his Wranglers.
Tuesday, July 10
G et off the train at Broadway and Fiftieth. Right outside the entrace, at one of the busiest intersections in the city, is stationed the beggar Nazi. Heâs like an armored personnel carrier, with a long line of big ugly metal newspaper boxes chained together guarding his right flank. His dirty camouflage-patterned pants scream Vietnam veteran or, more likely, given that the war ended twenty-six years ago and he appears to be no more than forty, Army-Navy shopper . Like every good Nazi, he even has a German shepherd ( ABUSED PUPPY , reads a calculatedly unverifiable handwritten sign). He has made it impossible to pass without a lengthy detour. So we have to go right into the maw of his mechanized begging, right by the sawnin-half Tide bottle filling with coins, which he shakes like a grubby maraca. In the fifty seconds I wait for the light to change, I see people give him about seventy-five cents. Thatâs ninety cents a minute. Times eight hours. The guy is making four hundred dollars a day,tax free. Sometimes he decides to cross the street for a cup of Dunkinâ Donuts coffee. To minimize his time off the clock, he doesnât bother to pretend his legs donât work at these moments; he zips along in a sort of seated run, pushing off with his feet while he hangs on to the leash with both hands. Mush. The dog bolts through the crowd of speed-walking office drones. Only by skipping sideways do I avoid unsightly tire tracks on the back of my shirt. But I donât let him get away with it. I shoot him a really nasty glare after he passes by. People ahead of me scatter as the guy thunders through like a sawn-off Ben-Hur. They turn around angrily and see: a guy in a wheelchair. Theyâre so ashamed of this feeling that they resolve to vote themselves another tax increase the next chance they get.
I arrive at work feeling mean. Meaner than Saddam, meaner than Stalin, meaner than a French waiter. Get in the elevator. A familiar crone with a bald spot and a cloud of Eau de Decay perfume is the only other passenger. Is she a copy editor? A librarian? Someone I dated?
âHi!â she says.
âHowâs it going?â I mutter.
âPretty good!â she says.
And I can feel it coming. The weather conversation.
âWasnât that a beautiful weekend?â she says.
A conversation is a workout, an exercise in discovering a topic that interests both of you. Weather is pretty much the broadest thing people can possibly have in common, isnât it? Itâs just one step removed from, âIâve noticed we both live on planet Earth. Isnât it a great planet?â As for weekend nostalgia: it should expire by noon on Monday.
âYeah,â I say, ransacking my backpack for a magazine to occupy me for these final forty seconds.
âIt was warm,â she analyzes, âbut it wasnât sticky at all!â
What do people in L.A. talk about in elevators? âI wonder if it will be seventy-five and sunny today?â Then again, to the kind of people who gave us the USA Network, this might qualify as snappy banter.
âSure was!â I say, importantly flinging open a leaflet from the Learning Annex someone (okay, a girl with smiley eyes and a white oxford shirt on which only three of the seven buttons were in active service) shoved into my starstruck hand at Eighty-sixth and Broadway. I smear a look of fascination on my face and pretend to read an article about male breast cancer.
Ding, says the elevator, and Iâm free.
Another bright morning at the comic. Todayâs assignment: write a book review. That new John Adams book by David McCullough. As a critic I must remain scrupulously neutral, fair, unbiased. To keep my mind absolutely free of prejudice, I havenât read a word of it. Instead Iâm reading NEXIS clips of all the other reviews. My review will therefore be a sort of metareview. A review of reviews. As we often
Tuesday, July 10
G et off the train at Broadway and Fiftieth. Right outside the entrace, at one of the busiest intersections in the city, is stationed the beggar Nazi. Heâs like an armored personnel carrier, with a long line of big ugly metal newspaper boxes chained together guarding his right flank. His dirty camouflage-patterned pants scream Vietnam veteran or, more likely, given that the war ended twenty-six years ago and he appears to be no more than forty, Army-Navy shopper . Like every good Nazi, he even has a German shepherd ( ABUSED PUPPY , reads a calculatedly unverifiable handwritten sign). He has made it impossible to pass without a lengthy detour. So we have to go right into the maw of his mechanized begging, right by the sawnin-half Tide bottle filling with coins, which he shakes like a grubby maraca. In the fifty seconds I wait for the light to change, I see people give him about seventy-five cents. Thatâs ninety cents a minute. Times eight hours. The guy is making four hundred dollars a day,tax free. Sometimes he decides to cross the street for a cup of Dunkinâ Donuts coffee. To minimize his time off the clock, he doesnât bother to pretend his legs donât work at these moments; he zips along in a sort of seated run, pushing off with his feet while he hangs on to the leash with both hands. Mush. The dog bolts through the crowd of speed-walking office drones. Only by skipping sideways do I avoid unsightly tire tracks on the back of my shirt. But I donât let him get away with it. I shoot him a really nasty glare after he passes by. People ahead of me scatter as the guy thunders through like a sawn-off Ben-Hur. They turn around angrily and see: a guy in a wheelchair. Theyâre so ashamed of this feeling that they resolve to vote themselves another tax increase the next chance they get.
I arrive at work feeling mean. Meaner than Saddam, meaner than Stalin, meaner than a French waiter. Get in the elevator. A familiar crone with a bald spot and a cloud of Eau de Decay perfume is the only other passenger. Is she a copy editor? A librarian? Someone I dated?
âHi!â she says.
âHowâs it going?â I mutter.
âPretty good!â she says.
And I can feel it coming. The weather conversation.
âWasnât that a beautiful weekend?â she says.
A conversation is a workout, an exercise in discovering a topic that interests both of you. Weather is pretty much the broadest thing people can possibly have in common, isnât it? Itâs just one step removed from, âIâve noticed we both live on planet Earth. Isnât it a great planet?â As for weekend nostalgia: it should expire by noon on Monday.
âYeah,â I say, ransacking my backpack for a magazine to occupy me for these final forty seconds.
âIt was warm,â she analyzes, âbut it wasnât sticky at all!â
What do people in L.A. talk about in elevators? âI wonder if it will be seventy-five and sunny today?â Then again, to the kind of people who gave us the USA Network, this might qualify as snappy banter.
âSure was!â I say, importantly flinging open a leaflet from the Learning Annex someone (okay, a girl with smiley eyes and a white oxford shirt on which only three of the seven buttons were in active service) shoved into my starstruck hand at Eighty-sixth and Broadway. I smear a look of fascination on my face and pretend to read an article about male breast cancer.
Ding, says the elevator, and Iâm free.
Another bright morning at the comic. Todayâs assignment: write a book review. That new John Adams book by David McCullough. As a critic I must remain scrupulously neutral, fair, unbiased. To keep my mind absolutely free of prejudice, I havenât read a word of it. Instead Iâm reading NEXIS clips of all the other reviews. My review will therefore be a sort of metareview. A review of reviews. As we often
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