Waiting for the Man (5 page)

Meaning very quickly, my diet had become Italian. All I was missing was the wine. I’m waiting for a black man to tell me something I think is important on the steps to my apartment amidst the glass and concrete of the city’s fastest-changing neighborhood and I’m eating Italian exclusively. Chinatown wasn’t too far from here. A quick jog. Some salt and pepper squid, some slippery sui mai to slide down my throat? Some Singapore noodles or a ma po tofu? Where were the Hispanic ladies? A few pupusas, an enchilada or two, some arroz con pollo. Or how about some corned beef from the deli up the street? Where were the others? A nice Catalan tapas place had opened up close by. There were more sushi places than fish in the ocean. Two Southern barbecues. A gourmet burger joint. Why had only the Italians taken me to heart? And why weren’t they giving me anything healthy? Like a salad. Even a creamy Caesar would have been a welcome break. Just sitting there, I could feel my midsection expand. Those years of caring about my looks, the treadmill at the gym, gone. I was eating a lot of melted cheese.

The deal with Dan and his brother was simple. It was a commercial transaction in the truest, most ancient sense. Dan would return to ask questions until this played itself out. Those were the words he used. And I would have to mention the free pizza. That was it. He would keep tabs on me until something happened. He said I would get mentioned in the
Post
every day until the editors got bored with me. There would be nothing big, a few hundred words, a photo if events warranted, and I would always mention the pizza and the pizza would never get edited out. Perhaps if something interesting happened, he would run an expanded version on the website.

The next day, the paper came out and the crowd grew larger. Mostly locals still, but the radius of the neighborhood seemed to grow. People who lived blocks away were claiming the street as part of their neighborhood. I think they figured that locals don’t gawk. You’re only a gawker if you’re from somewhere else.

The police came by; they figured a crowd meant trouble. I finally told them what I was doing and their confusion was priceless. They had terrorist plots to thwart, murders to solve, chaos to reign in. I assured them I wasn’t crazy. Dan even tried explaining the situation. Cops may be the only constituency that takes the
Post
seriously, I’ve realized.

And for the first time while sitting on the stairs, I developed a sense of worry. I worried that this ridiculous attention would drive the Man away. That he would be scared off. But he remained. Hovering on the edge of the growing crowd. Sometimes, I could only smell him, and I knew he was out there.

But the dreams. They entered my sleeping brain with more promises, all with the same meaning: he would make things better. He emphasized that all the time. And he said this in such a seductive, convincing way that he had me. And he would tell me this in a new place every time. Sitting on the branch of a tree in a silent forest. On a sundeck atop a tall building. Riding a Ferris wheel. I bought the promise. I saw in his message my own improvement. He had created a need I didn’t know I had. I was willing to wait to see what he was selling. I was willing to make a purchase from the Man. I was willing.

Pigs on the Wing

I work in the kitchen. This is what I could manage when I found myself here. That I was employed at all was like some kind of magic. Someone had recently left. I showed up at the right time.

I work in a corner of a large showroom-type space that shines in brushed aluminum perfection. It’s a TV kitchen, the kind you might see while zoning out on your couch and say, “I want.” It is airy, and the staff — all twenty of us — is never in danger of getting in each other’s way.

The kitchen is one of the most obvious clues to me that the idea of roughing it at the ranch is nothing more than a sales pitch. The concrete floors, the high tech ovens, the copper pots — everything shines. An army of ladies cleans the space between meals.

Here is the rugged freedom the West represents. The outside is Ralph Lauren country. The bedrooms are Laura Ashley with subtle Philippe Starck undertones. The kitchen is Martha Stewart but a bit more antiseptic. The influences seem obvious to me.

I spend my days peeling carrots and potatoes, apples and kiwis, in a blank death-mask state, a strange Zen state. One of the sous-chefs keeps inviting me to a regular poker game the staff set up in the main dining room late at night. So far, I have refused. I’ve never been a big card player. I ignore the joking and laughing coming from the “pigs” as we call them, the lowest of the low in here. The “dish pigs,” for whatever reason, work in another room, something that doesn’t seem so feng shui to me, meaning we also have “runners” hauling dirty dishes from the busboys and then hauling clean dishes back to the kitchen. The housecleaning staff are called “suck ups” and they are either Hispanic or Native. They hang out with the stable hands and wranglers who, of course, actually like horses and don’t mind cleaning up after them. The ultimate act of love is cleaning up after the object of your affection.

In the trailer, our cubicle-like rooms come with a bed, wooden shelves halfway up the walls, and a closet. Each trailer has forty cubicles, twenty on each side of a dark narrow corridor. There are two trailers, set up at right angles. Forty people share six toilets and four showers and with these basics we are expected to remain clean. And presentable. I’ve heard that during the winter you can see your breath inside.

My cubicle is the last one before the washrooms. To go to work, I have to walk the length of the trailer to the other end, something I’m sure is not to code. During the long walk, I look out for people entering the trailer, because it’s impossible to pass another person in a walkway obviously designed for small animals. Pigs, maybe. Because I am at one end of the trailer, my cubicle has two windows. The person I replaced had been here for years and I accepted the inheritance of someone I had never met. My room, then, is a luxury. This has the potential of making me popular.

We eat after the guests have left the Mess Hall — that’s the reverse pretentious name for the restaurant — usually around ten. I have been told that the time depends entirely on the number of Europeans staying with us. By eleven, the guests are usually asleep. After a day of riding and roping, hiking, biking, rock climbing (which I don’t get — why come to a ranch and go
rock
climbing?), or massages and mud baths and acupuncture and facials and yoga, of listening to seminars by famous motivational speakers, a late night doesn’t make sense. Not when the morning bell rings at seven. They still have a morning bell. Another bit of authenticity that is rendered facile the moment a guest receives their breakfast with choice of newspaper before rushing off to yet another session with our Ashtanga-certified instructor. And after paying so much to come here, to miss something because you’re tired doesn’t seem economical. No one comes here to relax. One guest told me he would sleep after his vacation; he was here to enjoy himself. Experiencing new things is its own form of currency.

This place is a case study in the successful world’s work ethic. In rules that have flown right over my head. Perhaps not the rules, but the code. The system is written in code. Whatever system one must live by to make a good living, to earn enough to come to a place like this, is a system I don’t understand at the DNA level. I do get it, I know of it, but it doesn’t come naturally. The hard work that elevated my parents, the incessant toil that builds places like New York, the round-the-clock activities of the world, its scale, the amount of commerce that is the result of a constant and ceaseless effort, is all amazing, frightening, and, ultimately, tiring. It made me tired. It started to seem pointless. I can see that. Now I can. But I also see the point. The code, finally, has a point, regardless of how silly it might be. Rules are rules. Only the lucky can be smart enough, or rich enough, to avoid playing by them. What was the economic meltdown but a large group of people fudging the rules? It was as if we had all lost the playbook, the keys that unlock the world’s riches. All of us grapple with the book, searching for a nugget we can understand.

This may be why I’ve got my poker face on. The image of me, a man lost in a world he doesn’t understand, an outsider, appeals to me. It keeps me out of the center of anything. The center is also, ultimately, tiring.

I’m happy. But I don’t know that I’m ready to share that happiness. I’m getting used to the idea of it myself.

I also know this: I won’t be able to keep it up. Being out here alone is hard. If it’s easy to feel lonely anywhere, and it is, it’s especially easy to feel lonely here. I don’t want that. I want to feel a part of something larger. Something collective. I want to belong. I want a tribe. I may need to be alone right now, but when I start feeling lonely, I will nudge myself closer to my surroundings. And share the knowledge I have earned.

Let’s Dance

Dan stopped by every few hours, and within days the charade that was our interviews had ended. “I now understand the decline of the newspaper business,” I said.

“There are plans,” he said.

“Say that with a German accent and you’ll sound sinister,” I joked. And he didn’t find it funny. “I need to laugh more than ever,” I said. “Please see the humor in this.”

“I’ve been thinking about electronic media,” Dan said. “This thing has traction.”

“I said humor,” I huffed. “Not the internet. What about T-shirts?”

“I’m going to start a blog,” he announced. “Get some webcams set up. Start up a Facebook fan page, maybe.”

“The world has enough stuff,” I said.

“Perhaps you should, too.” When Dan had an idea, he was deaf to my voice.

“That renders you obsolete. I go new-and-improved and your old-fashioned print goes further along the path of obsolescence.” I was surprised he hadn’t brought up these possibilities before. Or that he hadn’t gone ahead and done it. Who asks permission anymore? The internet means everything is fair game, whether or not the game is fair.

“There’s one website devoted to you,” he said. “That I’ve found.”

“Only one?” I asked. This information was both surprising and disappointing. “Turn me into a meme, Dan.”

“You show up on many sites. But only one devoted entirely to you. It’s someone out there.” He pointed to the crowd, scanning them. The Man came and went. I imagined him trying out the new Korean BBQ two blocks over.

“Maybe you need to surround me with kittens,” I said.

“My feeling is it’s just the beginning,” he said. “Look in front of you. Traction.”

“Or with kittens strapped to the backs of puppies. And the kittens are wearing pearls.”

The crowd kept growing, day by day. Some would come with the
Post
in hand. Dan told me he’d done an interview with a blogger covering New York media, a niche that must have been overcrowded and incestuous and boring, a kind of closed loop of friends dishing on friends. But the media thrive on trivia. Or stupid. Sooner or later, this story had a bull’s-eye on it. Dan knew it, too. He used the word “traction,” but he could have said it’s “dumb enough.”

Most nights, as I slept on the steps, the Man would enter my dreams. He would ride his white horse down the street smiling, waving his big floppy hat. Or he would strut toward me and pat me on the head, paternally, whispering,
You’ve been very good
, or something like,
Don’t worry, I’m always watching
. Our talks involved a lot of movement. We walked. There was a TV quality to my dreams because of the movement. He spoke slowly and I spoke quickly, as if there were a time limit on my dreams. And there was. Because I would always wake up.

The women of the neighborhood continued to leave their leftovers with me, their Tupperware containers stacked neatly at my feet in the colors of the flags at a Gay Pride parade. The old men stood in front of the steps drinking their coffees, discussing me, politics, the Yankees, the miseries of the Jets, Giants, Knicks, Rangers, Mets, take your pick. Memory unites people in this town and not much else. Loyalties centered on shared conversation. The city is a collective conversation about briefly shared moments. Because it is otherwise constantly changing. My block was a prime example.

We’d gone from rusted out cars to valet parking. From the desperation of crack to the joyless happiness of ecstasy. From bodegas and thrift shops and restaurant supply stores to Scandinavian furniture and fine patisserie. From burnt-out hulls to boutique hotels and investment-grade condos and starchitects and hipsters and cocktail lounges. And my own rising fortunes had mirrored this. Each step in this street’s evolution. That I could still afford to live here was perfectly in keeping with the mobility this city offers to a certain type. I’m in the middle space of that Venn diagram between Knowledge Class and Creative Class. That’s the kind of working person that can afford this place, barely, even though most have decamped to Brooklyn or even Queens, or for those with kids, to New Jersey. Back to raise more kids like me.

I had a colleague who commuted from Philadelphia.

The other occupants in my building had turned over more than once. Except Angie. Her father owned four restaurants. Plus real estate on Long Island. She was set.

Dan had given me a special “free pizza” pass that looked like a get out of jail free card. It had the cheap look and feel of something done in haste and without much planning. I was told to hold it up if any media ever came by. The newspaper had not yet photographed me. Photos had appeared, but they had been taken from the crowd, anonymously.

Dan asked me, “What do you hope comes of this?”

I didn’t have an answer. How could I? “Sometimes I wonder what it is I can see that others can’t. In advertising, you’re privy to information about consumer behavior, about desires that aren’t apparent to most people. But this information is useless to me here. I can tell you you’ll probably buy a yellow tie next year. But it doesn’t advance your life or mine. You’ll buy a tie anyway. I just might know the color or the width or the pattern in advance. I might know where you’re going to buy it. Or who’s going to make it. Well, so what? I’ve been sitting here over a week and I’m starting to ask myself what makes me so special. And I’m also thinking who is this African American man in my dreams.”

“Do you have anything against black people?” Dan asked, scribbling in his notepad, fishing for an angle, for something to make this ordeal more than it was.

I laughed. “That’s pathetic,” I said. “You know this and yet you still ask the question. It’s not worth it. I have nothing against anyone.”

“I’m trying to find the same thing you are,” Dan said. “Except this is all going on in your head, so I have to probe. You only let things out on your terms. I respect that. This is a private matter that’s become public. I don’t have the arrogance to doubt the veracity of your dreams, so if you’re having these visions, if the man in these visions is a powerful enough force to make you quit a pretty good job and sit out here like a fool and wait for him, and if you’re not even sure who this man is, then I share your questions. Namely, who is this man and why did he pick you?”

Had I officially quit my job? I hadn’t done anything officially. “And why did you pick me, Dan?” I asked. “Why do you persist with this story? How far can you take the advertising angle? There’s a nice brotherly love angle to this. It feels like it could be a sitcom. Not a good one, but still.”

“Your story is different,” Dan said. “Anything that’s different is newsworthy. That’s true everywhere, but it’s truer in this city. Especially now. People get tired hearing about crime. Even though it’s down, even though TV is full of crime, it’s true. It’s OK to watch
Law & Order
but in the end, the bad guys always win, right? And people don’t really like politics. People are angry out there, sure, but they don’t know what they’re angry about. Or the budget. The budget hurts people. But their eyes glaze over. And whatever happens in the rest of the world isn’t local. Even the UN isn’t local. Entertainment is digestible news. Non-threatening. And I won’t deny the competition to get a story and make it yours, ours, is intense. Some people say we’re losing. The newspeople. Me. Maybe we are. But that means I have to work harder.” He paused, flipping through the pages of his notepad, until he found whatever scribble he had been looking for. “Right now, sure, you’re a harmless eccentric. No one tires of stories like yours. People like you broaden the experience of living here for everyone else. This is human interest without anyone getting hurt. Human interest is everything. You hear the word ‘experience’ a lot now. What’s reality TV but the rest of us living vicariously through the experiences of a few? Even if the experience is contrived and artificial. Everything is porn now, Joe. And for my brother, this is manna from heaven. This is his feel-good story, too.”

That Dan understood exactly what he was doing was equal parts depressing and impressive. Every note Dan wrote down, every plan he hatched, every angle, every calculation, said more about his future than mine. He wasn’t writing about me. Not really.

“What else do you cover?” I asked. I’ve always thought the life of a reporter to be dull in a strange, always on the move kind of way. How many ambulances can you chase, how many fires can you describe, how many doughnuts can you eat with a cop? How many times can you write about another senseless crime before it becomes boring? A lot of reporters made their names during and after the attacks, just for being in the proverbial right place at the right time. They lived in a world where they were expected to do their old jobs while navigating new realities. Dan was like a factory worker at the dawn of automation.

“I cover your basic city stories,” he said. “Murder, mayhem, gangs, drugs, lost kids, sex clubs, traffic tie-ups, exploding cars.” And so he confirmed my impression of him.

“What would you like to cover?” I asked.

“Why is it that you always end up asking more questions than I do?”

“Last question.”

He shrugged. “City Hall? I like politics. I’m not sure. I got into this by being curious, by seeing through the sounds bites and the spin, by a genuine interest in the political process and the politicians. I remember thinking someone like Clinton, well he was perfect. We had this smart guy who acted like some Bubba but could out-think anyone. He jogged to McDonald’s. And he manipulated the media masterfully. He got in trouble and he got out of trouble. And that’s when we kind of lost our respect for the presidency.”

Dan closed his notepad. Again, I had defeated his will to work on this stupid story. Because it was stupid. I’m sure he could see that. “I haven’t thought about where I’m going. I don’t have a map. I sit at a desk and I write these stories and interview people, I run around town, and my days are long and I never stop to think. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to cover City Hall and then some kid’s been thrown out of a window and some Russian’s been gunned down in Brighton Beach and it’s a week before I think about what I want to do. Same thing. And when I think about shifting gears, or trying to, I don’t have the energy. I’m spent. So I’m saying, OK, next week, tomorrow, next year, this summer, I’m going to inquire about making changes, the feasibility of the thing, I’m going to make a list of what needs to get done, I’m going to think about the possibility of this. And then I don’t. I don’t even make the list.”

This is the stuff of our lives. This is the root cause of our collective anger. My job fatigued me. It was an endurance test for the weary. Dan’s missive is the rut we all talk about, the hole, the huge soul-sucking hole that buries you and doesn’t let you breathe. This is how people end up becoming managers at Arby’s. This is how people end up becoming Willy Loman, how people sometimes fall down and suddenly find themselves on the streets. This is why people are pleased to have a regular paycheck while spending their days complaining about their jobs on Twitter. And when your neighbor loses his job, or his house, well, you resent everything even more, because you know you have little right to complain. You feel petty. And you resent that, too.

For over a decade, life seemed to me something other people did. They lived. I watched. The rest of the world was television to me. Things happened to me but did not touch me. I was free from the kiss that life supposedly bestows upon us. What Dan said told me I wasn’t different from him, from others, from everyone who had fallen into a rut and wondered how.

Except, of course, I had done something. People talk about not being able to afford the risk of change. What risks did I take really? Is it a risk to leap from the edge of a sidewalk? I couldn’t see how falling would hurt so much. Pain was absent from the calculation.

The Man appeared in front of me. He stood between Dan and me and he said,
Let’s take a walk
. And I told him I wasn’t tired.
Oh, but you are
, the Man said.

“Where do you want to go with this?” Dan asked numbly, a variation on a question he had asked too many times already.

“This is what I’m doing,” I said. “You see me doing it. I’m willing to sit and wait and see what happens.”

Dan opened his notepad and wrote this down. His lips formed a quick, sad smile. “And what do you eat?” he asked. “What do you eat while you sit here and wait for your man?” He closed his notepad and put it away. He could not look at me, even as he waited for the expected reply.