A Work in Progress - Final Third

Chapter 3 - The Breakthrough: Manny Fagut’s Recovered Dream

“If I could be anybody else in the world, I’d be me. That way
I don’t have to buy new clothes.”
(Christopher Lloyd as Rev. Jim Ignatowski on “Taxi”)

I Couldn’t Care (Nina)-Less

We did not meet cute but we did meet dirty.

Very dirty.

In the fire at Uncle Chick’s we lost everything including my phone so I had to borrow Anin’s and when I turned it on one morning, there popped a sexting string between he and Maria. Maria Black. I am guessing her parents were Rundgren fans.

The last text from her went something like: “A? where’d u go? A? thought u were coming over! 911.”

Only thing is, I didn’t scroll up and see the dirty talk until it was too late. So when I saw her last message I thought I would do the right thing.

“Hi Maria. It’s Manny. Had to borrow Anin’s phone again. Saw your note. He’s been gone for a while. Not sure when he’s coming back. By the way, you dialed 911, you might want to be sure no call went through to them.”

She shot back: “Pls LHK (let him know) that he can kiss my SBA (sweet black ass) and this time I don’t mean it in the good way. KKHH (kiss, kiss, hug, hug). And BTW sweet cheeks, 911 was not a call, that’s what you write when you are pissed. Like I better not find my man’s dick in another pussy pissed. Do you not text or something?”

That’s when I scrolled up to see what preceded the Anin Search Mission.

Yikes. This interaction now combined the two things I hate almost more than walking/walking up-hill. Inveterate texting and getting in the middle of someone else’s problem.

So I shut it down by writing back: “Sorry. Didn’t realize something was going on. I’ll leave you alone; was just trying 2 (god help me I used ‘2’ and not ‘to’) help. MF.”

But she wouldn’t allow it.

“Sorry, Manny. Didn’t mean 2 snap @ u. I know it’s not ur deal. Hope I c u again as long as Big Man ain’t with u. J BTW, u do know that when u sign off MF some folks might thing u mean motherfucker. Just a thought. J J”

Ay yi yi. I couldn’t help myself to see what all the fussin’ might have been about and that’s when I scrolled up and found the sexting and obviously he had flown the coop at a very inopportune moment for Maria.

So I broke down….and got….a blackberry.

That’s not all that’s changed. I have a GPS. For my cab. That I am driving professionally. But more on that later. I am now a full-time member in good standing at the gym where Nina works, and in fact where she has become general manager. I see her all the time there and she says this is the best I have ever looked. I’ll take it. Oh, and I went ahead and took Pedro’s advice and had the pronunciation of my name legally changed. Not the spelling. The pronunciation.

Instead of Manny it’s now Friedrich. Just kidding. I went with “Fagoo” as he suggested. As it turns out, in L.A., you can do just about anything with your name legally including changing the pronunciation. Of course, you know my luck, and not much changed in the end because I ended up with a shit-load of people mimicking me as if I were Mr. Magoo, and I also got a lot of The Big Fagoo, playing off of the The Big Ragu from Laverne and Shirley. No, TV has not had much impact on how people think or behave at all.

Maria was Anin’s rebound from Nina. A & N certainly seemed like to the rest of us that they were meant for each other for the long haul. Nina and I ended up great friends. Anin and she…not so much, at least at first, until they could get their bearings and then it sorted of floated back to a peaceful middle. So Maria was due for the worst of Anin and she was getting it. Whenever Anin had a recurrence of a conveniently and let’s just say, euphemistically labeled “sports injury,” Anin went to a physical therapy center called “Massage-inist.” That’s where he met Maria. You can figure out the rest. These two were meant for each other in a way that is normally just reserved for people who have been together for 40 years, and I hated overhearing any part of it.

She would scold him with stuff like “Do you know ho many times you preface a story in front of people by first looking over at me, and saying, ‘I haven’t told you this yet,’ or, ‘Have I told you this yet?’”

To which his only response was “No, how many times?”

Another time, I heard her say to him, “Why do you have to flirt so ceaselessly in front of me. We’re together. It’s rude,” and he says, “I guess I’m just a pleaser.”

Not long ago he was leaving his place one morning and he said something about her backside that probably could have been expressed more artfully.

So Maria said, “That was really mean, take it back.”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

“Then please stop with the compliments.”

“Hey girl, you’re the one who keeps telling me you don’t want to change me, so I’m just trying to be myself.”

“Well, if that’s your best shot, then maybe you should try being someone else.”

Ouch.

A girlfriend and I were once having a big fight and I was using a typical line of defense and she said “I don’t want to change your behavior, just understand it,” and all I could think of then was “it’s really better if you try not to do either.” That went over well.

In my experience, when things are going sour, guys are always insisting on more space. Women never ask for more space. They just kick you to the curb. I had a feeling that Anin was about to get that feeling. Women, you may have noticed, endure infinite guilty feelings over things like food. Every aspect of food and their intake. And every aspect of anything else that may affect their appearance (okay, I’m exaggerating to make a point). For their part, men feel guilty about… almost nothing. So that’s why it sometimes seems to me that when a man and woman work together – at least a pairing like those two – it’s the Halley’s Comet of relationships.

So all I could think of with these two was, glad it’s not me this time.

I could always tell when things were not going well because at some quite random moment Anin would say something quite random (and unrealistic), such as, “I would really like to fuck Olivia Munn right about now.” Or something of that nature. It was painful to watch this guy in pain. I look at him sometimes and wonder to myself what happened to the guy that had a system for everything. What happened to the guy that was so spontaneous he would get tattooed words that he could never remember. Or the guy, that just…made everything seem so easy. Jeez, I used to shiver at the mere thought of the strange consistency of orange juice pulp, and this guy used to be able to handle anything.

In fact, things have even been a little complicated between me and Anin because he insisted that I take another run at Nina after they broke up (my mother wishes I would stop using that phrase – take a run. “Are you still in high school? Do you have enough gas money? Should I make sure your lunch for school is made too?” She has a point; she always does. But, hey, it’s effective.) I insisted that all I wanted was to be friends; which was true. So for a while it infringed on our all three hanging out together. You’d think if I could have been man enough to make Catalina work while they were getting it on that he could have made this work, but we were not able to pull it together, at that point.

And in the meantime, I got back with Harper’s mother for a spell. Dara and I re-met online but not the traditional way. She had remarried. After fruitless attempts to find me on Facebook (you’d think she would have known better) she did that damned Linkedin thing, and there was my fatal flaw. I figured, like junk mail, I would just keep ignoring and deleting. Like that crap I get all the time from Hanes just because I once - ONCE - bought one pair of boxer shorts online to avoid having to go shopping during some holiday season, and now the incoming never stops. I registered with Linkedin thinking that would essentially make it go away. In Dara’s case I did not recognize her married name and blew it off for a few months, deleting her “reminder” with every other “update” and “invitation” that came my way. Granted Dara is not a common first name but I just figured it was one more person I didn’t know or want to know that some data mining service decided independently that I should know. Finally, I was just that bored enough one day that when I got yet another notice I went through the long list of all the people I had yet to formally reject and I snapped on her name to see the photo. All I could think was….holy crap, what is she doing this for?

Against my better judgment I hit the accept button and it wasn’t but a day later that a string of emails ensued starting with “what in fucking hell took you so long sweetheart?”

She loved to call me pet names when she was angry with me.

We exchanged a few pleasantries with Linkedin as the intermediary, but then I let a couple weeks pass before going back into the former breach. Our unsteady parting led to my unsteady hand in choosing to pursue an extended email trail. But I wrote her back the truth that I just told you about the identity confusion. And so as I did, she committed herself to telling me her whole story right then and there, insisting first that I give her my email address so we could write directly. And that’s when she told me she was actually in the middle of divorcing whatever schmo she was with and in her efforts to get out there and re-invite herself to the outside world she had done the pleasure of including me.

Ah, the Great La Dara. She of the preternatural Ellen Barkin-sly-wry-I-know-something-before-you-do lip curl. A wisp of a woman. She always makes me think of our favorite movie, which happens to be “My Favorite Year.” She even combined the looks and figure of Jessica Harper with the left hook of Rocky Carroca. Some times that was aimed at my direction but many more than once was I called upon some night in a club to lift and turn her away from trouble before more trouble could be inflicted on an unsuspecting soul by this female flyweight.

But on with our online crawl.

“If it makes any difference to you Manny, I wasn’t just randomly trying to reconnect. I have wanted to apologize for a long time.”

“Apologize for what?” As if I didn’t know.

“For everything. I know my family made it impossible but I could have made it manageable and I wasn’t strong enough. “

This is going to require some rewriting of history, so bear with me, as this email exchange then ensued.

“That reminds me of Larry King’s line when he left CNN.” She said he said ‘I’ve got mixed emotions, like when your mother-in-law drives off the cliff with your new Cadillac.’ I thought of you picturing my father in that scenario.”

“Yeah not much of a hard choice there.”

“Manny, don’t you ever forget you were once so into me you called one of your friends from my BED after we plowed each other to tell him all about me. Not my bed-ROOM, my bed. I don’t know if it’s because you were so proud of yourself for banging me all night or just because you really liked me. I remember you being good at several things besides pumping me.” Yes, she really talked like that. I have this friend from home Jablon Jablonski. When you have a name like that you better be good at something. He was good at naming people and events that happened to us in a way that everyone remembered and got it. Jablon called this The Dara Effect. And it was kind of fun at first. Bu then, you know, you start looking around to see if anyone heard.

She continued online.

“Communication wasn’t exactly ever your finest hour. Although I will say when I needed you to listen to me about my family problems you were there from the very beginning. And even when I know you were miserable over me you sure supported me where they were concerned.”

“You know I always say…”

“I know, I know. ‘Everybody should be good at something.’ Then I guess you were good at two things.”

“I dare say, Dara, is that you flirting with me?”

“Well of course. Don’t you recognize an unhappily married woman when you see one? Besides, I have been waiting for you to figure out that you blew it when you left me.

What’s the holdup?”

“That’s one point of view. You know it just wasn’t right anymore. I like to think that I should get credit for putting both of us out of our misery.”

“Who was the guy who came straight from divorce court to my bedroom and pounded me like there was no tomorrow? And who’s the guy that ran over for one last bounce before leaving town for good? Took me a couple of days to clean up THAT mess.”

“Long time ago. A lot’s changed. ”

And then she said with a deep, sultry tone: “Or…has it?”

That’s normally my line. Said with a deep, mocking tone.

She went on. Still with the sultry, minus the deep.

“When we ran into each other at the airport a few years back. I could see it in your eyes. Darting around looking for some private corner to make our own for a quickie. You would have pounded me right there, no questions asked. And believe me, I would have thrown down, and when I say ‘throw down’ I mean I don’t care who would have seen me blowing you in the corner.”

I did love it when she talked like that. But the problem was, by the time I had left the city that’s all that was left, was the physical attraction.

“Manny, I really have changed. I’m not beholden to my parents or anyone. Plus, we have this daughter to think about.”

“So what are you looking for? There is less than zero chance that I am coming back. I’m tired of fighting the memories. And the memories of fighting.”

“You have to admit that the après fighting was almost worth the build up, though wasn’t it?”

Dara was the most sexually open and honest person I’d known. I wasn’t sure if I should be thankful or somewhat put off. She was right though.

I said to her, “remember the line from ‘Animal House…’”

“Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life.”

That was indeed the line I was thinking of and we really were just that plugged in to each other.

“Yes, that one. Well, in our case hot, jacked and fucking is no way for us to go through life. It can only go so far.”

“I guess that was one difference between us. I was always ready to move on pretty quickly. You used to hold things in for so long. And hold grudges.”

“Maybe that’s because you were so used to fighting. I think you actually enjoyed conflict. Not me. Besides, I seem to recall, as you seem to prefer to conveniently forget, that your other way of coping was the generous support of other men.”

“Oh Man, that was once. Maybe twice. You always over-exaggerate. And I just assumed we were over. I did enjoy the making up part, but with you. That’s the fun. That’s communicating too. At this point in my life, I just want one person. Can’t we just agree that we both needed help and refused it. I think we just weren’t strong enough to support each other all the way. Not to mention our own insecurities. I know I cornered you. I admit it and I know it was wrong but it was only because I was desperately scared of being abandoned by you and what that would mean for me, being stuck to fight my family by myself. I wish we could have at least reconnected by now, to have a mature discussion about all this. They actually really did like you, by the way.”

“That’s just because they were so unthreatened by me. That’s not much of a compliment. But I take your point at least in terms of closure. That probably would have been a healthy thing to do.”

“There’s nothing you can say now that will disturb me. You are entitled to all the shots you need to take. I actually like how you sound. So much grown up and with self-understanding. How’d you do it?”

“I’m not sure I’d agree but glad you feel that way.”

“I know I was probably manipulating you by telling you how much you’d devastate me by leaving. I know you think I was being a bitch. Like I said, I was just afraid was all.”

“I know. I get it. I don’t hold it against you.”

“You have no idea how much I beat myself up for not standing up to them. I hold myself accountable for not being strong enough to do so. I’ve grown in confidence. They can’t touch me now. “

“Ironic thing is that for all the times that I wanted you taking those runs at me, at the very end is when I wanted it the least when I felt like it was a pre-meditated way to just get cocked off one last time at my expense and leave me hanging there. That’s how I ended up remarrying so fast. Here was this guy who swore by me, defended me at every turn, took care of me, took in Harper no questions asked.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I didn’t….and don’t…love him. He was like a doctor’s prescription which solves the temporary problem but not the long term condition.”

That made me think how Oreos work the same way for me.

“As much as I had my problems and you had yours, I don’t think it was small misunderstandings that led to our demise. I think it was the lack of a foundation of confidence and self esteem. You can say I did a cut-and-run but in your heart you have to know it was what we both needed. I think about the only chance we had was to both leave town but even then I feel like I needed my freedom from you too. I did take one last run at you that day and you told me you couldn’t. Or you wouldn’t. And then I was gone. I guess timing is everything and you should have Googled me or linked me some other time. I have had some extraordinary pain over the years. Debilitating. Some of it physical, some emotional, some romantic. I just can’t allow myself to be in a position to revisit any of it or have a new version of it.”

“I appreciate your willingness to be so open and candid. Wish we could have talked like this before. I have to confess Manny that I did know about some of those struggles. Your mother and I, you know we weren’t the closest. I think she didn’t know what bet to place on me. But on some level she was aware of what we had together at our best and she was in touch with me from time to time. Please don’t be mad with her, and don’t tell her I told you. She knew how much I cared about you and suffered at your losses like they were mine.”

“So that’s how you found my email.”

“Right.”

I took a really long pause before writing back.

“Dara, there is one thing that I know she didn’t tell you because I never told her.”

“Yes?”

“I can only tell you if I have your complete promise that this goes nowhere, but especially to her. If I find out you do, it will be the last time you ever hear from me under any circumstance.”

“I understand, Manny, I do. What is it? You can trust me.”

I hesitated at what I typed next. Not the least of which simply because it was in writing. I still don’t know why I went through with it. The Dara Effect is why.

“Okay. I’m not going to say much about this and I’m not going to revisit it beyond today. A few years ago I’d bottom, not for the first time. I decided it was the last time. I put a few things in one bag and went to Aruba. I went with the idea of rejuvenating under the sun and maybe solving at least one of my problems with a lucky run at the casinos. As luck would have it, so to speak, I ran through my cash on day one. And when I say day one, I mean I went straight to the casino, dropped my bag at my feet at a table and let it rip before I even bothered to check in. I blew through the cash, I maxed out the cards, went in hock with markers, and literally had no way to get myself a bite with the exception of the one comp meal I’d earned by sitting on the same goddamned stool for 20 straight hours.”

“Manny?”

“Yeah?”

“You there?”

I’d just realized that in the time it was taking to type of all this she was sitting there on the other end with nothing hitting her in box and maybe guessing I was messing with her.

“Shit. Yeah. Sorry. Bear with me on this. You’ll get something soon.”

I’m thinking how much of this can I put it in one missive. And is it even fair? I thought about making up something else on the spot. But I did need to purge.

“So I had a week to kill and nowhere to turn, no one really to turn to, not to mention no way to pay for a single fucking thing, from my food to the room. I hit the beach. It was sunset already so I’d already missed one day of pure sunshine that was practically medicine to me. I strode that beach back and forth starting to have a panic attack not about everything material that I’d just blown but that I’d blown that day of sunlight. I started to panic that I would not be able to sleep the night off and just wake up to a new day. I convinced myself there was no way I could make it 12 hours until sunrise. I started to run into the water. You know how much I hate the water. I ran back out. I walked desperately hoping someone would be able to see through my eyes what was going on inside. Many hours later I ran back into the hotel, checked in, hurried up the escalator and into my room. As I locked the door behind me I did a 360 search of the room just with my eyes looking for something to sate me in some way, any way. Not even a mini-bar there. All-inclusive my ass! I studied the curtains. I looked at the mirror. I studied myself. I sat on the bed and I could not cry. I wanted to and I could not. And then just as simply as I am writing this to you I walked into the bathroom, shook the shower rod to see how stable it was, strung the belt through the rod, stepped on the bathtub rim, and strapped the belt around my neck, and closed my eyes.”

A deep breath.

Send.

Wait for the eternity that I knew I would feel as she read my words.

Based on how long it took for her response I am assuming she read it twice. That’s why if I have to be on IM, email or that Facebook thing, give me IM. I hate to admit that I like the instant part of instant message. I don’t want to have to wallow in my imagination about whether a message got through, made sense or is being ignored. I don’t have the time to be that impatient.

Then, finally.

“Manny, I can only send this quick note because otherwise I would be writing you for the next three hours to express how I feel. Most of which is I wish I could have been the person you called. I need to ask. What happened? Who saved you?”

“Do you remember how many times I cried while we were together?”

“I don’t remember ever seeing you cry. We used to joke about that all the time. My mom even said that was a reason alone to not get serious with you.”

“Right. Well, I cried. First just a couple almost indistinguishable drips of moisture followed by a runaway stream covering my face. I felt my body get very warm. Then cold. I was shaking. I was feeling. That’s all I remember to this day. I was feeling something, which is more than I can say for the series of events that led me to Aruba. But then I shook so much that I slipped right off of the bathtub and as I swung I desperately tried to regain my footing. As I did so, the loop pin dislodged from the hole, the belt unfurled and through me down into the floor of the tub and knocked me unconscious. And that’s where I was when I heard the door opening and a woman called out ‘Maid Service.’”

“Jesus. Then what?”

“I had just enough of a sense to rip the rest of the belt off. She came through the bathroom door, saw me laying there and thought she’d just come upon a misplaced booze-induced hijinks and hangover. I apologized for frightening her and when she saw that there had been almost no activity in the room she asked me if she should just come back and then left. I grabbed my bag, hitched a ride on the next complimentary hotel shuttle to the airport, went to the airline desk, made up the biggest lie I could muster about breaking up with my wife on our honeymoon and waited there until the next flight they could put me on.”

“Honest to god Manny, you have my total empathy. I have never been to that point but I can totally understand and empathize. Man, I really wished you would have reached out to me.”

“When you feel like you have no options, well, you feel like you have no options. All I can say now is who the hell tries to off themselves in Aruba? Atlantic City all the time, right? But Aruba! So obviously the take-away, besides, that I’m still not very good with anything mechanical or engineering, is that I have come to believe that your soul is a powerful thing and while my mind was shot in many ways, my soul was not ready to, ah, throw in the towel.”

“Okay you have certainly beat my story. I was thinking about how do I confess to you that I haven’t had sex with my husband for months. Maybe a couple times a year when I think he does it almost by accident. And I was looking for you because I needed to hear from someone who could remind me about how I once used to feel about myself. Wow, what a pig I am. Sorry.”

“Please, I am well past it. At least in the sense that I have never been tempted again. Unfortunately every time I pass by a Hilton Resort I kind of get the shakes a little…”

And then…fuck me, but I did one of these after that line J

I guess she took that as a cue to move on. Or maybe she was just uncomfortable (who wouldn’t be) and started to tell me more about her situation.

“I’m alone but I’m not really lonely because I know this is just wrong and I’ll be leaving him for good. I know what I want at least, and that’s my maturity, to not settle for what I don’t want. I have no shortage of suitors and I know how to fulfill my needs but it’s not the same. This isn’t the life I thought I’d be leading. And I know it’s me because I was cruising on match.com and whose profile do you think I find but his and the profile says ‘Looking for a new angle.’ What does that even mean?!”

“Maybe he meant angel.”

As soon as I hit send on that one I applied the palm-to-forehead maneuver. “Idiot.” I said to myself.

But she thought it was hilarious.

“LMAO. You’re right! He’s the worst speller on earth!”

“Honestly, I’m actually glad now it happened. What a wake up call. He has situational depression, which I sympathetic to, but I hear ‘Fuck You’ so often I assume that is my name. I’m done with that cracker. I always give you credit for being the first person to come into my life who let me feel like it was okay to just let it rip and have guilt-free fun.”

“And I’m relieved in probably some sick kind of way that we were able to do this. Apparently the gods of Spiritland had a plan for us to reconnect. I didn’t know how you’d react to what I just told you, so like I said, I really need you to keep that to yourself.”

“I swear, Manny. No worries.”

“I’m still kind of surprised you tried to find me. I always thought your ideal was something else. I remember all your flowering romances when we were coming apart and I had such deeply mixed feelings because I loved you in my own way but wanted to be free of you and for you to fall for someone that you really needed. But then when I came to think you were running around to drive me ape-shit. Male Double Standard Alert: I knew you were sleeping around on me but I wanted you when I wanted you. I had a pretty active fantasy world come to life but I’m not sure it matched yours in the end.”

“Manny, what do you think would happen if we saw each other now?”

“It’s been reassuring and fulfilling enough to hear how much I meant to you because I never really knew that for sure. Can’t we just leave it at that?”

“Mmmmm. Maybe. Unless you have a twitter account that I don’t know about.”

“NO! How about you tell me something about Harper.”

“She is a dream come true. The best of me and you without the worst. Great spirit. Totally accustomed to adapting to new environments. If anything, probably gets by too much on her charm. It defies all odds.”

“I hope I’m making less mistakes than my old man and she’ll make less mistakes than her dad, and so on with her children. And one day someone will have raised a perfect Fagut.

“You need to see her. I will send you a new picture. Speaking of which, when do I get to see what you are looking like these days. Not that I need a picture to remind me how much I loved to have you stick me when I least expected it. Still don’t know how you magically woke up at 2 or 3 in the morning all the time and took us for those rides. I NEVER got to work on time after I met you.”

“Right. I can search for a recent photo if you’d like, the only problem is that it would take me a year to obsess over finding the one that gives me the greatest possible self-serving desired response.”

“Well sweet boy maybe I seriously think we should just pay you a visit. What do you think of that?”

“And I seriously think I need to mull on that one.”

“Don’t mull too long because gas is expensive and I can’t ride this cab all over the city looking for you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know how I like surprises. So I thought I’d surprise you with a visit.”

Jesus fuck. I hate surprises.

I decided I better test the veracity just a bit because she was a first-rate prankster.

“Nice try Dara, but then how were you emailing this whole time while you were on a plane?”

“It’s called wireless, Mr. Neanderthal. You need to get out more. Now give me the address so I can tell this nice cabbie exactly where to take me.” I knew that tone of voice. Even in writing. She was as impetuous as ever. She was straight serious.

I wasn’t even sure if THAT part was true. You really can email from a plane? Wireless? I tried one more thing. “Are you….uh, coming alone?” For all I knew she was coming with the husband. Or a new playtoy. Yeah that’s what I really need right now and it would not be beyond her. Beyond her or beneath her? Jeez, I hate being a writer sometimes.

Bit of a pause.

“Maybe I am, and maybe I’m not.”

“Dara, do me a favor and don’t mess around any further than you may be already.” Are you coming by yourself or not?”

In addition to everything else, if I was going to be hosting her and god knows who else, I’m not sure how I was going to arrange accommodations in my little shoebox of a place. I tried to think of all the lies, I mean, alternatives for sending her elsewhere. I had nothing. I gave her the address. And then I went immediately to work cleaning up the place. If I could even remember how to do that anymore.

I did the best I could when I heard the knock and then my name. Dara does not believe in doorbells. She prefers to announce herself. And let me tell you, that is one distinctive knock. And when you hear your name called you know what’s coming. That’s not always a bad thing. I’m just saying.

I did that thing where you pull your shirt down as if you are somehow really straightening it out when it’s just nervous energy. Sort of like when I also then hitched my jeans up. And sort of like when I also looked both ways at the ground to decide whether or not I should be putting shoes on. What a dumbass. Or a wreck. Or something.

I reached for the door. I had barely loosened it when she helpfully did the rest and there she was….there they were.

Sure enough, she did bring someone else along unannounced.

Harper!!!

Daaaaaaad! And right into my arms she leapt. The warmest, longest and tightest of hugs.

I don’t call her nearly as often as I should but it’s probably once a week these days so I’ve been keeping pretty good tabs on her. But apparently not close enough. Or else this was a surprise to her as well. Or she has gotten very good at keeping surprises, which doesn’t seem very likely for a 10 year old.

I finally put her down on the ground and we sat together on the chair, with her on my lap. Dara sat herself on the couch, giving herself the visual tour.

“Manny, looks like you are doing okay, considering. You live alone?”

“Yes. And quite enjoying it.”

There was then a rustle of footsteps, and some jostling of the back door and a really irritating whistle. I hate whistlers.

“Then who is that,” she said definitively, pointing to the figure coming from the kitchen into the room. She was quite sure that I had a woman there and was enjoying the opportunity to be able to scrutinize the offending presence.

That’s when my friend John Finnland, who had been crashing in the backyard popped through and into the front room. Never missing the chance at a formal introduction Dara asked for one.

“Dara this is my buddy John Finnland. John, this is La Dara.”

And I knew right away I wished I left out the last name.

“Finland?” she asked almost suspiciously. “Like the actor or the country?”

Even that one stunned me for a minute.

“I think you are thinking of John Ireland. John’s name has two n’s.”

“Just in the last name?”

“YES, just in the last name.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. “In fact, John was just about to leave, so…”

Part of my haste was that John has been through this kind of routine with his name so often (although granted, usually at a bar, with someone in a drunken state and so on) so as you can imagine, a guy could get a little tired of the exercise, but unlike some of us, John had both a lack of patience and a lack of a filter. Like at this one watering hole after about the fifth time that night the barmaid then asked him if he wanted a drink.

“No thanks I just had a bowl of saliva on the way over.”

So once I was able to dismiss John, I had Harp hanging on me so I actually just mouthed the words to her “what the heck?”

“I just thought it was an unusual name. You can’t get mad at me for that.”

I’m still whispering ‘let it go’ and she’s still….not whispering, or letting it go.

“You know that’s not what I meant. What the heck compelled you to do this?” I practically bellowed silently.

“We’ll have plenty of time for that later, Manny,” Dara said.

“Plenty of time for what?” asked Harper.

With my cover blown I realized I would not be getting any specific answers any time soon.

“Plenty of time to find a way to get to the beach little lady. I think someone needs to see what the Pacific Ocean looks like, don’t you?”

“Can we go now daddy?”

“Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Something tells me you must be pretty tired from that long flight. Tell you what, we’ll have a nice dinner outside somewhere and just relax tonight and then tomorrow we’ll figure out exactly what’s going on. Sound good?”

“Yes daddy, she said sweetly.” And that earned me another hug for some inexplicable but very satisfying reason.

At that point I had no choice but to send her to the den so I could get some answers.

“Harper, something tells me that I don’t have to tell you how to work the TV and channel changer. It’s right in there.” And off she went.

I could hear Dara say barely perceptibly and dismissively, “He still says channel changer.”

So off I went. “Dara….seriously, what the fuck?”

“I’m happy to see you too, Manny.”

“Well perhaps you don’t remember but in our emails you sure made it sound like you were open into getting back together.”

“First of all, that’s not how I remember it. And secondly, even if I had implied that kind of thing – and I didn’t – don’t you think the normal thing would have been to have a conversation about a cross-country flight. Not to mention bringing Harper along.”

“You sure didn’t seem to mind until a moment ago. You had a vice grip on her.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

“Besides I thought you were remarried. Where’s Viggo or whatever his name might be.”

“Oh he’s out of the picture. I told you that.”

“Somehow I missed that too.”

“Gee Manny you don’t pay any better attention in email than you used to in conversation. At least some things haven’t changed.”

“You still haven’t told me why you’re really here. This is not the greatest time for me.”

“Oh please, it’s never a good time. Come on Manny, you always knew we’d find our way back to each other.”

“Not really. To be honest. Really honest.”

“Listen, enough of this for now. Where should I put our stuff?”

“You mean where should you put it here? You really came here expecting to stay here? Does this look like I can accommodate you? All I have is my room, the den and this pull out couch.”

“That’s plenty. We’re not going to get in your way. I’ll just put our stuff in the bedroom.”

Not that I really cared. I just wanted to make sure she knew there was the potential that I was feeling put out. Five of seven nights I’m sleeping on the couch of my own accord anyway.

In fact, I would say I have spent most of my life going to sleep on the couch. When I was a boy it worried my mother for the longest time but then figured at least I wasn’t one of those kids who always came to the parent’s bed to sleep and she let it go. She was good that way. And when I’d hang out for the night at a buddy’s place that was obviously the natural landing point.

Even staying over with a girlfriend I would inevitably move myself from her bed to the couch to sleep through the night. On more than one occasion, okay almost always, I would be confronted with that “did I do something wrong” pose and sometimes even those exact words. There was the innocent “did I do something wrong” genuinely worried that they missed something and then there was the “YOU WANT TO TELL ME WHAT I DID WRONG AND THEN PLEASE LEAVE” version of “did I do something wrong?”

Hey, I just like the couch. Is that so terrible. It’s like a cocoon. And I like cocoons.

Back to my visitors. “Listen, you guys get settled and relax. When I said now was not a good time I meant that quite literally. There’s some things I have to do. I’ll be back in time for us to go out for dinner.”

“Thanks Manny. Come here Manny. I didn’t give you a proper hug and thank you.”

“It’s really not…”

And before I knew it, there she was in a way that I remembered instantly. Chemistry is chemistry. I was already scared.

“Okay, Dara, that’s enough. I appreciate your appreciation. I’ll be back around 7 or so.”

I ran out to the car, pulled around the corner, and called Anin.

I had no errands.

After I got out on the street I was plugging in the earpiece as I neared the intersection.

The one that is the permanent home to man wearing a sign that gives his demographics as a disabled, homeless, Vietnam Vet beggar. Who can’t possibly have been doing anything more stressful than watching Tom & Jerry on Saturday mornings during that war. God don’t let me end up first in line at the red light when there is a beggar there.

Please let me get through the light.

I hit speed dial and the pedal simultaneously “Dude. Put down whatever you are doing.

This is important.”

“Hey man, I’m sorry about that shit with Maria that you got in the middle of.”

“Yeah whatever, screw it. That’s not why I’m calling.”

I explained.

“Holy shit, man. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know except for the fact that you are going to help me figure it out. So drop whatever plans you have or whoever you’re doing because you’re coming out to dinner with us tonight. Come over by 7.”

“Y’all bounced on good terms, though, right?”

“If by ‘bounced’ you mean broke up, then, no. It was like Tarantino’s own character in ‘Pulp Fiction.’ No marriage counselor, no trial separation, no ‘we’re on a break.’ Just fucking divorced. Fast, not fun. And it’s been touch and go ever since.”

“What’s your instinct tell you to do, man? If your first instinct is usually right, then go with that.”

“For better or worse my first instinct is to go with YOUR instinct, which is why I asked you what to do, so how are you helping me right now?”

And with that I drove around making up errands along the way so I could get a little centered.

Anin came over. For the first time I can remember he was early for something. He came through the door and Dara and Harper both said simultaneously: “Who are you?”

I neglected to say anything because I’d totally forgotten.

“That’s Anin, and he’s my main man and he’s joining us tonight.”

“You’re tall,” said Harper, drawing out the word.

“Yes, he is sweetie,” said Dara. And then I could swear when she turned around to shake his hand I heard her say sotto voce “and delicious.”

I made the formal introductions. Alright, let’s go you guys. Anin, you’re in front, you two in back.

We went to the clam-shell place in Malibu. Not because there was really much for me to eat there – really? Clams and shells and stuff? Blecch - but just because it would be fun for Harper and I wanted nothing more formal than sitting on benches outside.

Bringing Anin turned out to be brilliant because they handled most of the conversational heavy-lifting. Except for the unfortunate barbs that had to be revisited.”

“Tell me Anin, is our boy still flicking the veggies from his plate before they have a chance to touch the other food like they are carrying the Ebola virus?”

“You mean he’s always done that? I thought that was just part of his late-in-life descent into madness. Yeah, girl, he even slides his fingers to the tip of the top of the fork so that he keeps an extra-safe distance. I sometimes have to ask him why he don’t just bring those plastic medical gloves with him.”

They shared guffaws on that exchange. THEY did.

I used to always say that given the choice between being shot or stabbed I would have to choose being shot. On the whole, it’s got to be a whole lot less painful and it’s over faster. When I used to bring this up in conversation (I figure everyone should own one particular conversation that they can use on just about any occasion) Dara would inevitably announce that she would be perfectly comfortable perpetrating either upon me. Which led to just a few double takes.

Meanwhile, their persistent amusement at my expense was starting to feel even more painful than being stabbed. By the way, I think being shot beats everything to be honest. You got your hanging, your drowning, your avalanche, your freezing to death, your starvation, your quick sand and your stampede. It’s really no contest.

You can imagine the thousand and one questions Dara and he proceeded to probe each other about me. They exchanged stories about my infamous clumsiness…and that was before the aneurysm. In between pinching my ass during dinner, Dara in particular enjoyed tweaking me by recounting how she would have to patch up the chips in furniture and the walls of our place because I was always over- or underestimating space and dimensions when moving things around or even walking around with tools and whatnot. Funny thing about all that, actually. I like to think I have cat-like reactions from years of incessant ball playing, instincts that transferred over to the obstacle course that is my life, periodically tripping and bumping into objects in my path. But I seem to have a tougher time with the imaginary obstacles that I put in my way along the way.

Anin regaled her with the stories of us playing sports and how he would always have to throw the ball purposely high or wide knowing that my timing was so off it was easier for him to accommodate for the difference than for me to adjust my coordination. Good times. I learned a long time ago that the more you try to fight it the worse the ribbing, so I just bided my times and waited for the “all-stuffed” signal and the fact that it was time for someone to go to bed to break things up.

At one point in the middle of some random conversation Dara typed something on her blackberry and turned it toward me. It said simply: “I want you to nail me when we get home.”

I dipped my fries in the oyster sauce and gagged. Ah, but there is a fine line between unfiltered and uninhibited.

I pointed at Dara. “Well, Anin, I think that’s enough of a dose of the woman who said marrying me was the best thing that ever happened to her.”

“I never said that. I said our wedding day was the best thing that ever happened. Because I did have so much fun that NIGHT. There’s a difference. Let me tell you, Anin, Manny never had a chance with my dad either. He never really forgave Manny after the time Daddy called one day and Manny picks up and Daddy says ‘Is the woman there? And Manny says, ‘Well, Dara is,’ in his typical tongue in cheek way. That went over huge. HUGE.”

A few seconds of silence and then we all realized this is not something we want to get into in front of the kid.

She tapped out another note. This one: Get ready to strap it on. I am pretty sure she meant that metaphorically but in either case my eyes bulged like I’d just seen Halle Berry walk in nude because I knew what was going to be waiting for me when we got home.

And so we left and by the time we got back to my place Harper was sound asleep and I think her mother not far behind. We got out of the car and Anin made a move for the front door to invite himself in and I said “Okay, dude, talk to you tomorrow” and I put on my hands on his shoulders and turned him around towards his car. He leaned down and whispered in my ear.

“You want to know my instinct now, dude? Go git her. Me personally? With what I got going on, I don’t need to fall in love right now, I need to fall in fuck. Maybe the same for you, brother.” I remembered Anin’s credo about new relationships. He always said the Lover’s Prayer, which is: Please leave me better than you found me.

Not exactly how it worked the first time around with Dara. When things were really bad and we were jawing at each other she would turn away from me, and not even the force of an industrial forklift could pry her to make eye contact. Some chicks give you the thousand-yard-stare when they’re pissed. Somehow that forced non-look was worse. I always used to tell her, “I may not be the best communicator but at least I’m looking at you when I’m not communicating.” Was it worth risking a new round?

Anin love-tapped my shoulder with his fist, turned his head back up at me, winked at me, then I blew him a kiss and said “tomorrow.”

At that point I picked up Harper from the back seat and brought her right into the bedroom and made sure she was all tucked in comfortable.

And the next thing I knew La Dara was interested in renewing a certain part of our history. I don’t know if it was post-adrenal surge of having shared my most personal story, or the post-adrenal surge of seeing Harper but let’s just say there was a surge of something. So for a few hours Dara and I circumnavigated the immediate surroundings. As she and I lingered between the sheets in the pull-out bed all I could think of was getting out soon enough that Harper did not come out of the room with us still there.

“Exactly what made you think this was a good idea to come out here?”

“Because, you’re the girl’s father, and we had some unfinished business.”

“Well, I seem to recall it being pretty finished. Finished enough that you got married again, remember?”

At that she just squeezed me some more.

It’s been so long since I’ve dated anyone after Nina that I was pretty sure I would not even recognize it if someone were flirting with me. I have not had an operating chemistry-detector in some time. When it’s taking place in plain view of others I just assume the chick’s being friendly because they have no other choice.

So I asked Dara: “What makes you think that we would get back together. Or that we should get back together.”

“I knew it the first minute I saw you again in L.A.”

I was dubious, so I said, “Really? Just like that. You took one look at me and you just knew?”

“Well, actually it was because of one look you took at me. At dinner. When we were at dinner I caught you staring at my legs. When we were together you had always said you couldn’t resist me because of my legs.”

She had a good memory.

“I guess I thought staring at your tits would be un-cool.”

“But calling them tits is not un-cool?”

Probably with anyone but Dara the conversation would have ended there abruptly.

That’s another one I can never get right. Why do we have to dance around the nuances and pleasantries of euphemisms for body parts. To me, breasts is the new bosom; just too Victorian for everyday usage. Boobies is totally immature. Boobs? Closer.”

“Well then I guess thank you for not using titties or ta-tas,” she said only half-gratefully.

Titties? Hey even I have standards. In public. I just figured maybe tits gets you bonus points for being real.”

Isn’t it obvious how perfect we were for each other.

That morning Anin picked us all up and we went to the deli. Harper and I were playfully feeding each other when he said “Hey Manny you got something on your face. Let me see if I can get it off. Oh now, wait, that won’t come off. It’s a huge smile. Which, let me think, I haven’t seen come off since that kid’s been around.” They both enjoyed that one.

And of course, at that moment I got a text and it was at that point that dear, sweet, bitter, brokenhearted Maria started redirecting her attention from Anin to me. Why does it always end up this way. I got nothing and then I got my hands full.

I’ll tell you why. Because I am a sucker for someone I already know. Also, I tire quickly of that early phase of dating when over dinner or whatever other waste of time you have to explain your life’s story. I started out with harmless stuff about being one of 12 kids, being raised in an orphanage, serving in the Mossad AND the Foreign Service, being director of a children’s museum. And on and on. It got to the point that I was making up stuff that was becoming increasingly difficult to defend, not to mention easier to de-truth me via the internet.

My City in Ruins

Little Feat – “All That You Dream”

I've been down, but not like this before

Can't be 'round this kind of show no more

All, all that you dream

Comes through shinin’ silver lining

Clouds, clouds change the scene

Rain starts washing all these cautions

Right into your life, makes you realize

Just what is true, what else can you do

You just follow the rule

Keep your eyes on the road that's ahead of you

I've been down, but not like this before

Can't be 'round this kind of show no more

All of the good, good times were ours

In the land of milk and honey

And time, time adds it's scars

Rainy days they turn to sunny ones

Livin' the life, livin' the life lovin' everyone

I've been down, but not like this before

Can't be 'round this kind of show no more

I've been down, but not like this before

Can't be 'round this kind of show no more

I've been down, but not like this before

I was happy enough that I didn’t need a woman to be the source of my signature pursuit. In fact, I was kind of enjoying the selective freedom after having time to flush Nina out of my system. I had just the right balance of opportunities and best of all no one was asking more of me than I could offer. For me nothing takes more years off my life than having to live with puncturing someone’s expectations.

And Uncle Chick is who I credit most of all with getting me there. When I left for that Catalina trip I had run back into the house to grab my cell-phone and when I saw Uncle Chick he pressed six-page letter into my hand and before I knew it I had forgotten what I’d run back in there for. It was as if I ran back forgetting that letter even though I didn’t know at the time that it was waiting for me. Or even that Chick was already up at that hour.

I won’t reprint the whole thing for you here, but dude has a lot of Chief Dan George in him. Basically, in his own Chick-ian way he explained that everything was going to work out as far as Nina, my career and whatever else I was fixated on. He told me how life was essentially a series of trade-offs and you just have to know what you’re getting or losing in the exchange of each decision you make. “There are no wrong decisions,” he wrote, “just decisions with different consequences. If we always knew the outcome of each decision, what would be the fun?” He had a great way of making me laugh, usually without trying. At least I don’t think he was trying. Like, one page ended with the words “when things are getting the best of you, then you need to get a pair” and I started to think that was a little harsh and then I turned the page and it went on with “of those Bose noise-reducing headphones, and pop in one of those playlists that you like so much and get lost in a world that you create for yourself.” Another page ended with “I know there are going to be times that seem like nothing’s working so get yourself a set” and again, I’m thinking, ‘Dude, kind of harsh,’ but the top of the next page said “from my golf bag and get yourself to the driving range.” Then there was this: the page ends with “I am telling you once and for all, so fuck you” only to find the next page starts “…is sometimes the only attitude left to take when everyone else is in your space. Tell ‘em to fuck off and I don’t care what the others say; it’s okay by me and tell ‘em I said so.” Chick had been through a lot. He was shot at by a pimp. It’s not what you think. Just a case of wrong place at the wrong time. But still.

I know there was one nasty marriage which ended in an even nastier divorce. They had lost a baby through SIDS while he was on the road and could not bear to have another. She took everything in the divorce. He never really had a chance to accumulate anything again materially, but he never complained. So he told me at the end, “Let everything go; move on. Not just the girl (although I got to hand it to you, my boy can pick ‘em), but let everything go that’s weighing you down. It all makes for a good story but that’s all it adds up to. Sorting it out is not as romantic a concept, but it’s the only long-term play. Take it from me.”

His letter ended with this underlined: “Manny, one last thing: I know you are one tough hombre (his underline). You can overcome this. Don’t forget to be happy” and then he signed off with his signature signature of a trumpet with flames blowing out the end.

Uncle Chick. There will never be another.

Jeez, I almost forgot the postscript. He wrote at the bottom: “Here’s how you contact the old man if you want to go there. Not saying you should and not saying you shouldn’t. But if you decide to, he’s local.”

Despite the post-Nina difficulties with Anin, we put a deal together and partnered on a venture that I’d started with the funds from the insurance money from the house fire and the income from driving Chick’s cab (thus breaking down to get the GPS. I’m stubborn but I’m not stupid). Uncle Chick made me the beneficiary and I think he would have approved, especially since I had confided in him so much about my troubles when I moved out west and landed at his doorstep. I am now the founder, chief writer, editor and publisher of a popular webzine called The Online Fagut. On the masthead is a permanent dedication to Chick as if he is overlooking each page of every issue. Each and every issue reads simply under the inside masthead: “For Chick,” with a photo engraving like the kind they use in the Wall Street Journal. Anin designed the layout and the logo and also serves as the music and lifestyle section editor. I handle all the news and opinion. When I want to write an editorial I write it. I don’t panic if I don’t have anything to say that particular day. I even got my first tattoo. It’s the trumpet-with-flames coming out of the end. A couple friends thought maybe it was in bad taste but it represented both the hot sounds that were part of his life, as well as the flames that put out his life.

The fire.

Dr. Spanksky helped me with a breakthrough in what I thought was my last session with him. But I found myself back in his care after the fire and this new recurring dream I had when I got back from Catalina.

First, the fire.

When Anin, Nina and I got back from the Catalina trip we were all on a kind of high. Anin and Nina were tight as could be. This is as treacly as I get but I was happy to be around their happiness. And I was at peace with how everything seemed to solve itself on that trip. Heck, we spent most of the ride back to L.A. fighting only over the playlist in the car to find songs that we could all sing out loud.

I dropped the two of them off at Nina’s and went back to Uncle Chick’s to crash. I pulled off the 410 and was winding my way down his street when I saw the emergency vehicle lights from a distance and the plumes of smoke. “Bummer,” I thought, having no idea that I was headed straight for the scene.

As soon as I pulled into the top of the street I saw that the vehicles were lined up on the immediate opposite side of the house. You’d think they would park right at the scene but apparently the protocol is that because of potential explosions they park the vehicle at a safe distance.

This was the scene of a full-on conflagration. Have you ever had your heart stop in an instant? I mean really feel like your heart just stopped?

I slammed down the gas as if another few hundred yards at an advanced speed would actually make up any time. I threw it into park and ran over to the house. I hustled to the first guy I thought would give me a head-start on what went down.

“This is my uncle’s place. How long has this been going on? When did it happen?”

“Pretty early in the morning. It was the kind of fire that we couldn’t really so much as put out but contain and let it die on its own. Sorry man.” He was in the middle of some radio conversation and was not really interested in being more helpful than that.

“Was anyone in there? Was my uncle in there?”

He put the radio down with some exasperation. “We took one guy out. He’s been at the hospital for a few hours by now.”

I’m looking at him hoping for some confirmation that I should just settle down a bit. “Jeezus. I better run over there now. I’m sure no one knows. Nobody would have known who to call.”

“Hey buddy…”

“Yeah?”

He put down the radio again, this time a little more gently and told whoever was on the line he’d get right back. “I don’t want to tell you what to expect because I haven’t been in contact since they took him over there but…”

“Yeah?”

“Well, he wasn’t in great shape. He inhaled a lot of fumes. He might come around or he might not. You should just prepare yourself is all I’m saying.”

And when I got to the hospital, he was already gone. No final words. No last smile. No chance to rub his hand or smooth his hair or any other way to comfort him. No familiar face for him to know serving vigil at his side. Before I could even absorb my loss all I could think about was that he went alone and what kind of unimaginable pain he must have gone through on his own.

Remember my phone had been in his house? I’d forgotten to grab it for the road trip. So I had nothing on me at that moment; no way to call my mom or Anin right away. So I sat at one of the nurse’s stations and started the process from there.

I didn’t even have any details about the end. I waited and waited for a doctor to return so I could at least have the story to determine whether or not to tell my mom and everyone who was going to ask about it. The doctor told me Chick had little chance by the time he was brought in. Is there really always a “it could have been worse scenario?” I suppose burning to death would qualify but it was hard to things that way.

The doctor looked me in the eye. “Son…he really did fight. You could tell. But then it was time to go. And he was gone. I really am sorry.” I thanked her and was about to turn.

“So, at least he didn’t suffer too badly, right?”

“It’s funny you ask. I’ve never had this happen before. When he came in the med techs already had him on some painkillers though an IV. He was conscious but in a great deal of pain, I won’t kid you. The body is not made to cope with that kind of shock. It wasn’t long before he started to writhe some more so I ordered another dosage and he stopped me. He actually tried to reach his arm over to prevent me. ‘What is it, what would you like,’ I asked him as I held his hand. And he just said, “No more. No medicine. I want to feel everything.” I told him in every way I could that there was no reason to resist. That we could at least relieve some of the suffering. I begged him to let me up the dosage. And I’ll never forget those words – ‘I want to feel everything.’ I really didn’t know what he meant by that exactly or why he would want to be that way, but even with a weak voice he was so firm. I let him know that if he changed his mind at any point I’d have someone there in an instant. And then I let him go his way.”

I later read something about the late sportscaster, Nick Charles. Actually, CNN’s very first sportstcaster. A great guy to watch and listen to back in the early days of cable, a whole lot easier to digest than these cliché-spewing, jockstrap-snapping screaming banshees on the air now. Anyway he died of cancer in 2011 I think it was, around 60 years old. There were many interviews with him before he died (I know, AS IF) and tributes afterward. One interview that stood out was a conversation he had about being prepared to go. And he used that same expression: “I want to feel everything.” It went something like: “I want to feel everything, not just the physical. I want to be aware of even the last moments that are just mine alone and can’t be shared. I want to go out the opposite way of birth – knowing and understanding everything. I felt nothing when I came in, I want to feel everything going out. I don’t want to withdraw from what’s real.”

Well that would be just like Chick. He was always completely self-aware. No bullshit ever, not about himself or towards you. I think that was my favorite characteristic and what I have tried to adopt the most. Total honesty with myself and others.

I walked back to my car. I had no idea what kind of arrangements he had made for himself. Of if he made any. I assumed none, so I took care of everything while my mom flew out to spare her having to figure out all those morbid details. I knew that she trusted me to do what was right.

A couple days later Mom, Anin, Nina, PIPI, and a few of his buddies from the cab company, guys from his band and some other musicians surrounded his grave and we buried him in the L.A. Hillside Cemetery. I gave the eulogy. Mind you, I didn’t actually write it. I simply delivered it. Uncle Chick’s closest friend, Willie Neeley, wrote the eulogy but he was too overcome. Willie was actually not one of my favorites. He is the guy that when he wants to make a broad sweeping point he always comes up with a “there are two kinds of people in this world.” Such as: there are those who play by the rules all the time and those who are always trying to game the system. But when you ask his point or which one to do or this or that he just shrugs. When he could tell Willie was exasperating me Chick used to lean over and say to me that’s why he thought Willie had such a short neck, from all the shrugging.

Willie was a former marine (although never say that in front of him because he’ll grab your arm and say there is no such thing as FORMER marine) and he’s what you call an entrepreneur and in particular he used to rope in one or more of the guys from the band to pursue one ill-informed, ill-conceived venture after another. Ray Vaughn was his most frequent mark and you never which day they were talking to each other and which day Ray was giving Willie the slient treatment. On this particular day no words were exchanged between the two; they simply shared a silent grief. Willie was the one who got lucky at the track more than most and with some winnings that he had saved up from his most recent dream is a breakfast and late night place that we all frequent to try to send some business his way. Plus, it’s cool to have one place where they just take care of you no questions asked. It’s called Grill Sergeant (get it…like Drill Sergeant) so the logo has the stripes on either side of the name, which is stenciled in between two slides of bread smoking on a grill. Yeah, I don’t think the place will last either but we are doing our part. Ray Vaughn was more my speed, (hey it’s just one of those names that you feel like you should be saying both names together most of the time, like it was Billy Dee Williams or Bobby Joe McAllister). An easy going guy and, when we first got to know each other, he thought he were “brothers” because he had once worked at a paper where he was in succession, the auto critic, music critic, travel critic – there was even something called a city critic, how plum is that! In other words, a critic. Right there in the name of your job title is that you are going to criticize something. You mean you get paid to criticize stuff? Gives new meaning to the phrase “everyone’s a critic.” I WANT THAT JOB!

He also told me he wasn’t really comfortable around people, so all the more reason it was comfortable being around him. Anyway, had Willie and Ray Vaughn not been incommunicado at that point Willie would probably have asked Ray to do the honors but instead he gave me what he wrote down and I read his remarks.

I added only one piece, because I couldn’t resist. It was a running joke about Chick that I was introduced to when I met the guys for the first time. At the time of our introduction, one of them had said to me “Your Uncle Chickie, he drives his cab like he’s Hank Aaron.” And I recounted how I wanted to play along and get accepted by these guys but I could not for the life of me figure out how a cabbie could be like the greatest home run and RBI hitter that ever lived. Power? He drove fast? So being a bit dense and, okay, a bit of a dupe, I wagered, “You mean he drove a lot of people home?”

And then I delivered the coup-de-grace on myself: “No,” they told me laughing. We’re not making a joke. He literally drove like Hank Aaron. Cross-handed. Most bizarre thing any of us had ever seen.” And I added, for the reminiscence’s coda, not just a little scary for his passengers.

That got a nice laugh and I thought I saw this expression come over Willie’s face like he couldn’t make up his mind if he was mad that I’d inserted my own story into his eulogy or if he was pissed for not thinking to include that story himself.

This roughest of days was also the quintessentially perfect southern California day. There wasn’t as much open as I would have imagined, particularly after all the stories Uncle Chick had been telling me about his “homies” at the track and the club and at dispatch HQ. I guess that’s the way of the cabbie. And there’s nothing better than a guy in his 60s referring to his “homies.” Each and every one of them came up to me and told me how much I’d meant to Uncle Chick since I’d moved to L.A. and that in his own way he’d been kind of renewed by my presence in the last few months. That’s when I realized that these guys have known him in some cases for close to 40 years and knew him better than anyone else and probably were coping in the most appropriate way for themselves. We drove back, Nina driving, my mom in front. Myself slumped in the back with Anin giving me a comforting arm over the shoulders. In driving away from his plot I noticed there are no stop signs at the cemetery’s intersections. Just signs that read: Slow Down. That was almost too much to take.

I withdrew from just about everything except The Online Fagut. In fact, I threw everything I had into it, having no idea what my next move was or how to spend my time otherwise. Anin and I drifted in and out of each other’s lives. I wasn’t sure anymore what I was really connected to. I had already been starting to feel like there no more mysteries or surprises left in life. At least not the good kind. Short of the high that I still longed for with a new relationship and I guess this little webzine venture, I couldn’t help but feel it’s just a hamster wheel from here on out. I allowed Dara to make the occasional return visit but only if she continued to bring Harper and only if the trips were announced. I started to fix up the place a little better and more appropriately for the visits of my little girl. I had the sense that if there was ever a time to really start thinking about how to give her some more presence in my life, and stability, it was now. I didn’t quite know how quite yet, but it was something I was thinking about more and more.

One day the investigator PIPI kind of new instinctively what was going on with me (actually, that’s probably giving him too much credit. I’d like to be able to say it’s because he’s an investigator but I am guessing my mom told him to check in on me). So he paid me a visit up and said, “You ever think about the PI gig? Chickie told me that you are some kind of note taker. You should try it. Half of it is just being really observant, taking a lot of notes. Like being a reporter. Chickie told me you was a reporter, right?”

First of all you should I am officially making an exception to Rule #18 about nicknames. PIPI’s use of Chickie was just so damn endearing. So, exception made for guys in their 60s.

“Listen, Peep, first of all I wasn’t a reporter. I was a columnist. A columnist just writes shit that’s on his mind. There was no reporting or investigating or anything like that. But I appreciate your thinking of me.“

“Well Sonny, I can’t be doing this forever. Losing Chickie made me think maybe I need to plan for the future if I want this business to go on.”

I was way ahead of PIPI. For once I was thinking ahead, period. And in fact, I did have a plan. I started a screenplay. Hey I know every bus driver and bus boy in this town is writing a screenplay but I figure I must have some kind of edge in that I am actually a writer. Not to mention I think I stumbled on a hell of a novel idea. A novel screenplay. Now there’s a play on words that will get a little confusion started. You can have a novel screenplay but you can’t have a screenplay novel.

I lost Chickie. I was re-gifted Dara. I was offered Maria.

And at the same time I started up again with a recurring dream. And in this dream I am balancing on a huge unicycle wheel. Not the seat, or the handlebars or some other circus trick we’ve all seen. The tire itself. The dream starts with the tire coming at me as I am walking down the street or in a field. And as it comes to closer I prepare to move out of the way but each time, at the moment of truth, I seem to scale the tire and walk it up to the top where I proceed to walk it forward, going in no particular direction with no particular destination. It’s not that the dream is terribly complicated or even troubling. I was instead frustrated by the recurrence, which was making it difficult for me to go to sleep as I anticipated its frequent return.

What was a guy to do? That’s when I returned to Dr. Spanksky.

Manny Fagut’s Recovered Dream

I think I hadn’t mentioned this before but on the front door of Spanksky’s office was a sign he had someone made up. Actually I think it was this artist that bends wires into shapes and words. So on the entrance to his practice office it says:

“Any idiot can face a crisis. It’s day to day living that wears you out.”

(Anton Chekhov)

If I have to go to a shrink, THAT’S the kind of shrink for me. Not someone who is overly gentle and accommodating and spits out the shrink handbook at you. No, like Uncle

Chick, give me a guy that gives it straight.

I had a couple things on my agenda with Spanksky, actually.

He let me inside and I got right to the point.

“I have a script. It’s a script I just finished. A screenplay. It’s called “Running Time.” I was really proud of myself for actually finishing something and I wanted to tell you about. I gave it to Anin and he was gonna hook me up with some agent through a mutual friend. I’ve been hesitating though because of the concept. Before I had second thoughts I was getting ready to hand it over to an agent in town first. He was even going to give me a pretty good lump sum for it.”

“Tell me about it,” said Spanksky, a former screenwriter himself.

“I know,” I said.”

“No, I mean tell me about the script, Manny.”

“It’s called ‘Running Time.’ It’s basically a compilation of actual scenes from a bunch of movies that I threaded together to form one movie. All with a common theme, about people in relationships or running from relationships. Or to relationships. Anyway I thought it was brilliant but then I got cold feet about the agent because I thought this was just another example of depending on the voices of others and I got kind of freaked out. Besides, Anin also told the guy about my Ed Drater story and that’s all this Manzini dude really wanted to hear about.”

“Wait. Manzini? Harry Manzini? Harry Manzini is the agent?”

“Well not yet, not really, not officially. I just pitched him, sort of. Through Anin. We haven’t even had lunch. Or dinner. Although how come L.A. is famous for all these first meetings over lunch? If it’s a FIRST meeting, shouldn’t it really be over breakfast? I am so much more comfortable over lunch anyway. Nothing bad can really spill on your shirt, nothing to slurp. The menus are more up my alley.”

He did the right thing and ignored all of that. “Manny, if The Great Manzini wants this thing about Ed Drater, you give him the Ed Drater. But you keep that Running Time in your back pocket. Sounds like a wonderful way to use other people’s words.”

“But everyone was telling me that to find my own voice I have to stop relying on the words of others.”

“Remind them of that when you are cashing the royalty checks, ok? Now tell me, why have you really come back?”

I told him about all the events surrounding Uncle Chick. “Dr. S, I know it’s illogical but I keep thinking if I had at some point realized I didn’t have my phone with me on that trip to Catalina I would have turned back in enough time that who knows, maybe it would have been just the right twist of fate to change Uncle Chick’s destiny. I mean, I’ve thought about everything from a final parting conversation I might have had with him that encouraged him to go out that night to….who knows, maybe I would have talked him into coming with us.”

“Manny. You can’t take that on. It’s completely understandable. We all like to think there is some kind of superpower we have capable of changing fate, even unintentionally, but you cannot take that on. That dream you have been having now…about running backwards. This is obviously different from the other one….where you were running as if being chased and unable to use your voice to call for help. In this case, it’s someone else who needs your help. And the phone you left in your Uncle’s house. For you that represents your desire to save him. You know what you would have done but couldn’t because of something out of your control. But, Manny….do not misinterpret. This was not your fault. Nothing about this was your fault.”

“But Dr. S, isn’t it really the same thing? If I’d had some voice I could have called out to him, even in the dream?”

Then I told him about the dream.

“That dream is your voice found, Manny. And it’s telling you that you knew not just what to do but what to say. The Online Fagut is your recovered dream. You now have to liberate yourself and speak to what you see, feel and hear.”

“My recovered dream?”

“Yes. Recovered Dream Theory.”

He rolled his chair and moved in closer. “I’m actually close to writing a book. Maybe I can option it. A movie? Serialized TV? Reality show? Who knows.”

Then he slapped his palms on top of his thighs like he was channeling an old-timer from

“Mayberry RFD.”

”Anyway,” he said. “Le me explain. You are obviously quite familiar with your own conscious and sub-conscious states. It’s actually one of the reasons I’ve enjoyed seeing you. You make for an excellent patient. There is this concept that in that sub-conscious state there is something, a space really, that we call the Recovery Sphere. The Recovery Sphere refers to both recovering from an internal brain injury as well as the metaphysical property of retrieving something that has been buried. In your case, you have been on this inevitable cosmic path, between a father to whom you never got to say hello to and your father-surrogate to whom you never got to say goodbye. Throw in a brain aneurysm, and….kid, let me tell you, that’s a houseful of damage you got stored in there. Forget the Sphere, it’s practically a cosmo’s worth!”

“So, Recovered Dream Theory is…?”

“Yes. Recovered Dream Theory is what we believe occurs within the brain that signals a reconciliation of that which has been suppressed.”

Note to reader: it’s actually repressed. Suppressed is when it’s intentional; repressed is when its subconscious. You would think he could keep that shit straight. He went on.

“At its most basic, Recovered Dream Theory posits the same sort of effect that occurs with second degree skinned knee or elbow and the chafing gets worse before it gets better, before the healing can begin. Manny, this is your brain’s way of telling you before you even really know it consciously that you are ready to resolve loose ends. Recovery is at hand. Manny, this means closure is not far behind.”

That was pretty compelling stuff. Fascinating in fact. So I looked into it some more.

It was utter bullshit. Total nonsense. Not just the part about the book or the movie, or the…PLEASE, reality show. I mean the actual “theory.” But that’s part of his charm, if not his, uh, scientific training, is that in your time of need he can really make you believe whatever explanation he thinks is going to work for you. And it did work. And thereafter I have often passed on the “legend” of the Discovery Sphere and to my great delight no one has questioned it.

And with that, I said goodbye to the good doctor for the last time. Closure was closer than he thought. The dreams? The recurring unicycle dream? It went away, probably about the same time it would have gone away without the so-called Recovered Dream Theory to push it along.

Jerry, I think it Moved: Filling the Nina Gap

So here’s how it went down with Manzini, as I told Spanksky. I called Anin and asked him to set up lunch with Manzini. Even I was starting to feel a little good about my prospects at that point. The webzine was happening, I was getting a few kicks in courtesy of Dara, and now I was meeting an agent about not one but two screenplay ideas. The Drater thing had given me so much grief I really didn’t want to revisit the whole episode. But a screenplay made up entirely of dialogue from about a dozen movies? That’s brilliant isn’t it? Isn’t it?

But back to Dara for a minute. I have to admit that I was enjoying our nocturnal time together. She had a way of making a guy feel confident. But deep down, I knew something else was missing. I overheard Anin talking to someone else about us and he said something about Dara and I – that we looked good together better than how we were together. I guess his point was that while there was a good chemical reaction, it was mostly superficial.

I happened to run into Nina at they gym and we got to catching up in a way that was friendly and comfortable. We agreed to meet later that night at the Grill Sergeant, and I am so much more at ease when I’m around food that does not intimidate me and that in fact I may have made for myself at some point. We lingered for maybe two, three hours, and I would say half the time I was waiting on her every word, and half the time I didn’t hear a thing she said because I just enjoyed being in her company and was trying to look without staring.

In fact, the longer we stayed and talked, the more Anin’s comment started to sink in. I was sleeping with Dara and not enjoying being with her. I enjoyed being with Nina and wasn’t sleeping with her.

Without trying to force things to happen for myself, I just started to that inner feeling that things were starting to turn my way, even if just a little bit. I always prided myself on self-awareness and the ability to read my instincts correctly. I didn’t want to push my luck with Nina, though. I enjoyed hanging with her and I felt good just to be in her company. I felt a stir that I didn’t feel with Dara, or anyone else for that matter. But if I didn’t get a signal from Nina, I was not going to risk losing my hang time.

I told her about the meeting coming up and she was genuinely pleased for me. “So what exactly are you pitching,” she asked.

I told her about “Running Time.”

“I have this really cool idea for a screenplay. It’s based on existing screenplays. It literally lifts from existing movies to create a whole new film based on the existing scenes and dialogue.”

“So you mean it’s like ‘That’s Entertainment?’ A bunch of old movie clips?”

“Nothing like it. That was just the equivalent of a greatest hits album. No scenes had anything to do with any other scene. This is a full narrative stitched together from a combination of obscure and classic movies. It’s never been done!”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“Not if you buy the rights. Besides, I may not know much about the film industry but I do know that it’s really driven by math not by English. The one thing that made ‘That’s Entertainment’ notable is that it cost the studio nothing except to research its own movies and let the editors do the rest. No high priced actors, no petulant directors. Produce a picture for $5 million and make $50 million and you are a hero for turning a profit margin of 10 times. Make a movie for $100 million and even if you get lucky and gross $300 million you’ve still barely made your money back when you factor in marketing costs. This movie that I’m talking about, costs nothing to make except buying my script, buying the rights to a bunch of scenes in old movies, some of which no one even remembers, and then a couple of good editors do the rest.”

“Sounds like you know what you’re talking about. I hope you’re right. You seem really committed to it.”

“Oh, I’m committed, alright. I’m expecting the worst, though. Anin told me that you can never go into these meetings with one idea. They always want to know what else you have. Making deals in L.A. is a volume business, he says. In fact, he said sometimes you have to go in with something that’s just enough to get them interested but not what you really want to sell because no matter what you try to sell they are going to ask what else you have.”

“So what else do you have?”

“I… have… no… idea.”

But this is how I explained to her that “Running Time” works.

This is the actual dialogue from some of the movies I collected. I called it “Running Time” because it’s an industry term about film length (personally, I feel like if you can’t tell a story on screen in 90 minutes then I don’t want to be bothered. It gets too complicated for me to follow. Plus, sitting on my wallet for that long starts to hurt my ass). I also wanted a title that announced right away this was a kind insider’s mind fuck (because I’m such an industry insider. But that’s the point, I needed a way to make producers and agents think I was). And then as I told you that I told Spanksky, all the dialogue is around people running from relationships; relationships with lovers, siblings, parents, friends, you name it. Here’s the sampling I had prepared for Manzini:

From THE FLAMINGO KID, 1984: This is a classic father-son conflict predicated on the growing distance of a son (Matt Dillon) seeking upward mobility and space from his working class father (Hector Elizondo). The search for independence is complicated by the son’s attraction to Mr. Brophy, a well-heeled, gambling rogue who takes him under his wing during a summer-long relationship at a beach club where the son is a cabana boy and the businessman is his patron. At film’s end, Labor Day approaches just as the son has had a disillusioning experience with his potential surrogate. The father and son approach each other awkwardly at a family meal held on a boat (“Any Fish You Wish”) and Dillon begins:

“Hi dad.”

The father moves away from the son to the ship’s deck saying, “I gotta get a fresh toothpick. How’s your Mr. Brophy?”

“Summer’s over.”

“Summer’s over, huh? Well, I’m just sitting here and watching another ship boxing its compass and venturing out to sea.”

“It’s nice to know that it can go home if it needs to.”

“If it talks nice to the lighthouse it can always come home.”

“Yeah, well maybe if the lighthouse keeper didn’t yell so much.”

“Well, the reason the lighthouse keeper yells so much…What the hell are we talking about! You coming home or what?”

“Yeah, I’m coming home! Then I’ll get my own apartment.”

“Good. Alright. Then it’s over?”

“Yeah, it’s over.”

From NIGHT MOVES, 1975 – Gene Hackman and Susan Clark, in a fraying marriage to each other, are laying in bed after sexual high and release, and he is coming to grips with their marital truths and difficulties. Trying to make this work on paper is like a page of lyrics without the music. Minus the ability to watch and hear Hackman’s brilliance leave something to be desired. But here it is. She begins.

“You’re different.”

“Am I?”

“Mmhmm”

“How”

“You seem very remote”

“Nooo. I’m just thinking about…things”

“Anybody I know?”

“No. Not even anybody I know. My old man.”

Was he really so unlike you, when you met him.”

“I never met him.”

“But I thought you stayed with him. You told me. For a week.”

“Well, y’know I was really pretty proud of myself, the way I tracked him down. I Followed all the clues. From job to job. From city to city. I Finally found him in Baltimore. Some rooming House. On Hibiscus Ave. Went up to the door. Was a little card there. Had his name on it. Somebody pointed him out to me. He was in the park. On a bench sitting there, just this little old guy reading the funny pages out of the paper. Mouthing the words with his lips. I just sat there for a while and watched him and then went away.”

“Why did you never tell me this.”

“I don’t know. Just something I wasn’t terribly proud of. Standing six feet away from my father and then just walking away. Trouble is after the first six feet hard to tell whether you’re jumping or falling.”

And from FIVE EASY PIECES in 1970 Jack Nicholson plays a drifting ne’er do well, a man who turned his back both on a promising classical music career and his accomplished but dysfunctional, controlling family until his father’s grave illness calls him home one last time. He hits the road by car from southern California to northern Washington with his girlfriend, dumping her before reaching the remote part of Washington that is his destination. In almost not time, he pursues the beautiful girlfriend of his brother Carl, and only at the end does he approach his infirm father, who can hear but not speak.

First, the girlfriend, played by Karen Black:

“Why can’t I come out with you to your family’s house?”

“I have to see what’s going on first. My father’s sick, you understand? They wouldn’t be prepared for my bringing anyone. Will you try and understand this is not something that I want to do; Jesus Christ, you ought to know me well enough for that.”

Nicholson reaches his destination and the chilly family he left behind. His sister explaining the father’s condition:

“He has ways of communicating. I can tell when he’s expressing disapproval. Just from his eyes.”

“Yeah. That’s some range.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Yes it is.”

“Will you stay a while?”

“I don’t know.”

He is bored silly. Sedate, somber, classical piano is always playing in the background.

Then on to his female object of affection. She starts:

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

“Been looking all over for you.”

“You have? I went riding”

“Riding? That’s dangerous you know?”

“Riding is?”

“Yes, you play the piano all day and then jump on a horse you can get cramps.”

“Well I like to ride. I do it every chance I can get. It’s very invigorating.”

“Is it? Well I don’t like to get too invigorated myself.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“What else do you do?”

“Well there’s fishing, boating, concerts on the mainland. I feel silly telling you this. This is really your home. You probably know better than I what there is to do.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Well it must be very boring for you here.”

“That’s right.”

“I find that hard to comprehend. I don’t believe I have ever been bored.”

“What are you doing right now?”

“Right now I’m trying taking a hot tub and soak myself.”

“And after that?”

“After that, I plan to read some music.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is a full practice day, but day after tomorrow I will be free.”

“Will you be free?”

“Yeah I’ll probably be free.”

After winning her over he makes a play for her to return to California with him and she declines. He starts:

“Just wanted to talk to you.”

“It’s useless.”

“Look, give me a chance.”

“I’m trying to be delicate with you but you won’t understand. I couldn’t go with you, not just because of Carl, but because of you…you’re a strange person. What would it come to?”

“Living here in this rest home asylum, that’s what you want? That’s what will make you happy?”

“I hope it will, yes. I’m sorry.”

So knowing he has no choice but to finally attempt closure with his father before his inevitable retreat, Nicholson addresses him in the pristine countryside.

“I don’t know if you’d be particularly interested in hearing anything about me. My life, most of it doesn’t add up to much to a way of life that you’d approve of. I move around a lot. Not because I’m looking for anything really but because I’m getting away from the things that get bad if I stay. I’m trying to imagine your half of this conversation. My feeling is I don’t know that if you could talk we wouldn’t be talking. It’s pretty much the way that it got to be before I left. I don’t know what to say. [Sister] Catherine suggested that we try. I think that she feels that we have some understanding to reach. She totally denies the fact that we were totally uncomfortable with each other to begin with. The best that I can do is apologize we both know I was never very good at it anyway. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

And there it ends. He is used to getting what he wants. He has a girlfriend he does not want and a new woman that he is attracted to that he can’t have. Nor can there be a reconciliation with his father. By this point his girlfriend has actually joined him in Washington and they return to California together in his car, but at a gas station stop he escapes by abandoning her, the car and all his belongings, surreptitiously hitching a ride with a commercial long ride truck driver in. Seeing Nicholson with no material possessions, the driver says: “Where we’re going it’s colder than hell.”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” The truck pulls off, stranding the unsuspecting girlfriend at the gas station, and there the movie ends.

And that’s the treatment for “Running Time” that I presented to Manzini over lunch with

Anin, my old friend Fletcher Mackerel, and his agent, Harry Manzini, otherwise known as FM and The Great Manzini. This guy Manzini made his mark about 20 years ago when he convinced a musical artist to share a co-credit with the halfway house that he once stayed in for a few months to dry out. Every time that song got played the halfway house got a royalty. Everyone does it now but Manzini has been living off that breakthrough ever since.

Mack is someone that Anin and I hung out with in college, and anyone who goes back far enough with him actually know him as Fletch, which was great until that Chevy Chase movie came out and it got to be too much. So now it’s FletchMack or just FM if you are really tight. Or F, if you are tightest. Not M. That’s reserved for Eminem. He has this kind of signature stance when he’s standing; with his thumbs anchored across his beltline and buckle, Western-style like you might imagine Sam Elliott doing in “The Big Lebowski.” He’s not posturing, it’s just his posture. Everyone is entitled to their “wide stance.” He’s also got a shaved head and full beard. He says as a stand-up comedian it helps to have a persona that always brings the audience’s focus to him on stage. I didn’t want to say anything, but it’s a … one man act. Where else is everyone going to look. And I thought it was the jokes that mattered. One other idiosyncrasy. Actually, it’s just an annoying habit. He occasionally blows saliva bubbles when he gets bored.

Few know him as Mack except those who know him the longest. He moved out here to try and make it as a comic. He was the funniest comic I’d seen since moving out here. He got into it on a lark by sending jokes to comedians and politicians and they both paid him and used some of the gags. So he’s been out here for good since 2000, trying to make it now primarily as a stand-up. I would share some of his routines but they just do not translate on paper. But when we are out together he does come up with some of the funniest riffs. Last week it was me and him and Anin discussing the states of our love lives and FM says: “You know, you guys are all forgetting about the sex continuum.”

We beseeched him. “Enlighten us please, oh great one, who has never had a girlfriend except the ones with a bad laugh. “

“At the top of the hierarchy you got your old fashioned good regular sex with someone that you actually want to be banging. Slowly you move to sex with someone that you know is just not going to last. Then bad sex with either someone you like or doesn’t like. Doesn’t matter because bad sex is bad sex. Then comes hard core porn, soft core porn, internet, DVD, magazines, going to strip clubs, and at the bottom of the barrel you got your escorts, hookers and watching lesbians have sex on the internet.”

So we’re at the famous Ivy in Mid-City. An L.A. deal-making cliché, I know, but I didn’t choose the place and anyway F said it was a good sign that Manzini was for real. I had actually run quickly to the men’s room and I was back before the guys had practically taken a breath.

“What’s up with that?” asked F.

“Let me take a shot at this,” said Anin, explaining the particulars. “Manny headed for the men’s room but as soon as he got to the door, he found it was locked and he did not want to wait for fear of having to make eye contact when the guy came out, and so he reversed course, and here we are 15 seconds later.”

I shrugged. “Am I the only guy who does not like know who was in there before me?”

“YES,” they said in unison.

“At least now I know it was not a case of you not washing after,” said F.

Manzini, arriving last, of course, was spared this discourse and in fact his arrival interrupted what would probably have been a prolonged debate on an indelicate subject, and with my luck, gotten me into one of F’s routines.

Just as Manzini is sidling over, a couple over at the next table was fighting – loudly – and at that moment the waitress waltzes over to pull their plates away and chooses the unfortunate restaurant-speak of “Are you two finished?” Meanwhile, as I scanned the rest of the tables I was reminded of that curious habit people have with these overly-amped phones. Ever notice that when one person gets a text everyone around that person all of a sudden checks their phone as if they cannot possibly be so decidedly less important than their friend at that very moment. I love that feverish look, hoping against hope that they did not get left out of the text-o-sphere. Maybe I just missed a vibration or beep is all! It’s as Pavlovian as the smokers who light up the instant one of their species does so first, no matter how randomly.

If I had been upright I would have been pacing about, but I was sitting so I was fumbling with the silverware. I am always put out when surrounded by someone new who works in a world different than my own and casually drops names and acronyms as if it’s obvious to everyone, and I have to do that stupid fake-knowing head nod. Or the raised eyebrows that imply more recognition than exists. Do they do it because they think it’s impressive or are really that clueless that the people around them couldn’t possibly know what they are talking about? I think my other favorite irritation is when they drop in the old “he’s a true icon in the field, don’t you think?” or something of that order. A true icon? Is that like a true schmuck? Are there fake icons?

When Dara could tell I was having a particularly neurotic episode like this she used to say to me “I often think how hard it must be to be you. Do you ever tire from it?” And she’d say it with one of those dismissive laughs that I think she thought was supposed to sound tongue-in-cheek and made me feel better but never did make me feel better. Nina could have pulled it off. Anin could have pulled it off. That’s when I start to go back and forth whether this world would be a better place if everyone saw it like I did versus wondering why no one else ever seems to see things the way I do. The people who don’t know me that well think of me as Ferris Bueller – carefree, laid-back. Deep down, I’m really Cameron and I don’t need to be reminded by Dara or anyone else.

That’s when I overheard the waiter at another table ask a customer for the order and the woman replied that she was just going to have some organic tea because she was doing a cleanse the whole week. Fine, but does everyone have to know?

Introductions were made. As we were settling in I leaned over and said to FM, “No bubbles, today, F, okay? Not today, please.” He nodded in concurrence. And then to ease my way in to achieve what I hoped would be some staged familiarity, I started off with what I thought was a pretty disarming hot start, following our introductions. I asked Manzini what’s the difference between Christine Lahti, Christine Baranski and Allison Janney. He says “I give up, I don’t know, what’s the difference?”

“I’m not making a joke. I honestly don’t know, I’m literally asking because I can never tell the difference. I always thought maybe it was the same actress who just took on different identities to make herself seem like a fresh talent.” That’s when Mack shot me a look to tell me that maybe that’s not how to curry favor with someone who might be able to make something happen for me.

That’s when Manzini says, “I remember these guys telling me about you now. You’re the guy with the lists. You’re not going to be doing any more of those lists are you?”

To make matters worse, we’re at one of those restaurants where the menus have tiny type as if it’s only for those willing to suffer by not being able to read what they are ordering. The lower the lighting the smaller the type, just for kicks. So the waiter comes over and I just point having no idea what I’ve just ordered since I can’t see it.

“First time here?” he sniffs.

“Is it that obvious?”

But screw this place. First of all, the menu said, “We seek to serve food that is as local, organic and sustainable as possible.” I’m thinking hey, either you are in or not. And then on top of that, there is the usual menu-speak in this town. They can’t just tell you peas come with the chicken. No, it’s pea tendrils. Mushrooms with your filet? Only if you will settle for trumpet mushrooms. And “lucques” olives, “meyer lemon” relish, “broccoli di ciccio” with some exotic tailfin thing that I can’t even recall at this point. Whatever happened to burger and fries and fish and chips? Manzini insisted on all the details of how his meal was going to prepared and the waiter finished his speech with some bullshit about how they do not permit colorants, aromas or other chemical additives. Fine, fine, fine, already. Then the kicker: “We buy ingredients, not products, so you can be sure every bite is as fresh as if it just came off the truck.”

Are we done yet?

But wait, that wasn’t even the worst part. Wait for it.

“Hey, Manny. Looks like you’re on the menu. You’re Fagut, right? They got fagotini on the specials today. Homemade fagotini, no less. We got Faguts everywhere.”

The so-called “dining experience” was turning into an “ordeal.”

This made me care for Manzini, not at all. Anin could see me pursing my lips and tightening my jaw, so he winked at me. Anyone else winking would have just made it worse, but I knew he meant it supportively.

In fact, he further helped by changing the subject. So as we were all getting caught up I found myself telling Manzini how I ended up in L.A., a little about Nina, and a few other details that I would have preferred not to have to volunteer. And then, worst of all, Ed Drater.

“Hold on boys,” Harry said. And as we were sitting in a circular table he easily placed his left hand on Anin’s arm, and one his other on mine. “Manny. Ed Drater? I’ve been meaning to ask. Is that for real?”

“Unfortunately. Yes. I really got fired over it.”

“Oh I don’t give a rat’s ass about that part. You’re no one out here if you haven’t been canned. Hell, you’re not even trusted, unless you’ve had to start over a few times. This Ed Drater. He really lived what you just said. Pretended to be a retard? Revealed himself 50 years later? Died in a bakery accident?”

“Yes Harry, all real. Why?

“Manny….that’s the dish, right there.” Dish is apparently L.A.-speak for bacon, as we say back home.

“’Scuse me?” I said.

Pulling the script out from under his salad with the dressing now stuck to it, Harry said, “’Running Time?’ Nice gimmick. I’ll give you that. In fact, I can get probably get you 50k for the rights no questions asked and then sub it out. Keep a couple kids busy for a few months and it’ll just sit there, maybe straight to DVD and we’ll recoup 100 times what I paid. Easy deal. Here’s the problem with it. People want to see movies where the actors on screen are using original words. See, that’s how it works. Except for your documentaries. This “Running Time,” it’s like your stealing someone else’s words.”

I was trying to find a way to make the obvious more obvious without losing what sounded like a nice payday for a newbie like me. “Ah, excuse me for saying this, but, um, aren’t all movies using someone else’s words in the first place? Y’know, like the words that the, ah, screenwriter….wrote. This is just stringing them together in a way that I think is pretty clever, even innovative. Telling a new story through a compilation of old stories. Get it?”

“Here’s what I’m getting. This Ed Drater…that’s a real story. Where’s your script for that?”

“Script? I don’t have a script. You know what happened. That’s how it went down.

That’s the script.”

“Is there anyone still around from that family to confirm any of this? Not that we can’t, you know, get a little creative around the margins.”

“Hey, I was a little too creative as it was. That’s how I got in trouble, so not real anxious for that again. Anyway, no. No one is around but I promise you, a few minutes on Google and you’ll have everything you need.”

“Guys, I have a great idea. Here’s what I’m thinking.”

Just then, at that very moment that I thought we were getting somewhere, of course his cell rang (to the ring tone of R. Kelly’s “I Believe I Can Fly”). He takes the call, which is fine enough, I get that phone calls precede real human interaction, but turns out Manzini has that weird habit of looking directly at you while he’s on a call, as if either a) you are somehow important to the conversation, a conversation that you have no idea who it’s with or what it’s about and b) you can somehow offer some sort of reaction. I see this all the time and I still can’t figure out – what do these people want from me when they do that!

When the call is over I expect he’ll give the traditional “sorry I had to take that” with just enough of one nugget of detail to make you think that you’re important enough for him to share the detail or to create a false sense of significance around the call so that you are understand why he had to interrupt. He did none of that.

“Gentlemen, where were we?”

In nine of 10 cases when that kind of thing happens, nine of 10 people look at each other blankly because no one has anyone recall because everyone assumes that someone else or everyone else will remember and so they shut it down and start thinking about getting to the cleaners before they close. But I am the guy that keeps notes wherever I go so I am the guy that knows to jot a clue down every time this happens.

“Harry, you were in the middle of saying, ‘Guys, I have a great idea.’”

And then without missing a beat, even though he couldn’t remember on his own where he was, he was able to pick up exactly where he left off.

“Guys, I have a great idea. This is just what I’m looking for. Know why? Because of the back-story. Manny I’m going to get you in front of more reporters than you have ever seen before and this flick’s going to be a sensation.”

“Um, you do remember I just told you five minutes ago I worked at a newspaper?”

FM and Anin both shot me looks again. Anin gave me the WTF shoulder shrug with the upturned palms.

“Ok, sorry. Sorry Harry. I admit I am still a little sensitive about the whole thing. And to be honest, I am actually not accustomed to being interviewed. I’m a writer, not a talker. And sometimes not even then.”

“Dude!” shrieked Anin, as if Harry could not hear him. But I knew he was trying to protect me from me by dissing the one thing I got an agent biting on.

“Harry,” said Anin, “Let me apologize for my friend. Manny often manages to be endearing and obnoxious at the same time.”

I could tell he was getting restless to leave. But before he was gone, Manzini threw in this. “By the way. Fa-gut.”

Thoughtful pause.

Is that how it’s pronounced? I’m sure it ain’t the other way I was thinking, right? Ha! Well we need to do some thing about that. We got people at the studio that do nothing but develop star names. Hell, we even got folks who specialize in alliteration. Matthew McConaughey? You think dude was born with that? Not possible. We did that. Don’t bother Googling. That one is on the way down low. Maybe we go with Manny Manheim. I don’t know. Think about it. You might want to have my people look at it and see what they can do for you.”

He said that like it was a medical condition.

I was thinking about that friend of Nina’s whose job was just to develop names for products. Is this what it’s come to? Am I becoming a product?

“Tell you what, Manny. I’m sitting on four Dodgers box seats right now. Giants game. I can’t go because my wife’s divorcing me again and I don’t want her to see me sitting front row. I’ll make sure you get the tickets. Go to the game. Think about it. And let’s talk some more.”

Then he did that simultaneous one hand on my arm, the other on Anin’s thing again, and turned to leave.

I’ll tell you, the real test of how many friends you have in town comes when you need to unload tickets and you think of all the people you can try. I think I have two in the second biggest city in the country. Manzini sits down with a bunch of strangers essentially and presto he’s got three guys he can slide tickets to.

I turned to the guys. Brief pause.

“So If someone offers you tickets to a game or concert and you accept them, there is no expectation that you owe them, right? I assume it depends. How well do you know them? Was anything implied or inferred? If he implied then I wouldn’t be asking and if I inferred it then I should be asking. My whole point is that neither he implied nor did I infer. Okay, was there an inference or an implication. I don’t know, what do you guys think?”

FM and Anin looked at me strangely.

I scanned them both. “What? I do something wrong?”

FM jumped in. “Dude! A major agent just basically invited you in to do a deal on your story and all you want to know about is whether or not you have to pay for some game tickets? Are you not comprehending what the fuck just went down!”

“Just saying: he said: ‘I’ll make sure you get the tickets.’ Was that implying that he’s giving them to me or was he offering them if I want to buy them? I’m really confused.”

The guys just stared at each other. Then said almost in unison under their breath, “Doofus.”

I hadn’t even gotten my info to Harry and somehow the tickets showed up at my place the next morning. Came inside an envelope embossed The Great Manzini. I’m thinking, what a dick. Inside the envelope was a little handwritten note that said “Enjoy. Here’s a little something extra for the Dodger Dogs.” A crisp 100 attached. “And the Ball Girls are expecting you at my suite upstairs after the game. Don’t get me in too much trouble.” Okay, a dick but a nice dick. And I guess my dick right now. How the hell do I ever even up with him on this? Probably not with Anthropologie.

Dodging the Dog

I’d been to a few games to Dodger Stadium with Nina and Anin. Always the cheap seats. It’s hundreds per seat anywhere on field level and lower balcony. Never sat anywhere like this.

And let me tell you there is almost no better respite from the world than a sun-soaked day at an open- air stadium. On top of that, I’m finally in it just for the existential experience. I do not lose sleep over this team winning or losing as I do with the teams of my origin. There is no replacing the visceral, borne-in emotion that comes with the DNA established from your hometown teams. People know not to even talk to me on the day of a loss of one of those teams. Following the Dodgers is all about enjoying the aesthetics and moving on.

As we walked through the turnstiles, me, Anin and FM (we couldn’t a fourth) my mind drifted towards what transpired over lunch because it didn’t even seem like it could be possible that an agent was interested in something I had put together, much less two ideas. The only two I had, and for that matter, only one that I had actually pulled together, “Running Time,” and the other, Ed Drater, well, you know the deal. That was just something that happened to me. I guess having something random like that happen is worth 50 grand to someone here. Doesn’t make up for getting hacked by the paper, but it’s something. Heck, it almost feels a little like unintended retribution. Not that I’m bitter. I’ll settle for redemption.

We walk into the light of the stadium and the grounds crew is attending to their final ministrations, as are the last couple of players warming up. Part of the lore of Dodger Stadium is that everyone arrives late and leaves early. Like the protocol for a high school party. I never was cool enough to get that right in high school, and I don’t care about being practically alone in the park in the early going. I like soaking up the rays and watching people come in. And getting my food without waiting in line. Ballgames make me hungry.

A stadium usher greets us as we enter the “Highfalutin Zone.” That’s not what it’s really called but it could be. The Highfalutin Zone is anywhere with a velvet rope or some other human or physical restriction that prevents you from going any further unless you can present gold plated credentials that you belong. In this case it’s my Field Box VIP ticket. And I have one.

He’s perfectly dressed in his usher’s attire. That’s what you need to do down there if you want the tip for welcoming someone, showing them to their seat, and dusting it off for proper and neat placement of their ass.

He nods at us, and checks the tickets to be sure we are in the right place. Clearly, we are not familiar to him. “Gentlemen, right this way,” he says with a little more of a smile now that he knows we belong.

He is not the senior citizen doing-this-to-kill-time sort and they are not going to place VIPs in the hands of recent college grads that call everyone “dude.” He carries himself like this is a job he needs. If this is his sole source of income, it can’t pay too many bills. As he wipes off the seats he lets us know to let him know if he can help get a vendor for us at any time. He is clean cut, no stubble or anything else sartorially sloppy. His voice was polite but direct. If you were trying to make a voice-over match you’d go with a younger Philip Baker Hall or Seymour Cassel.

I am sitting on the aisle, just as I do on airplanes. I always do so thinking I will be able to stretch my legs that way but be it an airplane, a ballgame, a concert, or whatever, when you are on the aisle you end up always getting bumped. But I also like the idea of easy in and easy out.

We are about to sit down when FM says in an excited voice, “Hey Fagut, are these incredible seats or what?” I looked around for a quick second, always steeled for the potential repercussions. Still. Always. A Fagut among friends is not the same for those not yet indoctrinated.

For the handful of people who are around, FM’s little call-out causes a bit of a stir. Even the usher stops in his place, frozen in his space long enough that it makes me feel bad that he would ever think that we might be the kind of jerks that come to the game, get hammered and call each other faggot.

“Yeah, man. These are great,” I said quietly. “Perfect. We’re styling. Look at us.” Which is true. Three guys who don’t have much scratch between them combined, sitting in the most prime seating of one of the most prime venues in all of southern California.

The usher regains his bearings, looks up at me, smiles awkwardly and puts his hand gently on my shoulder, helping me into my seat. “You let me know if you need anything,” he says directly to me, taps me a couple soft times on my shoulder, and waits for the next arrivals.

Now, I am a huge fan of sports movies. Most of them suck. But the great ones can never be watched too many times. And of course, the great ones are so designated because they are not really sports movies. They are about relationships, or business or dreams and fantasies but they are never about the sport. “Bull Durham?” You think that’s a baseball movie? A comedy? No. Try “Major League” for that. “Semi-Tough” and “The Longest Yard” about football? Not for a second. And then there’s the ultimate. “Field of Dreams.” About baseball? Not for one minute. Any scenes of game action are incidental. Which is why I am going to spare you any details of this game because there is nothing about the outcome of this game that matters, not even if Lincecum goes on to pitch a no-hitter. This game is about three guys living large for one bright, sunny day. Anything that comes next, is just a bonus.

And in fact, turns out the game is not a no-hitter or a gem of any kind. A rather prosaic late afternoon at the park, to be honest, as far as the game itself. So much so that the usher has come by a couple of times and kneels down by my chair to chat, because no one is really paying all that much attention. At first I don’t mind, given the festive nature of me and my buddies. Plus, I’m just assuming that’s part of the price you pay for personal service in this section. Some people live for that personal touch. I don’t really need it. I am perfectly fine on my own. Always been that way. Wish I had a polite way of telling him he doesn’t need to dog me. But I never how to handle that sort of situation. By now he has asked me my name and so I don’t want to be rude or impolite.

I promised I wouldn’t describe the game action and I won’t. But there was one moment late in the game, it’s a low scoring affair, and keep in mind these two teams have been bitter rivals for almost a hundred years in two states – when Lincecum came close to the chin with a fastball. This is, in baseball parlance, a “message pitch.” According to the baseball code, even if that is message is, shall we say, loosely accidental, it cannot go without a response, even though Lincecum will be pulled in the next inning, also the bottom of the 8^th, because of the score. So sure enough, when the pinch batter comes up in the next inning, the Dodgers throw one in the same general vicinity. Message delivered, message returned.

It’s not that uncommon. But every once in a while a low-grade harmless incident can turn into a full grade fracas. Or brouhaha. Or worse. In fact, none of us thought that much about it except to discuss that very subject of the arc that such an incident can take, starting with FM.

He leaned over to the two of us and said, “Guys”, would you say that little brush-back could lead to a brush-fire or you think those boys are done playing with fire?”

“Dodgers-Giants, neither of them with anything else to play for at this point, I’m thinking those guys are bored,” said Anin. “Just a harmless skirmish under those circumstances.”

“So you’re going with the skirmish, eh?” FM said. “How do we know when it’s past the point of skirmish?”

“Ruckus,” said Anin. “Or is it rumpus? What’s the difference between a rumpus and a ruckus?”

I joined in. “No idea, but I’m going with dust-up before either of those.”

“I’ll see your dust-up and raise you a fracas,” FM boasted.

“Fracas? That’s when the gloves are off. That’s the dust-up on steroids.”

“Steroids,” I said plaintively. Now there’s a perfect analogy for this game.

FM continued unmindful of that comment. “You can’t go from skirmish right to fracas. You got to scuffle first. And for that matter, the scuffle is followed by the kerfuffle. It’s like a continuum; the natural order of things, clear as day.”

“So is that where it ends?” I asked, “at the kerfuffle?”

“Guys,” said FM, “we forgot one of the most important of all.”

And we said in unison: “Fisticuffs.”

Anin, who was in the middle, turned his head both ways, to address us each. “Yeah but that ain’t the end of the line. Because at that point it can still be adjudicated by the men in blue at a confab on the mound. We ain’t got a story to tell until we are confronted with the five-alarm free-for-all. Then, we’re in business!”

We all nodded in agreement. A few more pitches go by. No incident appears on the horizon. Or fracas. Or any of the others.

It’s just really quiet now.

“So then what’s the opposite of a fracas?” asked Anin.

More thoughtful silence.

Then this from FM with great authority: “Masturbation. Has to be.”

“Jeezus! What?!” said, Anin. And I said, “That makes no sense, AT ALL. Personally, I was thinking the opposite of violence would be peaceful and communal.”

“Let me break it down for you. What’s the one thing fracas, ruckus, brouhaha, free-for-all each has in common? They involve lots of other people beating on each other. So the opposite would have to be beating on yourself.”

Not only did we break up laughing, but so did the others around us. I even saw the usher crack a smile. I guess that’s why FM’s the stand-up comic.

The game ended a minute later and we got up from our seats and headed for the exits, still chortling.

That’s when the usher leaned in and said to us all: “Hey fellas, you forgot the most important one. You forgot scuffle!” And he was right.

He shook our hands and just before I made my descent to the stairs I gave him a 20 spot for being attentive to us. He had a big smile. “It’s from all of us,” I said. What the heck, it cost us nothing to get in and Manzini even flipped for refreshments. Why not make a stranger’s day once in a while, right?

He then reaches back for my hand and says, “Hey Manny,” kind of tentatively, I guess to make sure that I wouldn’t be offended at the first name familiarity. “Manny, I, uh, I want you to have this. Hope to see you and your friends again. You’re a good group, not like the self-satisfied schmucks I usually get.”

He reached his right hand into his shirt’s left breast pocket and withdrew an envelope. I didn’t think much about it. I just nodded, tipped the enveloped at him, and then I didn’t even look inside until we got back to the car and the guys asked me about it. Which, in retrospect was an odd reaction to wait so long since a near-stranger handed me an envelope out of the blue.

I opened it up. A scrap of blue and white Dodgers note-paper paper-clipped to two tickets for the next home-stand in VIP seating. On the scrap of paper was his name and his email address. The same name and email that Uncle Chick jotted down at the end of his last note to me.

Pete Townsend, “I Am An Animal”

I was always here in the silence

But I was never under your eye

Gather up your love in some wiseness,

For every memory shall always survive

And you will see me.

I am an animal

My teeth are sharp and my mouth is full

And the passion is so strong

When I'm alone, loneliness will change me

I am a vegetable

I get my body badly pulled

I'm rooted to the spot

Nothing will rearrange me

I'm looking back and I can't see the past

Anymore so, hazy

I'm on a track and I'm traveling so fast

Oh for sure I'm crazy

I am a human being

I can't believe all the things I'm seeing

I've nowhere to hide anymore

I'm losing my way

I am an angel

I booked in here I came straight from hell

I don't know how to lie anymore

I'm boozing to pray

I'm looking back and I can't see the past

Anymore so, hazy

I'm on a track and I'm traveling so fast

Oh for sure I'm crazy

I was always here in the silence

But I was never under your eye

Gather up your love in some wiseness

for every memory shall always survive

And you will see me

I will be immersed

Queen of the fucking Universe

And I don't know what I have anymore

Anymore than you do

I am a nothing king

Been right around on a golden ring

I don't know where you are anymore

I've got no clue

I was always here in the silence

But I was never under your eye

Gather up your love in some wiseness

for every memory shall always survive

And you will see me

I am an animal

Normally I would hit a joint to take the edge off. Now I wanted to know how I was really feeling in real time. I wanted to feel everything. I needed to talk with someone. I reached out to Dara.

I shot her a text: “Hey we need to talk.”

“About fucking time, hot stuff” came right back. Some people are uninhibited and some are unfiltered. And there is a difference. I think the former are unaware of their words or actions and don’t care and the latter is aware but just doesn’t care. I think she may be both if that’s possible.

“It’s not what you think. We seriously need to talk.”

Relationships are usually not about equals, they are about power and who needs who more. That sounds cynical I know, but when everything is equal in a relationship? Kind of boring. Stultifying. And I got the feeling that where I needed Dara more when we were first together, the balance of power had shifted, and to be honest, I wasn’t interested in managing that imbalance even though I had the advantage. When there is calm I will cop to being an occasional instigator just to stir things up band bring some life into the relationships. And when there is constant conflict I will conveniently find ways to either shut down or make myself scarce. Right now I’m in a no man’s land between avoiding sameness and avoiding conflict, and that’s really dangerous because that’s when even the innocent incidents can lead to a, um….kerfuffle? brouhaha?

I’ll give you a for instance. This was not with Dara, but someone else I dated back east years ago. We’re in bed late one Sunday night just watching television casually when the “The L Word” comes on. Do you think I know a single plotline of that show, other than it’s about my second favorite kind of women after the heterosexual kind? Of course I don’t. All I know is, no episode goes by without plenty of action. So I’m just lying there innocently; she’s actually reading a book, not even paying attention to what I’m watching. By the time that episode is over I am like a European bullet train. I’m quite sure the neighbors in the next apartment heard everything that night. And not a few minutes after we are done, the chick says to me, her ardor and angst increasing with each successive rhetorical question: “Hey wait a minute. What brought that on? Was that because of that show? Is that what it takes to turn you on now? I’m not enough?”

I took the wrong tack and explained that I was doing her, not someone else, and thinking of her, not someone else, so why the need to go nuts? Nothing could repair the damage that night but the main takeaway is that we could only have had that nasty sex because she and I still had enough differences that it could power any number of emotions that made the relationship exciting.

Try living that relationship long-term, though, as Dara and I once attempted, and it can become a problem because if you can’t control the emotions then it’s just one firefight after another, and if you do find a balance then you are stuck with a person based on the exact opposite nature of what you were attracted do. And so it just dissolves into weekend errands and painting the walls. You find the winning combination out of those two and get back to me.

And that’s why I concluded that Dara and I could not get back together, despite the best of intentions where Harper is concerned, and that she was one the woman who really got me. Problem was, too often she got me by the balls. I told her she needed to drop off Harper with Anin for about an hour and come over. Needless to say, she was not prepared, and not pleased.

“Manny, I don’t think you’ve really thought this through. Everything has been great with us the last couple of weeks. And you know how much that little girl misses you, and EVERYONE can see how you are with her. Give it some more time. You better recognize and step to me before you close your mind on this.”

“Do you even know the meaning of the words you are saying? I am pretty sure that doesn’t even make sense.” I made a note to check on Anin with that. Recognize and step to me.

I am pretty sure she was being genuine about me and Harper and not just using it to manipulate my decision. But my mind was made up. Truth is, we were getting along and having fun because we were back to playing house without all of the complications that would inevitably return.

I was also experiencing some physical pain right then and she could tell. She offered me some stuff but I hate taking legal drugs. They are expensive and addictive. So I declined.

“Give it a rest, will you, and take something? Besides, when you don’t it makes you ornery for the rest of us, so while you are toughing it out and impressing yourself with your manliness, the rest of us like you even less than we normally do.”

That was all I needed to know I had made the right decision. For someone who could so often be in touch with human emotion, she was such a dick-wad sometimes. A relationship issue is about trust and I can’t trust her to give me everything I need – most of all, space. I’m still at the point where there are so few mysteries and surprises left in life that when I have the chance to be exhilarated I take it, if for no other reason than to exalt in defeating the inevitability of the daily grind. So I’m going to miss that chick when the sexual frenzy rears back but this is the right to call, but I would miss more the opportunity for a new ride at the state fair.

“So I guess you’re telling me you’ve made up your mind and there is no room for discussion.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Alright then, I guess if the plane has left the station I’ll be on my way.”

“Train. I think it’s train has left the station. Planes leave a hangar.”

“Fuck you, Manny.

We had come a long way, and then some. I will never forget our very fist meeting. I could barely get the words out. It was an outdoor pool party that I was hosting with a friend at our apartment complex. I had just stuffed my face with a variety of chips and salsa and was walking by her when, as she sat along the edge of the pool with her legs dangling into the water, she grabbed my ankle and said, “Where are you going so fast?”

I looked down and liked what I saw. A great tan. Big, easy smile. A tube top working its magic. And the most beautiful legs, moist from her playfully dipping them in and out of the pool. My mouth was still half-full of Cheetos (not the crunchy kind, but the soft, airy kind. The kind that you could blow the top layer out of your mouth like orange sawdust. If you really wanted to). My point being, I could barely get any words out.

“I’mmmmm Mmmmanny,” I mumbled through the garbage in my mouth.

“Oh, so this is your deal. You throw one hell of a party there Mmmmanny.”

Working desperately to clear the roof of my mouth of the remaining caked-on Cheetos, I said “Yeah, I pull out all the stops or I don’t pull out at all.”

And she then let out the heartiest laugh I’ve ever heard from a woman. And yet I’ve yet to meet anyone to match it. Before the end of that night was also the first time she called me “Honey” and “Babe” without also cursing at me at the same time. Back in those days you knew you had scored with a chick when you were out on a date and by the time the night’s over and you are letting her into the car she leans over from her end and unlocks your door. I assume today’s equivalent is that she tit-texts you before you are even home.

So much for those carefree days. As far as I was concerned, La Dara and I were over once and for all. I haven’t seen her since, though we are always in touch about Harper, who comes to visit at least once a year.

Most of what I told Dara was true. I’m tired, and right now I have some big things to figure out. I’m thinking I’m done for a while with dating. No more with Dara. No more with Maria. And no blind dates, listening to women with implants who complain about the dick size of their former husband. Besides, out here if you’re not careful someone will ask you out to run – as a date! I’m not running on a date. I’m eating. I don’t care if it’s before, during or after but I’m eating with a chick, not competing.

And besides even more, I like my life right now. I like driving the cab. I like my friends. I like the Online Fagut. A minimum of complications. Except for this gargantuan one, now. And that’s about all the complication I can handle.

Now a call to make.

I figured if Chick knew how to reach the old man then one other person I know probably did too.

I waited for SportsCenter, muted the TV and dialed.

“Hello, Mom, it’s Nat’s son calling.”

She didn’t even hesitate, except for a light sigh. It was like one of those old Westerns when the bad guys enters the bar for the showdown with the good guy and says “I knew it would come to this.”

Her version: “I was preparing myself for this call.”

“I guess we are about to find out how well you prepared,” I joked.

“So how’d you find him? I know Chick had been debating about giving you the information.”

“Well, he actually did. But he found me, I didn’t find him.” I recounted the story, she listened to every word without a sound or a judgment, except to say the obvious.

“Wow. What are the fucking odds?”

“Exactly.”

“Are you calling for an answer or an explanation?”

“An answer?”

“About what to do.”

“Yes, I guess. I don’t really care about explanations.”

“You know I can’t really tell you what to do, sweet.”

“But you can tell me what you would do if it were you.”

“Have you asked your friends already?”

“I haven’t told anyone yet. You’re the first. I’m pretty sure Anin would tell me blow him off. The others? They’d probably like a story out of it, if nothing else.”

“And how do YOU feel, deep down? You must be curious on some level.”

“I don’t know what he’d want from me at this point. Or why. I don’t have anything to offer him.”

“Well, Manny, like I said, I can’t and won’t tell you what to do. The only thing I can say is that I have known you to be a very forgiving soul. I don’t mean that you should see him again to forgive him. I just mean you have a soul unlike anyone else I’ve known. For all the craziness you’ve lived through, I’ve found you to be a person of great understanding. As far as I’m concerned you have always had closure because there was never really an opening to begin with, beyond a biological one. And I’m not saying that to be mean; it’s just part of who you are and what you became. I know you said you don’t want an explanation from me. I’m not the one to provide it anyway. So I think it comes down to: is it going to make you feel better or is it just going to create more confusion than you can handle.”

As I processed those words, the decision comes to me pretty easily. She was right about the most important part of all. I’ve never sought closure or an explanation because none was really wanting. He was never there so what was to miss. Now he’s there….somewhere, and I cannot undo that I know he exists. How did I end up in the one place that could bring us together? How do I resist a force like that? And could I do to him what he did to me? And let’s face it, Chick wasn’t including his information by accident. That was a message.

I went back to the ballpark with the tickets he gave me.

When he saw me show up alone he seemed to know instinctively that I’d filled in the blanks. Who goes to a game alone, right?

“Hey kid, never thought you’d show up again.”

I hated that he called me kid, even though he said it in the familiar, not paternal way.

“Had nothing better to do. Listen, let’s make a deal. Let me just watch the game. If I’m still here in the 9^th, then we’ll talk. Okay?”

“Okay. You need anything, you let me know.”

I didn’t want to get up to go to the john the whole game. In addition to my aversion to stadium toilet houses, I did not want him wondering based on every move I made whether I was staying or not.

Truth is, I never really knew the whole time whether I was staying for sure or not.

The game ended. People filed out. His colleagues shuffled out and a couple asked if he was joining them. I heard one of them call him Nat. I figured I’d only use that if I needed to. He motioned for them to go on without him.

He came over.

“Okay for me to sit now?”

“What, are you waiting for an usher to seat you?”

He laughed at that.

What in the world is an opening line for a guy like that in a situation like this. Where the heck does he think to begin. Maybe he’s thinking the same of me.

“Manny….I don’t know where to start. I didn’t expect to see you, I really didn’t. I don’t know if I’m supposed to apologize or just answer your questions or even ask why you did come.”

“Let’s not start with why I’m here. That’s already too complicated.”

We were both just staring out at the field. The quiet was reassuring, not awkward.

I started. “So how long have you been here?”

“I usually have to get in about 90 minutes before game time. There’s all sorts of…”

“No, I mean, in L.A.” And I realized it came off more as an abruption than a clarification than I meant it to sound.

“Right. Of course. Ah, shoot, I’ve probably been here 35 years at least, maybe a few more than that. Actually, not always in L.A., but mostly southern California. Moved to New Mexico for a while and then came back. I never could take it out east.”

I’m not even sure if he heard himself say that last part. He was clearly cautious, maybe even a little nervous.

“Buy you a beer? Employee discount.”

“No, I’m good. Help yourself if that’ll help.”

“I’m good too. Haven’t touched it a lick in the last eight years. Was a good move, if a little, ah hell, a lot overdue. Hey how about you, how long you been out here?”

“Not long, a year or so. Whatever you do, don’t ask about it. Nothing personal. Just not a story I want to go into again.”

“Fair enough.” He had started by sitting just outside my aisle chair on the step and once in a while he would stand up to stretch.

“So, your Uncle Chick, he told you about me, I’m guessing.”

“He actually never said much of anything. He gave me your information is all. You know about the fire, right?”

“I don’t know a thing about a thing.”

I proceeded to tell him.

“Ah, jeez, I’m sorry, kid. Sounds like you two were pretty close.”

“We were. It’s a little empty without him.”

“I guess by comparison you must think I am quite a putz, then. A lot of folks felt about your uncle the way you did. He just had that something, I guess. I don’t know. Charisma.”

He practically spit out that last word.

“Yessir, he certainly had quite the lifestyle. Running around playing music all the time. And when he wasn’t playing music and driving that car, hitting the links. Whatever. I guess you can do that when you don’t have anyone to take care of.”

And at that I popped. “Are you nuts? His kid DIED! You left so fast you weren’t even around long enough for my SIDS era.” I was shuffling in my seat and thinking I was ready to leave.

The old man wiped his face with one hand and motioned me to stay with the other even though I hadn’t actually made my move.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, I guess I forgot. Listen, it’s not like I’m invited to Thanksgiving every year. I’m not in the family clubhouse looking at old pictures and sharing memories. I don’t hear from anyone and no one hears from me.”

The empty seconds just dripped. Must have been close to a minute before another word was said. I started to get curious if he was married and had another family. I saw no ring and he certainly offered no pictures of anyone or clues. By now I wasn’t sure where this was supposed to go. I looked at him for a clue about something, anything. Did I see myself in him? In fact, funnily enough I noticed that he had some kind of hearing deficiency because there were a couple of times he asked me to repeat a question, and there was hardly any interfering noises. I guess he didn’t notice my lean-in, and I wasn’t going to bring up that part of my history. He acts like he’s not aware of his own disability because he almost seems annoyed at me when I have to repeat something, as if it’s my speaking disability, not his hearing disability, causing the problem.

His lack of hearing makes me think of a friend of mine who has lack of sight. I’m talking about my friend Felix, from back home, whom I’ve never told you about. There’s another rough name, unless you are Latino, but otherwise you put up with a lifetime of Felix the Cat ribbing. He’s a thoughtful guy and pretty protective of me but I give him hard time for overdoing it. Like, as you know, I happen to sometimes stumble on the obstacle course that is my life, and when I trip or bump into something, Felix is always the one to say “watch out there, buddy,” or “be careful, buddy.” But I always say to him with fake frustration, “I needed that BEFORE, not after. So that’s why I call him Mr. Moto – master of the obvious.

But it comes from a good place. He’s only got one working eye of his own. Felix was a professional baseball player, moving up the ranks in the Mets minor league system, when he got hit by a line drive during batting practice. Even if he’d not lost in the eye the damage would never have healed to the point that he could resume his career ascent. But as everyone who knows Felix knows, when he found out how devastated the batter was, Felix ended up consoling him throughout the recovery.

Felix is also the quietest of all my friends but when he says something, you find yourself reverting to it time and again. For instance, he has a way of sizing people up by saying, “There are two kinds of people in this world,” and then he gives an example pertaining to something or someone we’re watching. Some of them are funny and some are just really insightful. One of those that he has said is “There are two kinds of people in this world, those who remember every slight and those who remember every kindness.” I was thinking about that one as I was sizing up Nat, trying to get any kind of handle of where he’s coming from.

I have to admit I am more a “slighter” than the other option, the complete opposite of mom, so maybe I was looking for some clues if any of this guy’s tendencies were handed down to me naturally rather than experientially.

But I think I’ve made it clear that I never missed what I didn’t have. So it’s not that I had been fixating on the obvious question, but here we were, so I was ready to cut to the chase. I had this sinking feeling that no matter how much I might come to know about him that he wouldn’t really be knowable. But I forged ahead

“You want to just tell me straight out, what spooked you all those years ago? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t something I said.”

He laughed at that and I kind of hated myself a little for making light of it. At the same time, I’ve never been that fixated by it and even now I was more curious than actually interested.

He made a face that seemed to suggest both surprise and discomfort. Maybe he thought he was getting off easy and this was just going to be two baseball fans chewing the fat over their favorite baseball players.

“Kid, my answer might surprise you. You’d probably expect me to say ‘it’s complicated.’ It’s not. And I’m going to give you my explanation and I want you to know that’s what it is, an explanation, not a defense. Because I’ve got no apologies prepared and I’m not looking for absolution.”

I wasn’t sure what to brace myself for. The grounds crew was close to finishing up watering the infield one last time before covering it up. About the only other sounds were of vendor palettes being stacked and doors closing.

“I come from a big family. The eighth of eight. Lots of uncles, aunts and cousins, too. I couldn’t count for you all of us combined. Mine was not a happy household nor were the others. It was loud, it was crowded and let’s just say it was unpleasant. I don’t remember too much attention from my parents. There was just too many of us I guess; they weren’t abusive, just didn’t seem to have much interest in me. I saw the older ones marry and start their own families and it seemed like more of the same. I wasn’t particularly close to my siblings or cousins. Mathematically you’d think there would have been a couple I was close with but it just wasn’t the case. As a young adult I liked my life. A lot. Even though I hadn’t yet moved away I drifted from the family and kept my social life to myself. When I met your mother…”

And here he took a pause, and it wasn’t for emotional reasons. I think he was trying to find a way to say what he really wanted to say without it being offensive to my mom.

“Well, she was a knockout, definitely above my station. But we were just having fun. A lot of fun.”

He tapped me on the arm with his finger to emphasize that last part as if that was especially germane or I really needed to know.

“We traveled a bunch. She was a real free spirit and would follow me anywhere I suggested. The Caribbean, the Cape, Mexico, all over Canada. In fact, we had a hell of a trip south of here. Catalina, San Diego, Tijuana. Back then, you could have some real fun in Tijuana, let me tell you, not like it is today. We had no plans, mind you. I guess you could say we were serious, I don’t even remember if we were exclusive. Like I said now, I’m not defending what happened next. Your mother gets pregnant and I just flat out panicked. I gave it some time. Gave myself a shot. But every time I thought about a family I thought about my family. I didn’t have the means to support us either. Like your uncle, I played music. Not much of a living. Maybe Eleanor told you as much.”

He stopped there. I don’t know if he thought I had questions or he got caught up in a thought or what. I brought with me the photo of he and my mother from their Catalina trip; the one where he was wearing the Penguin pocket golf shirt. I don’t know if I did it for my own reference, to see how closely he resembled the guy in that shot, or if I thought I might throw him a curve ball by sharing it, if the circumstances were right. As of this moment, I knew the photo was staying where it was.

“So what else happened?”

“That’s it. I panicked. I couldn’t cope. I ran.”

“That’s it? That simple? You just buckled at the first sign of responsibility?”

“Listen, kid…”

“Okay, let’s stop with the kid. You want to call me Manny, call me Manny.”

“I didn’t tell you I had a story I was proud of. I didn’t even invite you to tell a story. I just thought…”

“Yes?”

“I guess I didn’t really think it through, to be honest. You hear the name Fagut in the most random way, and then you turn around and see a young man that might just could possibly be of a certain age, and after you get over calculating the odds, the imagination gets the best of you. Hey I’m sorry I offended you. I don’t know what you were expecting but when you showed up I figured why else but to connect on some level? Right? You can give me that much?”

He had a point.

“Maybe my expectations were out of whack. Although I was pretty sure I didn’t have any expectations. I guess I was just taken aback because it seemed like such a cold, removed answer but then again, that’s pretty much what it would take to leave a woman in the lurch like that wouldn’t it?”

“You’re entitled. I can take it.”

“I’m not even saying it to be hurtful. If I wanted to be hurtful I have a lot of words I can reach into my pocket for. I’m just calling it like it is. Maybe I was wrong to do this. Generally speaking, I don’t mind being wrong, that’s usually when I learn something. Maybe I’ll figure out down the road what that is exactly. But I appreciate your time. I’m not sure why you did it, but I appreciate it.”

I hung on his words mostly to discern if there was anything preternaturally familiar that I might catch. It’s hard to describe him in vivid detail, just a middle-aged guy with an old man’s neatly clipped white goatee dressed in a baseball usher’s uniform. I couldn’t even tell if he was a fan or this is just where he bounced to. He never really brought up anything about the Game. He had much of the same lifelines in his face that Chick did but none of the character. Is that harsh?

The guys and I, we always try to describe someone new to each other by comparing how they looked or acted to a particular baseball manager. Someone short and fiery might be compared to Billy Martin, Sparky Anderson, Davey Johnson or Earl Weaver. Or, Leo Durocher if you really wanted to go old school. Someone quiet and brainy was Chuck Tanner or Gene Mauch. Someone that was just a dork was Stump Merrill. Someone we just plain didn’t care for was Bobby Valentine or Buck Showalter. Then there were just the classic old time characters like Casey Stengel, and the contemporary old coots like Jim Leyland and Charlie Manuel. So if I had to think of a manager to describe Nat, I’d probably say I was hoping for a strong, steadfast, lively sort with a swagger, like Lou Piniella or Joe Maddon. But when I put his face and voice to what I was meeting for the first time, I’d probably end up going with something more vanilla like Bill Virdon from back in the day, or Bruce Bochy.

“Listen kid, I learned a lot from you today. That’s what I regret the most. Not the missed ballgames or the circus or helping with your homework. I don’t know that I could have pulled that grind that’s required. No, I regret that I didn’t get to know you and learn from you. Manny, you got every right to be mad and to judge. Just remember, it’s never as bad or as good as you think it is.”

That sounded like something Chick would have said. I would have preferred that it did come from him, because the old man was right but it was tough giving him credit for the insight. Besides, I’m sure Will Rogers or Mark Twain or someone said it a hundred years ago.

The lights were shutting down. I had a hard enough time getting out of a stadium and to my car with the lights on, so I told him I had to get going. Maybe he was hoping I’d extend the confab to a neutral location. But I’d gotten what I needed.

“Say, Manny. Listen, no strings, or whatever the expression should be, but seems like you’re a big fan, you and your pals know the game. I can get you seats anytime. I’ll make sure one of us takes care of you. Just let me know, okay?”

I gave him a nod and he extended his hand and reached it out to me. I took it and he had a strong grip and waited for me to release it. I couldn’t say for sure if I wanted to see him again. I had no intention of going back to him for tickets. I hated the idea of showing up there some afternoon or evening and running into him unannounced.

I had told Anin about the invitation to meet him but I never did tell him that I accepted. It was days before he brought it up while having breakfast at Canter’s Deli. I said he never showed, to which Anin replied “Figures. What else would you expect from someone who never showed in the first place?”

I don’t know why I went with that story except like it seemed like a good story at the time. Plus, maybe it gave me more impetus to make that the end of father-son day at the park.

“Hey Man, can you do me a solid tomorrow?”

“Sure, whatever you need.”

“Can you meet me at Nina’s at 10? I need to help her with something but I think this is gonna take the both of us.”

“Alright I’ll see you in the morning. Anything I should bring? We talking some heavy lifting?”

“Just be yourself. I mean, just bring yourself. Oh, but one thing, I meant 10 tomorrow night.”

In Fidelity

“The great thing about science is that science is true, whether you believe it or not.”
(Astrophysicist at the Museum of American National History, Neil deGrasse Tyson)

I showed up as planned not bothering to wonder why the strange hour for meeting, and Nina and Anin were hanging in the kitchen. The door to the back porch was open. They each had a drink, and some weed was also dangling.

“What’s up guys?”

“All is well, my friend,” said Anin, as we shoulder hugged.

I got a “Hey Manny” and a warm kiss on the cheek from Nina. Don’t get me started on how good she looked. It was times like these that I wondered how I ever blew it.

Which coincidentally enough was the secret purpose behind this confab.

“So what’s this all about, what can I do?”

“Let’s hit the back,” said Anin.

“Nina?” I called, “What’s going on? Anin said you needed help with something.”

She gave me a friendly shrug, and an unknowing, impish smile baring her bright whites, suggesting she really did not have any idea what was going on.

Anin grabbed a bottle of Bin 504 and a couple of glasses, and Nina brought out whatever sandwich she was working on.

“Manny, my friend,” Anin began with one hand on my shoulder, “Nina, my … ah, uh, friend,” he said with that sideways smile of his and placed his other paw on a shoulder of Nina’s, “We have come here today under the moon and stars…”

He offered me a hit from his joint. “I’m already there, brother, but thanks. Seriously, what’s going on, I got a busy day tomorrow.”

“A busy day! Listen to the brother will you? Whoever thought a year ago or so we’d hear those words coming from my man Man. A lot has changed in your life, am I right? Mostly good, of course. Mostly,” which was his polite nod to the hurt still felt by Chick’s loss.

Anin was leaning against the railing, his strapping frame idling with utter ease and making for a picturesque snapshot in the night’s light. I noticed the body language because he’d been in such a rut of his own of late, and this was the first sign to me that he was starting to come out of it. It’s always the ones that have been in the fewest holes that have trouble even recognizing what’s a hole at first, much less how to cope and overcome.

“So that got me thinking,” he continued. What’s the one piece missing from making this picture complete?” And he poured the Bin into our glasses, which we then tipped to each other and I swirled, let it sit and then began to drink.

“You two together, that’s what’s missing,” and with that I let rip a spit shot.

I looked at Nina. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

“Not only do I not have any idea what’s going on, I have a huge chunk of peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth and I can barely breathe.”

With a little raise of the eyebrow I said, “I can scrape that off for you if you’d like. I just washed my hands before I came over.”

Anin threw an arm out at us, “See! That’s what I’m talking about! That’s the repartee, the old magic, right there! You cannot deny it!”

I did kind of say it in that freewheeling, everything-is-a-joke-with-a-possible-sexual-subtext that Nina shared at our best. And she did cover her mouth when I said it so as not to expectorate peanut butter all over us. Her body heaved with laughter and it was the sexiest damned thing I’d seen in a long time.

Okay, total confession. I have rarely stopped thinking about Nina since our short-lived comet came to rest. I know what you are thinking. But here’s what I’ve been thinking even if I wasn’t sharing. I blew it and I knew it. I landed the girl of my dreams and I beat myself up for finding flaws and faults that were simply human, not debilitating. Maybe I just wasn’t ready. But I wasn’t so dumb that I didn’t know what I had blown. Nina’s not the kind of woman you romance back, I figured. And so I let it end badly, and though we repaired comfortably in the aftermath, and I went out of my way to stay out of their way as Anin and Nina took up, I could not stop beating myself up for how I handled things.

When, in the pursuit of chasing tail you are only catching your own, men will start to look at women like a bank. That is to say, you walk past one and you cease to care whether it’s stacked with 10’s, 100s, or 1000’s. You will just do whatever you can to get your hand on some. Normally that would be true of me, but not this time.

I guess Anin instinctively knew the same. Maybe that played some part in why they did not make it. I still had to assume that this concept, and this discussion, was of no interest to Nina.

“Dude, maybe let’s not do this. I’m sure Nina…”

“It’s cool. I’m game to talk about this. I don’t know why, but I am.”

She had me there for a second. And then she had to add the “I don’t know why” part?

I had nothing to lose. In fact, I was on one hell of a run, to be honest. I was not feeling cocky but I was not worried about losing my pride either.

“I have no business saying this out loud, and … Anin, I don’t know what in the hell possessed you to think this was a good idea … “

That just sat there for a moment.

“Go on,” said Nina. “The world is waiting.”

“Well, I have been on one hell of a run, to be honest. I’m not saying that to be cocky, it’s just that things have obviously turned around. And, uh …”

“Yes?”

“The only thing really missing at this point is the person I really want to be with when I want someone to be with. And I miss you, specifically, as that person. Truth is, I would go anywhere and do anything to stop time and start the clock over with you.”

She took a long sip of her drink. And she did so while looking at me the whole time. Is that what they mean by drinking someone in?

“Manny, this may shock you,”

And at that point I realized Anin was not even outside with us anymore. Fucking dude.

“All you had to do was ask.”

“Huh? After how it all went down? Why would you have ever given me another shot?”

“Well, not at the time. You were in no condition. But I’ve seen the change come over you. You’re more centered, more complete. It’s like you’ve finished off a circle of doubt of some kind. It’s funny though, in one way it’s like you’ve never changed. Like at the gym. The way you kept watching me, following me with your eyes, monitoring me. I wanted to just shake you and say ‘Introduce yourself, already, I don’t bite!’”

I curled my own smile. “At least you never saw me…”

“What, looking at me from behind from the mirror? Yeah I caught on to that maneuver, too. Holy hell Manny, you would have made the world’s worst private eye, that’s why I thought that PIPI thing was so laughable. I just didn’t know how to tell you by then!”

Then I could see her adjusting her “serious question” face. “Hey Man, tell me something and please be as honest as you’ve ever been. Did you ever really let go … I mean, like when I was with A?”

I thought about how to answer this in a way that would be not just true but potentially profound.

“I will admit that I tried to shut it down to protect myself. Losing you was more like a broken leg than a broken heart. It heals eventually but it’s always susceptible to be being broken again.”

“Manny, why is there not a greeting card like that? Really, you always manage to find just the right words … that NO ONE else would ever come up wit.”

She reached for my arm and by now we’d moved in close. Anin was right about the chemistry. It was undeniable, it was present even now, without any plans or expectations. Which got me thinking, is that all it is? A random moment of colliding emotion and attraction precisely because nothing intentional could get in the way?

“Now what?” I asked, or hoped. Or did she?

“Now what, what?”

And at that, a short kiss, and then a long one.

And from her porch to her couch where we stayed the rest of the night.

By the time we got to the couch there was already a note from Anin, that said simply: “You can thank me later,” with a big “u” underneath it, like a huge grin.

We dropped all of our verbal and emotional inhibitions. The rest of the inhibitions stayed in check, for the most part. For about two days.

And then, just like that, we were inseparable. In no time, we were moving in together. I know that seems abrupt but I always had a tough time releasing myself from her grip on me. Not only could I not go cold turkey, I could not even go cold turkey gradually.

All of what happened next is true. I’m not saying that all of the previous pages have been false, but I will concede that in the passage of time, from thought to paper, and with some REALLY hard-to-translate notes and scribbles, certain details may have taken on a life of their own.

For starters, what I thought was going to be a $50,000 advance for Ed Drater turned out to be $500,000. With options, in case it ever got turned into a film. Which it did. Which then allowed me to get “Running Time” financed. Both were credited without my permission as “A Complete Fagut Production.” The kicker is that my name went from being a liability to creating a buzz around town, at least in the movie business. It was not unusual to see in the trade press a producer quoted saying, “I’m in the Fagut business, we’re all in the Fagut business right now.” “Get me more Fagut,” made it into the gossip columns when it was overheard at The Ivy. And perhaps my favorite was the pull-out quote in Variety right around the premiere of Ed Drafter quoting the studio’s chief of development: “I’m a Fagut lover.” That one took on a life all its own.

With my take from the “Ed Drater” and “Running Time” screenplays I was able to start naming my price, so I did, generally I called them “multi millions.” With the income, I bought the gym where I had met Nina, renamed it The Alterior Motive and gave it to her.

While she is building her empire, I am already at work though my production company – “One Tough Hombre” – to review scripts. No more of that “Complete Fagut Productions” crap. FM is working on one right now that I hope to green light. It’s about a guy who finds that while he can’t maintain a relationship with women, he always falls for their pets. It’s called “Animal Instincts.” It’s a romantic-comedy. At this point.

Unbeknownst to him, I got Anin in on the action by securing a point on the film revenues and so with his take, he started his own production company named Picked Fro Productions to handle all my future projects. He also pulled a band together to keep him busy and get back to the music, Mamma Jamma.

There was just one last detail that needed to be cleaned up for closure.

Dara’s last visit.

Yes, dear reader, La Dara was not going easy. Despite what I thought was a very clear understanding about the end of our relationship, she surprised me with another visit. This time at my front door without Harper, and this time insisting that she could find a way to make it work. I always feel like if you have to “make” it work, then it’s not “going” to work.

We each made our closing statements. Mine:

“I just want what I want.”

“You can’t always have what you want, my friend. Don’t you know if you just discuss things nicely with me, I’m sure we can have a good conversation and find room to compromise. ‘I want what I want.’ How long can that attitude really last you?”

“Long enough that I don’t need to make compromises if I don’t want to.”

“My how you have changed. So assertive and definitive. Not like the guy that tugged on his pants leg when you first talked with me at the pool party when we met. And I’ll never forget that time you went to put your arm around me one night at my parent’s house and my dad gave you one look…he didn’t even say a word, and you slunk your arm right back off of my shoulder. But I get it. That much has changed, but you are still the guy who doesn’t like to reveal a single more detail than is asked. I still don’t even know what the “A” stands for in your middle name! Yeah, you want whatever it is you want, but you are only attracted to what you can’t have.”

And then she spit it out.

“Like, oh, I don’t know, Nina, maybe. Yeah that’s right, I know the whole history. Your boy Anin ... throw a few tall ones down that man and he’s not so impenetrable anymore. Excuse my French.”

By now I actually felt bad for her. Playing the Anin card was a total bonehead move. And her timing was just plain bad. And that’s about as civilized as it ever got. It devolved into the kind of mindless name-calling that is conclusive evidence that this plane has finally left the station, to use her phrase. She did not take it well, to say the least. Again. I would like to attribute it all to timing, and there was a measure of truth to that. I got the feeling from the moment she first reached out that she was searching for something and I just happened to fit the bill and maybe even be available. But that’s not the basis for a relationship and it was clear that the more time we spent together the less time I wanted to spend together. When we were together back in the day and were having a fight she would always turn her face away from me when she was angry. I might not have been much of a communicator but I thought it was kind of infantile to turn away. That’s the look I was getting now. She left not at all pleased, with a slammed door and a slew of profanities in her wake. She even went to great pains in this, our final argument, to lecture me on the quality of the toilet paper in my place. As if! No one, and I mean no one has a better roll than me. But even that was no match for her delicate needs. That pretty much, uh, wrapped things up. Almost.

Apparently bad things do come in threes. Not long after that enjoyable conversation, at a point at which I thought she’d actually gone back home, I had this most unusual final encounter. I’m in Ralphs, the one on Ventura Boulevard. I’m checking out of the line and both my hands are completely full with bags as I’m leaving the line. As I step forward, I make my left to go out the doors. I happened to be looking down at the moment and something within me told me to look up right away. I did, and standing there with both feet planted firmly was Dara. This happened to be an unusually cold day and so at first I did not make note of her hands tucked inside her coat pockets. That’s when a chill went down my spine and I don’t mean from the temperature. I could swear there was a bulge in at least one of the pockets and in that instant of instants I began to think, oh my god, this is how it all ends. She really is certifiably nuts and I am going to die on the floor of Ralphs with these bags of frozen taquitos, a case of soda, a couple weeks supply of toilet paper and a bunch of bananas that I think are now going to ripen before I do. I looked around me and so no other exit. I saw no security guard and nobody in the store, period, paying any attention to this encounter. Just a row of products like flowers, charcoal briquettes and those foam ice chests. And gumball machines. Huge gumballs. Helpless, I thought, in these, my final breaths.

So I looked straight at her, not knowing what expression to muster. She had the most unpleasant kind of Sunday morning face on.

I barely got her name out.

“Hhi, D-D-Dara.”

“Manny,” she said plaintively. And then, “Having another aneurysm are we? Can’t even get the words out, can you?”

“Um, what exactly are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“A girl’s got needs too. Didn’t realize I needed your permission to come here. Oh fuck it. I called around a few folks. Yeah, I make a pretty good detective when I want to and so I … And by the way, just what the FUCK is that on your back?”

She reached for my shoulders and turned me around half way.

“Is that a….YOGA MAT? Manny, what the fuck has happened to you? Yoga? You? No fucking way!”

Hey, a man can change a little bit once in a while. Nina asked me nicely and so I’m giving it a try.

Dara started in again on the yoga and then said, “Manny, fuck the yoga for a minute. I didn’t like how we left things. I extended my stay just in case either one of us felt differently, and when I didn’t hear from you, obviously I knew, this was it. I just wanted one final chance to say goodbye on a little better terms than last time. Although I kind of can’t believe I let you stick your dick in me again so fast after I got here the first time. That was probably a bad idea in the long run. Remember how you always said you’d rather be shot than stabbed? Just for the sensation?”

And for a moment, my nerves (not my nerve) crept back.

“I used to think to myself, so if I ever had the chance, or the choice to make, would I actually shoot you, or would it bring you even greater pain to stab you, because a) my guess is that really hurts a whole lot more to get stabbed, plus, you wouldn’t get your wish to feel what it’s like to be shot.”

I shrugged uneasily, partly given that the bags were really getting heavy. Had those pockets of hers been loaded, I was now thinking that perhaps dropping those bags might have been the first smart move on my part if I really wanted to have any chance to move. Note to self for next time. I let them down easy. She came over to me and we hugged. No damage done.

Women don’t really shuffle their feet during moments like this, the way we do. But it was that kind of feeling where she was searching for what she knew would be her final words.

“Manny,” she was speaking directly into my shoulder. Remember our first time together back in Hartford. And before we went too, too far I said to you how much I’d been hurt before and I really didn’t want to risk it again. You looked me in the eyes and remember what you said?”

“Yes, of course. I said, ‘why would I hurt you?’”

“Right,” plainly happy that I remembered. “And you said those words with more meaning that anyone had talked to me before. So I believed you. Well, you hurt me when you left and you’re hurting me now.”

“This is not easy for me either, but, I hope you understand me when I say I’m not being hurtful I’m being honest. There’s a difference.” I knew I could have her but it’s not what I wanted.

As the hug continued, she finally let out with a heave and a sigh, “I don’t know what else to say, except, I guess, good luck with your cab route. Try not to get lost too much.”

“Cabbies don’t have routes, bus drivers do…”

“Manny!” she said, not at all pleased with my adherence to technicalities at this particular moment.

“Okay, okay. Sorry. I’ll be careful. I’ll do my best.”

To myself I was saying, “Please don’t cry, please don’t cry, please don’t cry” in the same hopeful tone that when I am watching a Penelope Cruz movie I am thinking “please be naked, please be naked, please be naked.”

The way she was slumped reminded me that Dara and Anin had something in common. I tend to walk the streets looking down for any obstacles or just to avoid eye contact. Or when I enter a roomful of people I do so unobtrusively. I just look for a target, like the chips bowl, and head straight for it. Dara and Anin, they look straight ahead and when they come into a room there’s almost a three step move of leg thrust in, scan the environment, and wait long enough for them to be surveyed and assessed. Only then does the commanding entrance come to its fruition. That Dara was nowhere near this Dara, devoid of her usual pluck and confidence.

I think that is probably the only break-up in history that had its coda at the end of the line of gumball machines at Ralphs.

Nina and I finally finished moving all her stuff in and started sorting out the detritus. I had misplaced my new IPhone during the schlep.

That’s when Nina found it. And flashing on it was a text from Dara.

“I’m sure you’ll want to see this right away, Manny,” Nina said, handing it over to me with a big smile and practically licking her lips over what La Dara could possibly be trying for now.

Back in the day, nothing would scare me more than being caught betwixt and between two women. There is no such thing as a safe text or email I have found. For anyone. Maria Black comes to mind. This time, I was comfortable with who I was and where I was.

“Go ahead and read it, I don’t care.”

“Really?”

“What’s mine is mine and what’s mine is yours.”

“Reaaally?” she said, this time, drawing it out knowing that nothing could be further from the truth. A man can only change so much.

“That woman is so too, too.”

“Too much what?” I said.

“Not too much, ‘too too.’ It’s an all-encompassing expression.”

“Like too too as in all that?”

“Yes, but no.”

“Nina, it’s really hard enough as it was when we share the same language. You either need to translate directly or…”

“Oh I’m just playing, Man.”

Dara, however, as always, was brief and to the point.

“Dear Manny: Next time, maybe you want to leave the good toilet paper for your guests. You never know who might drop by. Love or something always. Dara.”

I’ve come a long way since I started writing down this story in that airport Starbucks. Who knows, but maybe it took getting closure to create my opening. Is this a masterpiece in storytelling? Certainly not? Did I meander in and out of tenses, characters and narrative development? I’m sure I did. Did I reveal too much information in places and not enough information in others. Am I repeating one of the most reviled habits that I mentioned early on about the chick that asked and then answered her own questions? Shit. Yes. In fact, I’m sure there is a long list of grievances that will make an editor’s red-ink stained hand hurt and make their head spin.

What can I possibly say except, “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to apologize.”

- FINIS -

“Beautiful are the things we see. More beautiful, those we understand. And the most beautiful are those we do not comprehend.”

(Niels Steensen)

Bruce Cockburn – Wondering Where the Lions Are

Sun's up, uh huh, looks okay

The world survives into another day

And I'm thinking about eternity

Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me

I had another dream about lions at the door

They weren't half as frightening as they were before

But I'm thinking about eternity

Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me

Walls windows trees, waves coming through

You be in me and I'll be in you

Together in eternity

Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me

Up among the firs where it smells so sweet

Or down in the valley where the river used to be

I got my mind on eternity

Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me

And I'm wondering where the lions are...

I'm wondering where the lions are...

Huge orange flying boat rises off a lake

Thousand-year-old petroglyphs doing a double take

Pointing a finger at eternity

I'm sitting in the middle of this ecstasy

Young men marching, helmets shining in the sun,

Polished as precise like the brain behind the gun

(Should be!) they got me thinking about eternity

Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me

And I'm wondering where the lions are...

I'm wondering where the lions are...

Freighters on the nod on the surface of the bay

One of these days we're going to sail away,

going to sail into eternity

some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me

And I'm wondering where the lions are...

I'm wondering where the lions are...

# # #
PUBLISHER’S NOTE:

True to Harry Manzini’s word, with the success of “Ed Drater,” he was able to get Manny in front of more reporters than he’d ever worked with during his years in Hartford. He did a lot of radio and some TV and of course online chats, but his favorite was the Rolling Stone interview, not for what he said, but because he’d always enjoyed those interviews the most, as a reader (well, those and Playboy but the latter did not meet his interview demands – don’t ask – so it never materialized.)

And true to Manny’s character, nothing ever seems to come very easy for him. For the RS interview, he essentially plagiarized himself by preparing for the interview with quotes that he had been chronicling over the last 20 years and referencing in his Hartford columns. One of the magazine’s editorial screeners detected statements that were practically verbatim from previous interview subjects, and the magazine pulled the issue. Nevertheless, what you see here is pure Fagut – alternating between sober, somber, soulful, ornery and once in a while even thoughtful.

This book’s editors, together with the editors of that publication (and with the help of a few of our intellectual property lawyers) now present you with an unedited, unfiltered transcript of Manny’s interview.

Transcript of The Rolling Stone Interview with Manny Fagut

The interview begins after much haggling has ensued over where to conduct the interview. Fagut began by insisting on the Playboy Mansion, as he had never been. Since Playboy and RS are owned by two separate publishing groups we tried to make arrangements to accommodate each company’s branding rights but negotiations fell through. Discussions next focused on Dodgers Stadium. Fagut demanded it during batting practice, but Manny wanted to do so in the stands under bright sunlight; the interviewer preferred in the shade of an overhang or in the press box. It got so contentious that eventually they agreed that the interview would be conducted in writing. The questions were submitted and answered over a period of about six weeks.

RS: Let’s begin, shall we. It’s good to finally “meet,” though not literally, I guess, eh? You are quite the media darling these days; something of a phenomena, with the movies, the production company, The Online Fagut…by the way, am I pronouncing that correctly?

MF: Are you going to be spelling that phenomenon or phenomena, because it sounded like you said phenomenon but it’s really phenomena.

RS: Which do you prefer?

MF: Oh I really don’t care; just up to you how accurate you want to be. But enough of that, let’s do this thing.

RS: Before I get into some of your back-story, how are you coping with your new life – it must be a fantastical turnaround.

MF: When I arrived here I was toast and now I’m toast of the town. I have no idea how I ended up either and I’m not gonna over-analyze this. I also have no idea how one word like “toast” can be both one thing and it’s exact opposite but I’m not going to analyze that.

RS: Safe to say you are happy with how things have turned around.

MF: This isn’t how I saw any part of my life unfolding, mind you. And as I think you know, Ed Drater was not even the movie I was intending to write or trying to sell. I still think Running Time is a better reflection of my point of view.

RS: Tell me about it.

MF: Exactly.

RS: No, I mean, tell me more; how do you mean that about Running Time?

MF: Drater is such an isolated moment in time. I guess it’s got something affecting about it but there are a zillion of those nuggets out there. I mean, go back to where it started – as an obituary. Read any obits lately? There’s an Ed Drater every day in those papers. Running Time is about the one thing that matters – the one thing that makes this life go round.

RS: Most of the reviews were lukewarm. Do you think people just did not know what to make of it?

MF: Critics or people? You know what Creem magazine said about “The Wild, The Innocent and The E Street Shuffle?” They said: “It’s either a flawed work of genius or a work of flawed genius.” I’m not saying I’m in Springsteen’s league, I’m just saying that opinions count only as much as you think they count.

RS: So you don’t care what people think of you or your work?

MF: Whoever I am, or think I am, whoever you think I am, maybe I’m not that guy.

RS: And talk to me about your process.

MF: If I can read my notes and scribbles and find the scraps of paper, I have a process. If I can’t, I don’t. That’s pretty much it. I don’t have a process. Stuff comes to me, I try to remember it long enough to jot it down and then I hope to find it again when I need it. Hell, most of the time shit comes to me when I’m doing anything but TRYING to write. I’m usually shitting, or driving or fucking….or sleeping, and I have to stop everything and find a way to get it memorialized before it goes away. My friends take particular glee I think in watching me run around searching for a pen or paper. Sometimes I’ve had to borrow someone’s phone and send myself a text or email. Fucking process.

RS: You seem also to be in demand for your take on current events, politics, and so on.

MF: I try to adhere to my basic principle, which is ‘Whatever it is, I’m against it.”

RS: That seems awfully cynical.

MF: [Ed. Note: Mr. Fagut asked that we insert the words “brief pause” here even though this was submitted in writing. Elsewhere he also asked us to insert other modifiers]. I’m a cynical optimist. I’m just a guy trying to divine my own path and my place in the world. I don’t have time for that other bullshit. The only thing I am always nervous about is living up to what my own potential might be.

RS: And have you reached it? Are you reaching it?

MF: All I know is I can’t die yet, I haven’t figured anything out yet. People think I don’t feel things. But I feel everything. But I’m starting to think no one knows what to thin. Maybe I just need to embrace not knowing and then I’d have a chance. It’s alright not to know. I like to be wrong sometimes; I like to find something new and that’s how you do it.

RS: The fact that we are even sitting here together, so to speak, is quite a surprise. You’ve taken the arts world by surprise. Are you feeling confident to take further risks at this point, or are you feeling too comfortable?

MF: It’s not really a risk if you’re feeling confident, is it? If a guy hasn’t got any gamble in him – real gamble – it ain’t worth a crap. Do I strike you as a guy with a plan? I’ve never really made a plan or followed a plan. I’ve never known what I was doing as far as that goes. My whole life has been just spontaneous escape from one thing or another.

RS: Pretty competitive fellow, aren’t you?

MF: Even when I’m happy with the outcome I’m unhappy. That answer your question?

RS: What’s most important to you then?

MF: The company of women. And my friends. Not that those two are necessarily separate. Mind you, when it comes to guys, most guys I know are assholes. I have some great asshole friends, even, but that’s not the point. Hey this is L.A., right? Friendship has got nothing to do with that. It’s can you hang, can you talk about this without feeling any distance between you? Friendship is a diminishing of distance between people. That’s what friendship is, and to me it’s one of the most important things in the world. I’ll trust you until you prove you’re not trustworthy. People lie a great deal of the time; it’s really rare for them to say what they really mean. They project and communicate very indirectly what they’re actually feeling. Me and my guys, though, we believe in a code. Kind of like the Mafia. And so not everyone may agree with that code, but it is special to us and gives us a framework. It’s like Al Cowlings is the ideal best buddy. O.J. calls him and says ‘Dude, they’re framing my ass. Start the car. Get me 20 grand and a passport and let’s hit the road.’ It’s easy to be a friend when the pressure’s not on. I embrace the man who can get in a car and drive his buddy in the blindness of all reality and truth. I’d like to think I’m that friend.

RS: Tell me more about that.

MF: The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what we share with someone else when we’re uncool. If you have the ability to convince somebody of something that you don’t necessarily this is the case, it’s a valuable asset, isn’t it? Not that I’m, per se, a pathological liar, but we spend most of the day not being fully honest, you know? Well, if you can’t be completely honest with a certain subset [trails off]…

RS: These guys mean a lot to you.

MF: Only a guy can turn the Spanish Inquisition into a sexual innuendo. No one does that better than we do. Disloyalty is as low as you can go in my book; a friend is somebody who says the same things to your face that they would say if you're not in the room. That applies to women too, but, with women it’s also about grab as many as you can. How else you gonna know? Vices? So long as no one gets hurt in the process. But never, ever cross a buddy. Women, on the other hand, are kind of like horses. They want to be admired and appreciated more than they want to be understood. They are magnificent, mysterious animals. And they’re also dangerous – you got to really pay attention, especially when you’re walking behind them.

RS: And how would those closest to you characterize you?

MF: Mmmm. I think they’d say that Manny believes in loyalty above all, and if he’s loyal to you, there is almost nothing you can do to lose that love. That may strike some people as blind or even destructive, but it is also beautiful, in my world.

RS: So what you are saying…

MF: I’m in it for the buzz. When you get to the bottom of the human soul. And you are sinking, and somebody else is sinking worse than you and you reach down there to help them, that’s when everybody gets high.

RS: And are you seeing anyone in particular these days. At the premieres you are sometimes photographed alone and then again with a veritable gaggle of attractive companions.

MF: Did your editor really allow that – veritable gaggle of attractive companions! Is this 1965? So what I’m telling you is that the three greatest words in the English language are not “I love you,” but “leave me alone.” At this point in my life I should be able to do what I want, when I want, with whom I want.

RS: Love is such a big theme in your work though. At least the search for it.

MF: There is a difference between sex and love. You’re not always sure you are in love but when you’re having sex, there’s no really mistaking it. Sometimes I am interested in that which is known, and sometimes it’s the inexorable search for the ineffable. Marriage is the unsuccessful attempt to make something lasting out of an incident. I think I’ll take what I’ve got. There have been many times where I wouldn’t want to be with anybody who would want to be with me. There’s something about love and romance that if you don’t have to have someone, you become more desirable.

RS: Does that apply to relationships as a whole or just sex?

MF: [leaning forward]. Love is an agreement between two people to overestimate each other. Sex is the most compressed set of circumstances that we’ve got. Everything is in that collision. [Leaning back.]. Sex is always trouble. That’s part of why it’s pleasurable – because for a moment that cloud lifts and then descends again.

RS: You’ve had a checkered past with women.

MF: You say that like it’s a bad thing. I often find myself interested in what I’m looking at. I’ve been pretty successful at cocooning myself. You can only imagine the nature of my demons. Sex without love is an empty experience but as empty experiences go, it’s one of the best. Let’s face it. Men obsess about the physical. Women do the opposite. Women obsess on the metaphysical. Women create a phantom image of a man – their ideal man – and they’re in love throughout their lives with a man who does not exist. Therefore they are comparing every man they meet to their phantom image and no man can possibly measure up to that. And since men are obsessing on the physical and women are obsessing on the metaphysical, the possibilities of two people who are less than idea – and that’s all of us – having a transcendent, unconditional relationship are not good.

RS: But you are still making a go of it with Nina.

MF: She doesn’t cook and I don’t like to be touched all the time or have to explain myself much, so there are certainly challenges. My love and pain are one and the same. I’m sure she would say I am a walking contradiction. Propelled through life less by reason than by impulse. Tough exterior but easily wounded, solitary but available when needed. Laid back and wound tighter than most. Despite all those differences, in the past if forced to live with someone I would usually leave the house a lot. I look forward to seeing her at the end of the day and the start of the weekend.

RS: Think you two will ever marry?

MF: I don't really subscribe to a completely normal view of what relationships should be. I have a bit more of a bohemian view. To be honest, I don't really think much of marriage. I'm not saying it's not a wonderful thing and people shouldn't do it, but it's not for me.

RS: So it’s complicated.

MF: My uncle spent some time at the track. He told me that horses and women are alike in that they want to be admired and appreciated more than they want to be understood. They are magnificent, mysterious animals. And they're also dangerous; you have to take great care. I like to help women out but I don’t like to be helped more than I’ve helped someone because I want the balance to be tipped in my favor. If I can get someone out of a jam it’s a good day. Sinatra used to wish once in a while that there was someone he could have killed on behalf of a friend. Is that complicated? I don’t know. Compare that to platonic friendships or with your buddies. Friendship is a diminishing of distance between people. That's what friendship is, and to me it's one of the most important things in the world. I’ve had lots of periods where I don’t trust anybody. Then I'll trust you until you prove you're not trustworthy. And maybe that's the major difference between me and most folks, even guys I’m closest to like Anin, probably would say they have a totally different world view.

RS: So would you say you two are more alike or more different?

MF: I look at other people - Anin's a perfect example - and I think, dude’s a precision instrument. And I mean that as a compliment. But myself, I'm not a precision instrument. I go out there and I try stuff and I move and I do things and when I hit a rich vein I jump into it and really go for it. And I let people in on my vulnerability. People know when something isn't going well, or if there's an awkward moment, or if I’m elated they know that too. There’s no fooling them.

RS: You think more about those kinds of things or more about love and sex, life and death?

MF: You mean those are all different? [breaks himself up.]. I know that it’s a foregone conclusion that I’m going to end up in a very cold, dark place. That’s not negative or bleak. I have not been to a religious institution except for someone else’s marriage or funeral but I’m as prepared as anyone for the afterwords.

RS: But it is fatalistic.

MF: Well of course it is, because that’s the truth. So don’t put in any editorial notes about me personally being dark. It’s just the reality. There is no escape. There is no place to go. Our life is on earth. People are afraid to say as much so they – with the help of organized religion – create these fantastical solutions to end of life and beyond. Well I say you make your heaven and hell right here and you are what you leave behind.

RS: So you never look behind? Hartford, for instance.

MF: Running from something and running to something are the same thing.

RS: I’m not even sure I understand that, but let’s pretend that I do. And if I do, doesn’t that outlook make it tough to see past each day?

MF: What I honestly think about is the planet, not my specific spiritual soul floating around. Something else will always evolve. Besides, what do I need to see past? Life is not about hard you can hit, it’s about can you take a punch and move on. I’ve taken a lot of punches and had nothing working and had the guts to go on. That’s not fucking pessimistic is it? Nobody’s going to know what I think after I’m gone. It’s over with. So if I put my thoughts in the computer, somebody will take care of it, for better or worse.

RS: So have you never been a part of any organized faith or religion?

MF: Religion implies rules and regulations. Spirituality doesn’t.

RS: But clearly, you were born a…

MF: [Turns off tape recorder. Editor’s note: Since this interview was conducted not live but via email there was obviously no tape recorder to be turned off. And we don’t even use “tape” recorders. But Fagut’s lawyer – and we are still not convinced that he actually has one – did not permit us to print the end of that question and mandated the tape recorder disclaimer]. I don’t adhere to rabbis, preachers, evangelists and all that. I’ve learned more from songs and conversations than I’ve ever learned from a so-called higher being or religious entity. Religion is like a club. You have to join it to really be a member. I’m not a joiner. Hell, I think we’ve got this whole thing backward. I don’t think a god created us in his image. I think we created a god in our image.

RS: So in the absence of formal theology to preside over any religious ceremony at your death, how then would you like to be remembered when the time comes?

MF: [Scratches head. Looks away.]. I don’t need anyone to say much. I would hope they would see me as someone who praised their virtues in public, admonished them in private, cheered for them and believed in them when nobody else would, fiercely defending them. That’s a short damned list that I can do that for, but that’s all the community I want. There is a cosmic Swiss watch ticking if you will. There’s a celestial clock ticking with gears and wheels and we as individuals spiraling through that life and when it’s time….literally!...it’s time. One way to do it is like Cary Grant. Have a successful career then decide to cash out, leave with a beautiful younger broad, never look back. Then at 80 have a painless heart attack in bed and cash out for good. That’s perfect.

RS: I have found from interviewing many people that death is what they fear most. Clearly, not so for you. What do you fear?

MF: Running out of stamps. I know most people are paying bills online but I still can’t get there. The idea of having to run to the post office in a state of panic induces panic. Anin always says that you don’t accidentally become an asshole – it takes a bit of work. So I guess that’s a fear too, that anyone will think of me an asshole. I think stubbornness sometimes gets mistaken for being an asshole. And I am stubborn. I’m like that old relative that refuses to wear a hearing aid. And I don’t mean for vanity reasons.

RS: I once saw where you said you see yourself surrounded by conflict and you concluded that it was because you seek conflict to alleviate boredom. Is that really possible? It’s really quite unfair to those around you, isn’t it?

MF: I am most comfortable in conversations letting the other person determine the style and manner and then adapting. I don’t need to lead. I don’t need to pick a fight. But if there is a fight to be had I will let you choose the weapon and then I will counter. In a way I admire those athletes, like closers in baseball who are able to instantly forget any failure. I am the opposite. I dissect every failure until I have almost forgotten what went wrong. And I think that serves me well in conflict.

RS: This explains so much.

MF: When I’m kidding I’m serious and when I’m serious, I’m kidding. I am not who I am and I am who I am not.

RS: That explains so little.

MF: [yawns] Now you know what it’s like to be me. I feel aggravated I’m missing what other people are getting. John Lennon said ‘Everything is true and not true about everything. Both things are both true.’ Fucking genius [claps hands once].

RS: Still seeing Dr. Spanksky at all?

MF: I realized I could speak to him every day for two hours for the rest of my life and I’ll be exactly the same. All you’re doing is exacerbating everything by exploring yourself so deeply. It’s too much. You can learn too much about yourself. I think there’s a limit. Ultimately, what do we want? We want to be at peace. And I’m not saying I’m at peace, but sure have a lot of moments of peacefulness. There is obviously a certain amount of psychology that comes with the kind of person you are. Are you an activist or an observer? That was always my nature, to stand back and observe, see how things interrelate. Maybe part of that is not being a joiner. Everything about me is a contradiction and so is everything about everybody else. We live between two poles. There’s a philistine and an aesthete in all of us; a murderer and a saint. You don’t reconcile the poles, you just recognize them.

RS: So you consider yourself evolving, as opposed to evolved?”

MF: I definitely want to connect, but I don't want to connect fully. I want interaction but at a safe distance. I can only get so messy with people. It’s no one’s fault. There is an anger inside of me. Once in a while, I can douse it with some water, but it just never goes away. I don't know how to get rid of that. I had something to prove to the world, to everyone who ever fired me, to every woman that never fucked me, to everyone who ever kicked me to the curb in whatever way. I'm not saying I'm fully evolved now. I'm not Buddha...I get competitive. But that's no way to live. I'm tired of walking around angry. It's a burden. And that's why I'm trying to find balance.

RS: Music is such an important part of your narrative. Clearly between your father and your uncle, though not related by blood, it seems as if you were book-ended by a musical life in some way. Even your daughter’s name….Harp.

MF: I was expecting you to ask at some time what superpower I would like to have because every cheap journalist goes there in interviews these days. But since you haven’t asked I’ll give the answer I had prepared for that here instead. I want the magical power to have a movie soundtrack playing throughout my life. Wouldn’t it be great if the perfect song could always come on at the perfect moment?

RS: Regrets?

MF: Are you kidding? I live off regrets. I don’t understand people who say they don’t have any regrets. I am capable of taking a light load and making it a major burden. Sometimes I wish I could take all the good moments of my life and spread them out like one every other year to balance the good times with the bad times. I admire most the people who cannot afford to have regrets. Like David in David and Goliath? You think he had time to worry about if he picked up the right stone or not? No, he just acted and wailed on that motherfucker. Goliath never saw it coming. I took the scenic route through life and didn’t get on the interstate until pretty late. Then I had to floor it. My approach, from the time I was little is just to let it ride. Let it ride, and then, at the right moment, move in. I’m a lot more successful if I can fly under the radar because life is like swimming the English Channel. Just because you’re greased up and on the shore doesn’t mean you won’t be taken out by a barracuda.

RS: Do you think your sensibility started with your upbringing? Being raised by a single mother without a father even around?

MF: [Long pause.]. I didn’t have a perfect childhood but I believe I wouldn’t be here with a perfect childhood. So whatever trials and tribulations, it provided me with enough ammunition and anger and competitiveness and insecurity to keep forging ahead. So I tell my friends – and I think my stories say this as well – embrace your frustration and your fears because that’s what makes life interesting. Nobody likes perfection. I want that flawed guy. I had an explosive side. It wasn’t that hard to set me off and when it happened I lost it in a big way. I think I’ve learned to control that. There are plenty of times I wouldn’t want to be me. I was one of those kids who did not quite fit in during high school. You don’t end up like me if you fit in. That’s why I identify with the misfit – you get to a point in your life when you realize you’re a combination of all the mistakes you made.

RS: Does the hurt ever go away?

MF: [“Laughing.”]. Does it?

RS: I’m asking you.

MF: You talking to me?

RS: Let’s move on. With all of the characters you’ve come across and embedded into your stories, who among those is the real Manny Fagut then?

MF: Who am I? It’s only the biggest theme in all of literature, isn’t it? [“Chortling.”]. Life’s not fair, is it? You get to certain point where you’re too old to be saying that, but it never stops being infuriating. My mind is always at work but so is my heart. One does not suppress the other. I can be having the most enlightened conversation one minute and the next minute my head is whipping around because of some spectacular pair of holstered breasts. You never outgrow the temptation to escape into somebody else’s identity. I guess you could say I construct the worlds I create to give me a voice to talk about how I feel about the world, my family, my fantasies, trash my enemies, vanquish my fears.

RS: So ultimately, are you all of those people?

MF: I might as well be myself, everyone else is taken.

RS: And what are you today?

MF: There are only three things in life. There’s what other people think you are. There’s what you think you are. And there’s what you really are. All writers, I think, are to one extent or another damaged. Writing is our way or repairing ourselves. So I guess you can say I am in a constant state of repair.

RS: So then…

MF: [interrupts]. I don’t think I’m tangible to myself. I mean, I think one thing today and I think another thing tomorrow. I can change during the course of a day. I wake and I’m one person, and when I go to sleep for certain I’m somebody else. I don’t know who I am most of the time. I doesn’t even matter to me. I can be jubilant one moment and pensive the next, and a cloud goes by and make that happen. I’m inconsistent, even to myself.

RS: You’ve given this quite a bit of thought.

MF: Once I’ve had enough experience about something I don’t give a fuck about anybody else’s theory. Like with women. I genuinely like women and prefer the company of women, as friends or lovers. I always say there are three rules when it comes to women: they are smarter than us, they are stronger than us and most important, they don’t play fair! But that doesn’t keep me from trying. I’d like to say I’m attracted to women for more than their beauty but whatever I find beautiful is what I’m attracted to. That’s the dichotomy.

RS: Safe to say your mother knows you best to this day?

MF: I don’t think anyone can ever figure me out completely. I like to let people think that I have a secret. They may want to know more or they may have had enough. I like to watch the choices they make about me and around me. I’ve always needed solitude. I don’t hate people. I’m not one of those. But I just like being by myself. Simplifies things. Maybe that’s because I’m not used to giving others the benefit of the doubt. I’m not conditioned to doing it. Something inside me said ‘no, don’t do it; it’s not for you.’

RS: Back to your literary life. There are rumors that you are going to write your autobiography next. Any truth there?

MF: There’s always truth somewhere. I am pretty sure that’s never going to happen. I can’t think of one thing in my life that I’d really want to share with people. Besides, I’m not really a writer anymore; I do screenplays. Also, I know what kind of shit I’d get from my friends about how they would come off and I don’t need the hassle. Plus, I’ve read a few non-fiction by Sedaris and Michael Chabon and I’m still not buying that any of that all really happened.

RS: Your father. You did not meet him until very late in life.

MF: That is a true fact. Although technically, since you don’t know how long I will live we don’t really know if it will be in the middle of my life or end of my life.

RS: Very late in his life. Fair to say?

MF: Fair enough.

RS: Any thoughts on what that has meant to you; finding him this late?

MF: Well you start with the fact that when the man who conceives you in flesh misconceives who you are as a person, how can you hope that strangers will understand you?

RS: Misconceives you?

MF: He chose to see me the way he wanted to see me. Because he couldn’t see me as I really was since he had nothing to go on. Without my distinct childhood something else would have happened.

RS: Ever ask him straight out why he left you and your mother?

MF: Now we’re getting existential, aren’t we? Sometimes it’s good to stay in the dark about some things. Keeps life interesting. I think his worldview was that to dream was to be disappointed. That’s a hell of a thing to overcome.

RS: So do you consider yourself a dreamer?

MF: Wait, let me get back to another point on that last question. Like they say, you can’t choose your family but you can choose your friends? I don’t have much of a family, by numbers anyway. Just me and my mom. So my life is really about my friends and it’s up to me to surround myself with the right influences on my life. One thing I found out for sure in life, don't hang out with assholes. Surround yourself with good people. Whether they're the best at what they do, or are materially successful by typical standards ... I don’t give a rat’s ass. Do they have my ass? That’s where it starts and ends for me. If they've got good hearts and they're good souls then that’s all I need to know.

RS: And would your closest friends all describe you the same way?

MF: Funny you should ask. I often ask them if they think they would describe themselves the same as how people view them. I think it’s a good exercise at how we view our place in the world, well, not so much our place, in terms of where we fit in, but how we fit in, and how our self-identity matches with those looking into us. A friend of mine said to me, “You're into commas.” I thought she was talking about my writing or maybe even my speech pattern because I do have a way of digressing a lot. So I asked her to elaborate and he said, “Every time you think you've stopped you always come out of it. Every time you think you've reached the end of that long dead-end street, you slip around the edge, past that stopping point, past the right angles.” And I thought, she’s right! it's all continuation! Even if you're dying, that's a kind of continuation, because you move on. And you have to change. Now, you lose something in your life, or you come into a conflict, and there's gonna come a time that you're gonna know, there was a reason for that. It’s like that guy who says to his buddy who just lost his girlfriend, ‘Hey man, I’m so sorry it didn’t work out.” And the other guy says back, “Oh it worked out, just not the way I wanted!” Now THERE’S some fucking evolved self-awareness.” So I say, at the end of your life, all the things you thought were periods, they turn out to be commas. There was never a full stop in any of it.

RS: And can the same be said of your friends? Once you choose them, it always continues?

MF: A friend is someone who will allow me to be a really bad friend at some point and not hold it against me. So to the extent that we can live by that rule, yes.

RS: That’s plainly not cynical. Not what I expected.

MF: Actually, I grew up in a pretty non-cynical household, though lots of sardonic humor. But when it came to my childhood friends, well, you know how guys are, all my friends gave each other a horribly hard, bad time. We'd destroy each other with criticisms, but for me it was a sign of friendship. If someone gave me a hard time, I'd think, well, I guess he's my friend.

RS: I saw someone describe you once as “constitutionally withdrawn, except among friends, when he became magnetic.” Do you think that is also attributable to your relationship with him that was so long in coming?

MF: I suppose that may be why I am loathe to share much. But maybe that’s just how I am constitutionally and how I always would have been. We’ll never know. Anyway, I prefer coming from an underdog position.

RS: Back to your professional ambitions. Any film sequels in the works?

MF: I don’t need to go anywhere I’ve been before. I keep ducking and weaving. Every time I do something else, I have no idea if it’s going to work or where it’s going to take me. I do it for the right reasons and continue to change as vividly as I can.

RS: How do you describe your writing?

MF: [laughing uncontrollably]. Ha, that sounds like a question I used to get from my teachers. And then my editors at the paper. I can’t talk about my writing in the way you want me to. I’m inside it. How can you describe something you’re inside of. Like the coffee shop owner in “Pulp Fiction” says, ‘I’m not a hero, I’m just a coffee shop owner.’ I just string my words together and hope for the best.

RS: So no inspirations in your life? No one in particular? No special book or movie?

MF: You can’t see me of course, but I’m scratching my chin thoughtfully. You know that iconic catch by Willie Mays in the 1954 World Series off of Vic Wertz? The uncatchable catch of all time in the highest of stakes?

RS: Interesting choice.

MF: No, it’s not even the catch. Ever watch the whole play? It’s the presence of mind he had to run from shallow center all the way to the warning track to flag the thing down with a behind the back basket catch, then stop his momentum, going in the wrong direction I might add, wheel around and throw a bullet back to the infield to hold the runner at first base. With the game tied. In the eighth inning. The greatest of all stages and moments. You ever try that? THAT’S inspiration. THERE’S your god! And then when he bangs one out … to the deepest part of the biggest park … he just puts the head down and rounds the bases with no theatrics.

RS: [pause on the part of the reporter this time.] You spend much time thinking about how you got to this point?

MF: I’m not that as analytical as you might think. Having said that, I’m probably the most self-aware person I know. My friends are fine with how I am. I don’t always relay to them what’s going on in words. They can see it in how I drive, or how I eat, or how I sit through a movie or ballgame. I know I’ve shot myself in the foot a lot; all I need to do is look down at my foot as a reminder. Old girlfriend once told me I shouldn’t think so much sometimes. When I asked her why she said maybe I should just give my mind a rest. I thought that was pretty good advice.

RS: So does that pretty much summarize your outlook on life?

MF: We're here for such a short period of time. Live like you're already dead, man. Have a good time. Do your best. Let it all come ripping right through you.

RS: How does that translate to activism of any sort? There seems a blank slate where that’s concerned. Not judging, just an observation, since you now have a platform, if you wish.

MF: I don’t think it’s my place to advocate for what people should think or do. Speak out for what you believe and what you feel. Or don't. You have to live with yourself [shrugs shoulders]

RS: Anything else?

MF: No. [pause and blank stare.]

Just kidding. I always love that moment when one of my buddies from the newspaper would be interviewing someone and they would always end by saying “Anything else you’d like to add?” And they would always say, “No, just that blah, blah, blah.” Well, why do they ALWAYS say “No” and then ALWAYS proceed to say something. I used to give my friends such a hard time about calling out these people on it, just for kicks, but no one would.

RS: Despite being a very contemporary writer, you are even founder of an online journal, and yet we don’t see much of you in social media.

MF: I'd rather rip my teeth out than be on Twitter. As a general rule I like to structure – and restructure – the rules to make them fit my own needs and there is just no room in my life for that crap. I don’t need to be a reality show.

RS: You’ve become somewhat notorious for making a lot of noise around the lack of studio support around Running Time. Aren’t you worried about how that could affect your ability to get future projects?

MF: My mom used to tell me when I was frustrated or upset about something not going my way. It’s about a bird lying in the desert. An old Bedouin comes across him, sees the bird lying on his back with arms and legs arched to the sky. He thinks the bird is dying and asks if he’s okay. The bird says he’s fine. “Then what in the world are you doing like that?” The bird says back “It’s my understanding that the sky may be falling and I want to be prepared.” The Bedouin replies, “But that’s ridiculous. Ludicrous. Not only is the sky not falling, but even were the sky to fall, you couldn’t possibly do anything about it.” The bird shrugged his little wings and said, “Eh, You do what you can.”

RS: Sounds like you are pretty content.

MF: I tip my hat to anyone who has found their way through this life. I’m finding my way through mine. Heck, if you take everything I’ve accomplished in my life and condensed it down to one day – it looks decent!

RS: Wow, that’s not just contentment. Mellow?

MF: I’m not mellow, just mellower. I’m basically an affectionate guy but I can also get freaking angry. I don’t go off on the meter maids. I just ice them. And that’s the worst. You don’t want that wind blowing your way, trust me. But I also will admit I get wounded easily. I say that I don’t care what people think, but I care. At least, I care to know and then I decide if I care any more once I know. Part of me probably needs chaos. I like things a little unsettled because I can handle it. Not everyone can. Some people can fake it their whole lives. I go back and forth between wishing that were me. But I’m cool about it. The older you get the easier it is to spot the phonies and I feel bad for them. The more I know other people are uncomfortable the more comfortable I am.

RS: And your relationship with Harper is on solid ground?

MF: [huge, warm smile]. I hope I’m making less mistakes than my dad and she’ll make less mistakes than her dad, and so on with her children. And one day we’ll raise a perfect Fagut. When Harp was born my mother said you are going to find something you love more than yourself. I didn’t have the heart to tell her how easy that should be!

RS: And your mother is well?

MF: I could never give my mother as much as she gave me. She is well.

RS: And your own health?

MF: Whenever I get the urge to exercise I lay down until it goes away.

RS: But other than that?

MF: It’s like Jerry Lee Lewis said: I still got pretty hair. I’m still rocking. That’s sitting on top of the world about as high as you’re going to get.

RS: It’s like that old Ziggy cartoon: Everyone said to cheer up because things could be worse. Sure enough, things got worse!

MF: People never know when they’re living through a golden moment. For all I know, this is it. Like Burt Lancaster’s character in “Field of Dreams” said – ‘It was like coming this close to your dreams and watching them pass you by like a stranger in the crowd. At the time, you think there will be other days. We just don’t know the most significant moments of our lives while they’re happening. At the time, you think there will be other days. I didn’t realize that was the only day.’

RS: I think we’re through.

MF: Oh, we’re through baby. That’s a “Seinfeld” reference. Always wanted to use that in an interview.

RS: So those are your last words?

MF: [immediately] I hate the word flaccid. Even if it’s not in reference to….you know.

-END-

Soundtrack Finale –

“Low Spark of High Heeled Boys” by Traffic

If you see something that looks like a star

And its shooting up right off the ground

And your head is spinning from a loud guitar

If you had just a minute to breathe

And they granted you one final wish

Would you ask for something

Like another chance

Or something similar as this

Don’t worry too much, it’ll happen to you

As sure as your sorrows are joys

If I gave you everything that I owned

And asked for nothing in return

Would you do the same for me

As I would for you

Or take me for a ride

Strip me of everything, including my pride

But spirit is something that no one destroys

# # #

Appendix “A”

The Buddy List:
THE Unwritten rules and unspoken Gentleman’s Code According to Manny and Anin

1. Sports Apparel as Fashion. An oxymoron. A person (male or female) can wear any item of sports team clothing, but is limited to one at any time. That is, you can wear a Green Bay Packers cap or jersey, not both. No exception shall be made on the basis of wearing two said items from different teams be it from the same city (e.g., Baltimore Raven cap and Baltimore Orioles jersey) or different cities (Detroit Red Wings scarf and Miami Dolphins sweatshirt).

2. It is forbidden to root for a team with a bad logo. I know this causes real problems for some dear friends but the Patriots? Really? That postage stamp-like thing? And the Knicks? The storied Knickerbockers and even more storied Madison Square Garden and all they can come up with is what looks like clip art from the era of Pong? And this applies to teams who use the first letter of their nickname as the logo. Like the Cincinnati Bengals’ “B,” the Chicago Bears’ “B,” the San Francisco Giants’ “G,” and the Arizona Diamondbacks’ “D.” It’s not “alternate,” it’s ugly. An abomination. No one hates the Dallas Cowboys or the New York Yankees more than me but is there a “C” or “Y” on their bill or uniform. Hell no!

3. Addressing a fellow gentleman: Stage 1 of familiarity is “hey,” with no discernible history or affection. Stage 2 is “hey buddy,” said with some familiarity. Stage 3 is “hey my man,” Stage 4 is “Dude” sometimes interchangeable with Stage 5 which is “hey brother.” Stage 6 is when you are practically married and it’s back to “hey,” which is packed with a million different potential unspoken conversations and moods (acceptable alternative at Stage 6: “Dawg,” as in “Hey Dawg” or “You my dawg.”).

4. The Buddy Loan, Rule 1: When you know your buddy is in need, don’t wait to be asked, just offer. Rule 2: With no strings. And if he does happen to ask, comply and see Rule 2.

5. The Buddy Loan Rules Exception: You may allow yourself to cover one bet. After that, he’s on his own (and for god’s sake no one should ever bet on anything except where you have some influence on the outcome, like on cards. Just say not to sports betting).

6. Pursuing your buddy’s girlfriend: Unacceptable without exceptions.

7. Pursuing your buddy’s ex: Acceptable with disclosure as early as possible.

8. General Courtesies: Open all doors for women, children and older folks (but without any grand gesture that brings attention to the act).

9. Picking up the check – Category: Women. Always on dates, from the very first one. Allow her to pick up the check when she starts to feel comfortable and wants to return the favor at some point. NOTE: If she has not offered within the first 30 days, begin to catalogue your case for moving on. With buddies

10. Picking up the check – Category: Buddies. True buddies ought to be able to, without effort and drama, alternate each check, regardless of any potential imbalance caused by previous check.

11. Tipping. Over-tip once in a while. Don’t wring your hands over it, just do it. Make somebody’s day once in a while. Imagine you’re that hotel cleaning person or that shoe-shine guy and you find a surprise 20 spot.

12. Charitable giving: Know when to say when. You can’t say yes to everyone; likewise, have a decent sense of when it might make someone uncomfortable to be asked.

13. Mix tapes (yes, we choose to still call them tapes): When it’s for chicks: Clearly we have a little disagreement when it comes to slow jams/smooth jazz, but the operative answer is: whatever works (though it’s not Jazz if it has wind chimes. The Wind chime is jazz’s equivalent of cow bell – you really can have too much). When it’s for a buddy: Ah, you got to have a really, really, good reason to be making ANY kind of mix tape.

14. Under no circumstances is it acceptable to include songs like “Eye of the Tiger” or anything from Scorpion, Motley Crue and the whole ‘80s hair metal rock band era on your gym mix.

15. Bathroom etiquette. See page 69.

16. When buying for yourself, it is inadvisable to buy a men’s product from a store that specializes in another item. Case in point: When at DSW, limit your purchase to shoes or footwear accessory. No belts, wallets or hats.

17. Likewise, when buying a gift for a woman, do not attempt to complete this maneuver without the aid of a trusted female friend. Footnote: gifts should be wrapped (or at least pleasingly bagged) for women. NEVER wrap a gift for a man.

18. Whites cannot pull off what Blacks can. To wit, as much as you and I may not favor the bow-tie, a brother can pull that off under the right circumstances. A cracker? Never. Also, we can never say “That’s how I roll” and get taken seriously.

19. Apartment crashing etiquette. There really are so few of these necessary because if anything can be summed by “common sense,” this is it. But for some reason I find myself having to put in writing that it is completely not cool that when you are staying over at a buddy’s place that you cannot leave half-finished bottles of whatever drink. And I don’t mean because of the laziness factor, I mean because I never – and I mean NEVER – want to worry that I am about to apply my lips to a bottle or can that belonged to you previously. Finish it or throw that shit out.

20. There is a limit as to what’s an acceptable malady or handicap. Unacceptable: Peanut allergies, a leg that is shorter than the other, small hat size, “noise sensitivity,” and anything else that could not possibly get in the way of having a good time.

21. Nicknames are generally frowned upon. In particular, we frown upon nicknaming oneself. For instance, a man named David Sherman may not refer to himself as “Sherm” in voice mails and email greetings and sign-offs, nor in introductions, e.g., “Hi, I’m David Sherman but you can call me ‘Sherm’.”

22. There can only be one driver on road trips (except in a case of health or safety). Switching drivers changes all kinds of karma and rhythms. Plus, everyone needs to be good at something and either you’re a good driver or a good navigator.

23. If the best thing you can say about a fellow is “he means well,” find a better fellow.

24. Ice cream tastes better with a fork than with a spoon.

Appendix “B” – Playlist from Night One with Nina

· Riviera Paradise (Stevie Ray Vaughn)

· Tupelo Honey (Van Morrison’s version with Bobby Blue Bland)

· Stay Awhile (Edie Brickell)

· Come and Go Blues (Allman Brothers)

· Drive All Night (Springsteen)

· Just My Imagination (Temptations)

· Heaven is 10 Zillion Years Away (Stevie Wonder)

· How Come You Don’t Call Me Anymore (Prince)

· Kathleen (A Girl Called Eddy)

· One Thing (Neil Young)

· Magnolia (J. J. Cale)

· Johnny and June (Shelby Lynne)

· Summertime (Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald)

· Come Sunday (Duke Ellington and Mahalia Jackson)

· Change My Mind (Motels)

· At the Dance (Jon Dee Graham)

· Don’t Fade on Me (Tom Petty)

· Righteously (Lucinda Williams)

· Brightest Star (Santana)

· Can’t Sleep This Night (John Mayall)

· If Dogs Run Free, and Sugar Baby (Bob Dylan)

· Feel it in Your Heart (Charlie Musselwhite)

· Makes You Wanna Die Laughing (Harry Manx)

· Over the Top (Zakiyah Hooker)

· Don’t Look Back (John Lee Hooker)

· Winter (Rolling Stones)

· Sweet Thing (Waterboys)

· Mama Roux (Dr. John)

· Tell Me (Mae Moore)

· Blackbird (Rene Marie)

· Can’t Stop Thinking ‘Bout You (Martin Sexton)

· Which Will (Nick Drake)

· We Got By (Al Jarreau)

· Central Reservation (Beth Orton)

· Thorn Tree in the Garden (Derek and the Dominoes)

· Riders on the Storm (Doors)

· I’m Hooked (Billy Flynn)

· Last Night of the World (Bruce Cockburn)

· I’d Have You Anytime (George Harrison)

· Trouble in Mind (Johnny Cash)

· Can’t Do a Thing (Chris Isaak)

· Caroline, No (Beach Boys)

· #807 (Pieta Brown)

· Use Me (Patricia Barber)

· You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go (Madeleine Peyroux)

· Piper at the Gates of Dawn (Van Morrison)

Appendix “C” – Playlist from Catalina Road Trip

· California Soul (Marlena Shaw)

· The Big Guns (Jenny Lewis)

· Elvis Presley Blues (Gillian Welch)

· Ashgrove (Dave Alvin)

· Butter-side Up (Ian Siegal)

· Bessie’s Advice (Eric Bibb, Rory Block)

· Long Line (Peter Wolf)

· Dream Baby (Roy Orbison)

· I’m a Girl Watcher (Beau Jocque)

· Nouveau Swing (Donald Harrison)

· I Confess (English Beat)

· Driving Away From Home (It’s Immaterial)

· Would You Love Me (Chuck Prophet)

· Wolves (Josh Ritter)

· Bring Back the Funk (Paul Weller)

· Turn This Thing Around (Betty Dylan)

· Town Called Heartbreak (Patti Scialfa)

· I Took a Trip on a Gemini Space Station (David Bowie)

· Treat Yo Mama Right (John Butler Trio)

· I’m Tore Down (John Hammond, Jr.)

· Bigger Wheel (Stephen Bruton)

· The Road Goes on Forever (Joe Ely)

· Showdown (ELO)

· Rest of My Days (Indigenous)

· Mandolin Wind (Rod Stewart)

· Why is Love Such a Sacrifice (Southside Johnny)

· Season For Change (Ronny Jordan)

· Keep the Faith (Poi Dog Pondering)

· Whatever Gets You Through the Night (John Lennon)

· Make Me Wanna Holler (Me’shell Ndegeocello)

· Smoke My Peace Pipe (Wild Magnolias)

· Move On Up (Curtis Mayfield)

· Third Jinx Blues (Tarbox Ramblers)

· Is This All There Is (Los Lobos)

· The Man Comes Around (Johnny Cash)

· Vacant Chair (Steve Winwood)

· Uncertain Smile (The The)

· Day Dreaming (Aretha Franklin)

· I Wanna Be (B.B. King and Eric Clapton)

· Sunny Daze (Eric Lindell)

· Happiness is Just Around the Bend (Brian Auger)

· Close the Door (Bonerama)

· Soul Tub (California Honeydrippers)

· Life, Love and the Blues (Etta James)

· Love, Peace and Happiness (Chambers Brothers)

· Everything’s Gonna Be Alright (Levon Helm Band)

Appendix “D” – Songs to Which Everyone Lost Their Virginity

· Anin: Love Train (O’Jays)

· Nina: In the Air Tonight (Phil Collins)

· Chick: Stormy Monday (Lena Horne)

· Me: Theme from Hawaii Five-O (is it my fault we were watching TV?)

· Spanksky: The System of Dr. Tarr and Professor Feather (Alan Parsons
Project)

· Dara: White Punks on Dope (The Tubes) and XXX. No idea how there
could be two.

· FM: Rosie (Jackson Browne) and Urgent (Foreigner). This coupling
you can understand.

· Manzini: Dust in the Wind (Kansas)

· Willie Neeley: You Sure Love to Ball (Marvin Gaye)

· Nat: I don’t know

· Mom: I don’t want to know