply wasn’t meeting demand, you know? The Loathing Channel…they paid me to do it.”
“He smiled sideways at his joke as he finally caught the eye of a waitress. I had already begun to sink back into my seat before I saw the waitress’ nod as he pointed two fingers toward our table. It’s one thing to run into a TV guy. It’s another thing to run into a TV guy who makes complete crap. It’s yet another thing to run into a TV guy who makes complete crap, knows it, and is willing to talk about it and drink to it. I’m sure it happens all the time, but not to me. Even if I had had to pay for a couple nights in the City, which I had not, at this moment I would have already been up more than a few marks on the weekend.
“The Loathing Channel, huh?” I wanted to play along but didn’t want to play dumb, and added a smirk-lookaway.
And he bit. “Yeah, man, you know how anyone who shows up on the LEARNING channel hates himself?” as if it were obvious. It is obvious, but it’s presumptuous to just throw it in my lap. “Shit, anyone who watches TLC hates himself. That’s why they watch. They love seeing someone, ANYONE, more fucked up than themselves.”
It sounded rehearsed, but I was being handed a drink. Alright, not rehearsed, but well thought out. No, rehearsed.
“The LEARNING Channel. How do you learn from hoarders, midgets, five-year-old beauty queens…fucks that had eight kids by accident…fucks that had 19 kids ON PURPOSE? I mean, how many damn times can you cry over some shallow fuck giving some other shallow fuck a tatoo?”
I watch L.A. Ink, and enjoy it for a reason I’ve told myself, but I got his point. That is to say I got his point before he made it, but found it soothing to hear someone else say it.
“I got the fuck outta there, though.”
“So…you’re staying in TV, though, right?” I mean, the future of junk TV hinges on guys with a thick sense of humor. We don’t want to lose him.
“You know what’s coming up in January?”
It had to be the reason he quit. Of course, I was only giving him the benefit of the doubt. Normally “getting the fuck outta there, ” or, “giving them the finger” only comes only after you’ve been told you will not receive any more paychecks. I’ve never been fired from any job, but I know people who have, and that’s what they say. They’re all liars, but right then, as usual, I didn’t care.
“Gay Babies.”
I laughed. It wasn’t a typical joke so it didn’t get a typical, polite laugh. I actually laughed, and now actually liked this guy.
But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t break, didn’t crack…he barely moved. His eyes remained fixed on the outdoor-ping-pong pretenders. “Gay Babies.”
It was my turn to bite. “Gay Babies?!” I had halted half-sip and suspended my glass for polite, dramatic effect.
“Gay Babies, I shit you not. From Fetus to Fabulous. It’s fucked up, yeah? Whatever. I got hooked up with Discovery. Friend of a friend. We got eight new logging shows for next summer.”
“Eight?!”
“Logging the Gobi, Logging NYC. Six others.”
“Gay Babies?!”
“Flaming. Dipshits’ll watch anything. It’s a job, man. Guessing you sit at a desk. I don’t.”
“Yeah,” raising two fingers while mouthing, “Scotch,” followed by an emphatic thumb-up, eyes to the ground as it were my only option in my dying moment. “Hope you like single malt.”
“I’ll cut you in on Debtors,” he said with a wry, almost believable smile. And I hoped, and almost believed he meant it. “So, do they really cry?”
“Put them on camera and they’ll cry as much as you want.”
The guy’s name was Dan.
Posted: August 4th, 2010 under Run for Ian - No Comments.