Joe the Painter – scheduled for yesterday, postponed by me (crap weather, not quite ready) – is due around 10 AM. After breakfast and Sweet T.'s departure the area near the entryway is cleared so Joe can repair two small drywall holes (removed burglar alarm and control panel) and apply paint. The coat rack’s emptied, coats hung on wall hooks in the porch, rack stuck in far corner of same, as is the garbage can near the secretary. Roger's favorite cat perch gets a new living room berth. All the art comes down from the walls. A vintage Weehawken Currier & Ives print, Sweet T.'s needlepoint (above), an enigmatic colored pencil drawing of three sirens or mermaids entranced by a pan flautist, etc. It all goes on the porch. Time to haul out the vacuum and do the walls and floor. Joe arrives around 10:20 and we move the drop-desk secretary just enough to be out of the way while Joe waxes rhapsodic about his new apartment.
"Oh man, I'm finally getting out of my place. Got a great spot in Secaucus."
"Where are you living now?"
"Union City, across from the White Castle."
"I know where that is. Why are you moving?"
"New people moved in upstairs and I can't take it."
We get out to the garage for the paint and the standard visitor caution’s issued.
"We have two cats. Please make sure one door to the outside is always closed."
"Okay, sure, no problem."
The two cans of correct color (“Winter Mood”) paint were pulled out from under the workbench yesterday.
"Here they are. One’s dated 2017, one's 2016."
"Yeah, well unless there's rust on the lid or it froze out here the paint should still be good."
"Do you need any stirrers?"
"Nah. I have some. But can I stash some things in the garage?"
"As long as it's not in the space where my wife parks."
Joe scans the garage and concludes there's nowhere for his drop-cloths, work platform, brushes or other tools.
"I'll just leave it in the truck."
"Sorry. I need to clear this all out."
The garage door opener’s withdrawn from my left pocket and handed to Joe.
"In case you need to go in and out."
"Great. Thanks."
Back at the dining room table newsletter production begins. Joe starts in with the drywall repair. Roger comes halfway down the stairs and sits studying Joe, who greets him. Roger turns around and goes back to the second floor. Marty – a champion hider – is nowhere to be seen. The first draft of SYNT is wrapped up and the editing begins. Joe works quietly. Glad he's not looking for conversation, SYNT work continues until 11:30 AM when the leftover Chinese food is microwaved.
“Joe, do you want any lunch?”
"Nah. I'm good.”
“Any water?”
“I still have some coffee."
We discuss how far to paint. This is a touch-up job, not a full repaint.
"Can you do this area around the air conditioner?"
"You don't want to go too far because then it no longer looks like the same color.”
“Okay. Do up to here.”
There’s a seam in the drywall that seems a good old paint/new paint demarcation. Joe continues, as does SYNT production.
Ten, fifteen minutes later the bathroom’s needed. Upon exiting two open front doors greet me (one door to the porch, the other to outside). Joe’s not around. Shit. The cats. My mind goes to all those who've taken to walking their dogs sans leash. The law here is clear but again and again an array of breeds go sniffing up the sidewalk, no owner in sight. A moment later someone appears, leash curled in hand. This represents a galling level of hubris.
MY dog obeys and would NEVER run off.
Yes, your dog would NEVER dart into traffic, chase a squirrel (or cat), attack another dog or lunge at a child. Not YOUR dog. Ugh.
Joe comes up the steps from his truck, parked at the curb west of our driveway.
“Hey Joe?. Both of these doors were open."
“Huh. Really? I coulda swore I closed them."
"No. I need to find the cats. Please make sure one door is closed at all times."
"Oh man. I'm so sorry."
Joe reminds me of other trades people I've known. Guys who've been at it a long time, good at what they do but not all there. I'm thisclose to telling him to get his stuff and get the fuck out but I'm trying to stay calm.
Both doors are shut and the search commences for our boys. Roger's a quick find, upstairs in Sweet T.'s studio, enjoying his rattan basket near the window. When he sees me he lets out his elder-cat meow.
A-H-H-H-H-CH
"Hey, Rog. Where's your brother cat?"
Roger's intrigued by this question and gets out of his basket to join the search. Grabbing a flashlight, our first stop’s Marty’s usual hiding spot: under the front bedroom bed. The bedspring’s open on bottom and Marty's been known to crawl up inside. But he's not there now. Next stop, the closet.
"Marty? Hey Marty? Come on out, Mart-Mart! Come on out!”
He's not in the closet. He's not under the back bedroom bed. Nor under the tilted top of Sweet T.'s drafting table in her studio. Not crouched in the back corner, under the drafting table's base either. I'm beginning to sweat. What if he's gotten out and he's hiding somewhere outside, scared out of his mind? Could he find his way back here?
From downstairs Joe calls up.
"Didja find him yet?!"
There's worry in his voice, anger in mine.
"NO. WHEN I FIND HIM I WILL TELL YOU."
The search resumes in the office. Under the desk, in the closet. Then back to the front bedroom to check under the bed from the other side. Now back to the bedroom closet. Fuck. The linen closet?!
"Marty? You in there, honey? Come on out..."
No Marty. Downstairs under the couch? No. The dining room bench? Chairs? He's not here. I'm composing the nuclear option text to send Sweet T.
I can't find Marty. He may have gotten out. Can you come home?
Tomorrow’s her birthday and the absolute last thing she needs is to hear Marty's missing. Time to check the basement. Under the sofa, in the closet, on the chairs, under the stairs, between the washer and dryer. No Martin. I’m flushed, nauseous. If this cat life doesn’t materialize life’s going to get much shittier. Roger and Marty are my responsibility during the day.
"Marty? You down here, Marty? MARTY!”
Back to the second floor to repeat the entire process. First floor, then basement too.
Exhausted, agitated, I’m collapsed on the basement sofa when it all hits me. The pandemic. War. Inflation. My disappearing 401K and lack of work. Now Marty, one of life’s few remaining bright spots. This would be a good time to weep.
“Marty? MAR-TY?! WHERE ARE YOU, MARTY?!”
Here he is, crawling out from behind a storage trunk under the stairs, a spot inaccessible to me and my flashlight.
"MARTY!"
He comes over, bashful. Picking him up and hugging him to my chest he wriggles, then begins purring. There’s a debate whether to carry him upstairs. He’ll freak out again when he sees Joe, whom I now alert.
"I FOUND HIM!"
"Oh, thank God."
Marty’s placed on the couch.
"Listen, Marty... don't scare me like that again. Joe will be gone soon. Just hang out down here."
Marty trills at me as I go upstairs, where Joe apologizes again.
"You found him. What a relief. I don't know how that happened. I could've swore I closed that door behind me."
"How much longer will you be?"
"I'm almost done."
"Okay. I'll be at the dining room table."
Back to the newsletter. When next I wander into the porch there's no Joe. Through the front door side-glass I see him on our stoop. He's chatting with our neighbor Christine. Her dog and cat are also out there. So I join them for a few minutes. The dog plays with a squeaky ball, the cat – an orange/white tabby named Puff Kitty – comes over, meows, rubs against my leg. He must've heard about Marty’s disappearance. Joe, Christine and I discuss comings and goings in the neighborhood and the service vans on the block.
"Two electricians and a plumber."
Christine mentions a backed up sewer line next door.
"The bank must've done an inspection when the place sold. Told them to get it fixed."
She throws the squeaky ball to her dog, a standard poodle/terrier mix, a good-natured, amiable beast who tolerates Puff Kitty, who takes to the sidewalk and executes a serious of impressive social rolls. I mention all the people walking their dogs off-leash. Joe pipes up.
"The dogs should be worried about that cat. I've seen him send them running."
Still. No one wants to find Puff Kitty after an unleashed pit-bull goes apex predator and gets a hold of him. We sit and chat a moment more, enjoying the gorgeous sunshine and gentle breeze. Then we return to our jobs inside. I'm back at the dining room table working on SYNT when Joe comes in holding something palm up.
"Do you have somewhere I can rinse this? It fell in the paint can."
“What is it?”
“The garage door remote.”
It’s now painted Winter Mood.
"Shit. Let me get something."
Retrieving a linear foot of paper towels, the remote’s wiped down, and my Leatherman Phillips head screwdriver’s used to disassemble it. The circuit board inside is intact, no paint. The case is carried to the sink for rinsing. Then it’s dried as best as possible. The battery goes back in. Outside, the remote’s pointed at the garage door, button pressed. Nothing. Joe’s watching from his truck.
"Oh man, I'm sorry about that. I don't know how it happened. I must be preoccupied with all this moving stuff."
Fuck me. First Marty, now this. This remote’s the one I use because it's the perfect size – about as big as a matchbook – to stick in my pocket or stash in my car’s ashtray.
"I don't know how that happened. You think you can get it working?"
"It probably needs to dry off."
Joe's brought the remaining Winter Mood out to the garage to be poured into a spare quart-sized can. The lid for the gallon can is rusty and it's best if we don't reseal it. I steady the small can while he pours from the big one. Then I find my rubber mallet to get the lid on tight. Joe's gone within five minutes and I'm glad to again be alone, working on the newsletter. I’m happy with Joe’s repair work, painting and attention to detail.
OK, only two of those are true.
When Sweet T. gets home around 4:15 I'm into editing and assembly. The newsletter's finally finished just after 6 PM. I'd love to give it one more read-through, catch any mistakes, but dinner’s almost on the table. SEND.
After we eat there’s a moment to sit and read it. Per usual, it’s rife with mistakes. Each one makes me groan.
The night ends with episode 6 of Better Call Saul. I have no idea where this show is going and that's a good thing.
WEDNESDAY
Sweet T.'s birthday.
"Happy Birthday, honey!"
We hug, kiss. It’s hard not to conjure up her milestone birthday last year. We celebrated in Saugerties at The Dutch Ale House. It wasn't easy to surprise her but we managed to gather a few of her dearest friends at get two big tables outside. Yours truly even convinced the waitstaff to let me take over their Bluetooth speaker to play lounge instrumentals. The only element to mar that day was the presence of my back-stabbing cousin. Doesn't it piss you off when you look at photos or video of some celebratory event only to fixate on that one person to whom you no longer speak? The one who turned to be a massive asshole? They seem to be in shot after shot, like our wedding photos featuring my former SiriusXM co-host and her husband or the WFMU Gatekeeper and his wife. Or Sweet T.’s weird cousin who turned out to be a thorn in our side. My cousin’s in too many pics and video from last year, inextricably caught up with everything going on. There's no way around her. Should've followed my gut and left her off the invite list for Sweet T.'s birthday. This year’s low-key. We'll order out when she gets home. I've debated when to present her gift and decide to sneak it down to the dining room table before she sees me. After the cats are fed, coffee’s made and breakfast is started, Sweet T. enters the dining room and lets out a WOW! I'm not sure how surprised she is to see a large cloth bag containing what could only be the piece of carry-on luggage she “suggested” would make a great gift. She opens the bag, pulls the carry-on out. It's just what she wanted. Now she can get rid of those polka-dotted carry-ons I picked up cheap at the Target years ago.
"Maybe we should mail them to Buddy Guy?"
Breakfast over, Sweet T. leaves for work and the luggage goes back in the bag. Then my usual debate: return to bed for a few hours (Joe the Painter's due back around 10 AM) or get some work done? The difference is split. An hour-long cat nap, then Spring Tech Cleaning. Between my phone, iPad Mini, MacBook and iMac there's a ton to plow through. Around 9 AM Joe’s dialed.
“When are you coming over?”
"I was gonna call you. Is it okay if we cancel for today? My new landlord called and wants to meet with me."
Doesn't matter to me. The days are pretty much the same.
"Yeah, that's fine. I haven't gone to the paint store yet."
Which is what happens next. There's a Benjamin Moore store in Guttenberg and I'm there around 1 PM looking for their Bath & Spa and ceiling paint. I've never been to Israel Paint & Hardware, so I look around rather than go right to the counter. Fatal error. Some balding white dude who came in behind me gives me the You next? look. I don't leap to so he goes to the counter and begins awkwardly trying to bond with the young kids waiting on customers.
"Wow! I didn't know you had Cuban restaurants in – what is this, North Bergen?"
"Yeah."
"Are there many Cubans here?"
I'm half-listening and offer up the one local fact I've heard again and again.
"Union City has the second largest Cuban population in the country."
"Oh, I knew that. I was referring to North Bergen."
Really? And aren't we in Guttenberg?
Balding White Dude goes back to bonding.
"My boy lives around here. I told him we needed to get our taco on."
The way he says My boy we all know he's not referring to his son. And “taco on"?
The kid behind the counter plays along. I locate the Aura Bath & Spa paint but can't locate ceiling paint. My one gallon can goes on the counter and I wait. The other counter kid’s on a lengthy phone call, answering paint questions. Bald White Dude now fucks up my day good and proper.
"I need six paint samples. Can I see some color swatches?"
According to a sign on the paint agitator, each sample must be mixed up in the machine for six minutes.
"How much are the samples?"
"They're ten ninety-nine."
"Really? The other store said they were seven ninety-nine."
Balding White Dude gets on his phone and calls someone. When he's done he gives the kid the go-ahead and begins checking swatches while hopelessly bonding again.
"Did you know Benjamin Moore was from New Jersey? Yep."
The kid waiting on him chuckles. How many times has he heard this?
"He was from my town. Montclair."
Ugh.
"But I came down from Fort Lee, from my work."
I'm doing all the How long is THIS going to take? shit. Tapping my foot. Checking my watch. Sighing. I still need to get over to Guttenberg Arts, then the Target store. I'm about to put my gallon of paint back when the other counter kid locks eyes with me and flashes the One moment! sign. He's wrapping up his call. Thanks. While waiting I check the Benjamin Moore website on my phone to discover there's roughly forty different whites on offer. Shit. There's tan tile (which I've never liked) in the upstairs bathroom, so I opt for Seashell, something with a hint of tan. When the kid gets off the phone I tell him about the color and ask for ceiling paint. In a minute he's mixing up my bathroom paint and five minutes later I'm out the door. I'm looking for a quick lunch, maybe a cheese or veggie empanada, when I notice a liquor store we've ordered delivery from. Time to get beer and wine for our weekend and some beer for the folks at Guttenberg Arts, too. That's my next stop, to pick up an original ceramic sculpture purchased at a recent exhibition. Something about the tiny reel-to-reel charmed me and I plunked down $75 for it. I've been meaning to pick up for weeks but here I am, hunting for a parking space on Jackson Street near GA HQ. Guttenberg is the most densely-populated city in the country's most densely-populated state, so it's never easy to park nearby. Every block has curb-cut after curb-cut, to allow homeowners access to driveways and garages. But I luck into a space near the stop sign at 70th and Jackson. The beer is grabbed from the trunk and I'm soon inside Guttenberg Arts on the hunt for Russ. He’s in the backyard building raised garden beds with someone named Albert. Hoisting the 4-pack of Italian lager I make my presence known.
"Lunch-time!"
Guttenberg Arts is home to Guttengarden, which is currently undergoing complete reconstruction. The backyard’s in upheaval, everything torn apart and a rebuild underway. Russ steps out of the garden bed area to join me near a table saw set up to cut 4"x4"s. I break a can of beer off the pack, hand it to him.
"Oh, not for me. I'm on antibiotics."
I don't pry.
"What about you?"
Albert grabs the can from me.
"Sure."
Russ and I chat for a bit, then he leads me inside for my ceramic artwork. Before he retrieves it from wherever it's stashed he introduces me to a middle-aged dude hunched over some artwork.
"Chris does a talk show. He was on WFMU."
The guy's ears perk up.
"WFMU, huh?"
Those four little letters connote instant cachet. The Gatekeeper's been so successful at branding WFMU as a hipster measuring stick that listeners are more accurately described as devotees, acolytes. It's also how he's managed to get so much free labor out of those to whom WFMU grants insider status. Word came to me recently of a long-time volunteer staff member who had an accident while riding something with two wheels. Either a scooter or a moped or a motorcycle. It's not entirely clear. But he ended up thrown from it and landed on his face. Teeth pushed into jaw, jaw broken and wired shut, multiple ongoing surgeries necessitated. I donated to his GoFundMe but also commented that perhaps it was time for these volunteers to get some kind of health care via 'FMU? This long-time volunteer – like so many – freelances and apparently doesn't have health coverage. It's a remarkable state of affairs, all these eager, willing to work-for-free types who sacrifice so much to put together entertaining shows and have to ask others for money when they can't cover their own expenses. Of course I don't say any of this to the guy diligently working on his art. But Russ has opened the door to a dreaded march down Memory Lane.
"I remember Vin Scelsa. Did you know him?"
"I interviewed him years ago for New Jersey magazine. Went down to Bayonne to walk around with him."
"Yeah, I used to listen to him. Wasn't he on WFDU or something?"
I can't tell you how much I'd rather not be discussing Vin Scelsa right now. Yet the questions keep coming.
"Didn't he do that 'Spinning on Air' show?"
Oh God get me out of this.
Russ returns with my artwork.
"Well, it was nice to meet you. But I have to shove off now."
Goodbye. Sorry I can't stay and discuss Vin Scelsa ad nauseum. I'm headed for Target and my niece's wedding registry.
It's a sunny day and I do the 15-minute drive to Target accompanied by Pod Save America. I thought about tuning to WFMU but it’s Wednesday and The Gatekeeper's show was always on Wednesdays, still is as far as I know. The last thing I need is to hear his voice yet I know I need to get past this WFMU mental block. But my house is FULL of reminders, from dozens of WFMU T-shirts moldering in closets to hundreds of airchecks to all those leftover Aerial View lighters. Would getting rid of this shit be a final admission I'm no longer part of that world, that it belongs firmly to the past? Nothing lasts forever and the hope there'd be a return to WFMU is foolish. Though I’m still marinating in it. Last week. when we visited our friends in their Barnegat Light motel room they had WFMU on their Bluetooth speaker. I found it so distracting it was hard to hold a conversation. These are people who know what happened to me at the station. Shoe on the other foot, I would've changed what was playing or turned it off. This happens again and again. I know I'm the one supposed to get to a "place of grace" over the abuse I experienced at WFMU (which no one sees that way). The station’s yet another example of a phenomenon we all see in action: people going along to get along. Whatever these devotees and acolytes still draw from their association it's too powerful a drug to give up, certainly not for me and certainly not for the few minutes we might be together. Climb into a friend's car, WFMU's on. Go visit someone, WFMU's on. Grab some artwork, I'm in a conversation about WFMU. When I had my store there'd be at least one reference a day. I’m trying to get to where I can hear the station without all the bad feelings, I’m able to remember my association with fondness and I wish the best for even The Gatekeeper.
OK, only two of those are true.
Even here, in the parking lot of the Edgewater Target store, I walk past a car with the latest WFMU bumper sticker. Because that's how you signal to the motoring public I'm with it!. Me, I'm here to pick up a robotic vacuum powered by AI. The Target app says there's one in stock but you've probably guessed no such thing is true. The Target app lied. There's another model but it doesn't have AI. It's a dumb robot vac. Looks like I'm ordering it online and having it shipped. Time to get over to the cat food aisle and pick up grub for the boys.
Back at home I go to work on the upstairs bathroom prepping the walls for new paint and removing the rusted ceiling light. I'd like to replace the fixture but debate if I can get away with cleaning it up and painting it. The medicine cabinet’s also removed. I'd love to replace it with a vintage metal medicine cabinet but those things ain't cheap and finding one to fit isn't easy. Maybe I can also repaint this one, though I hate the style. It's painted wood, with a mirror inset in a wide frame door. I prefer the look of a bigger mirror in a steel frame.
The bathroom work done, I take to the office to print out a return label for a track belt that just arrived. I needed a new belt but this thing is overkill. It's stiff leather, meant to hold a gun holster and 1.75" wide. What was I thinking? I suppose that the wider belt would work well with not only casual pants but those Western suit pants? This place I ordered from doesn't make it easy to return shit. No way to print out a label or issue a return authorization number. Now Sweet T. wants to get in the office, print out her own return label. I hurriedly put together a label in PhotoShop, print it out, affix it to the box. I'll bring it to the post office tomorrow and send it First Class Package Rate. Next is dinner and I'm on cooking duty tonight. It's a super easy meal: spinach and ricotta ravioli in butter with pecorino Romano and Beyond Meat Italian sausage. There's also a side salad of butter lettuce, Greek olives and diced red bell pepper. Since Sweet T. broke her leg and I've been doing so much cooking, I've gotten good at timing things out so everything's ready to go at once. In twenty minutes we're feasting. Dessert is a scoop of Cherry Garcia. While Sweet T. goes downstairs to catch up on her shows, I read the latest Vanity Fair in the living room. I hope to Jesus I cancelled this damn subscription: this magazine reeks. Every issue has some perfume or cologne sample folded in and it's like walking through the fragrance department at Macy's. Instant headache. Still, I manage to make it through several articles of the Why am I reading this? variety. Then I get to the basement and join the viewing, wondering all the time Exactly how much radon is down here and how long will it take to give me lung cancer?
THURSDAY
The electrician’s supposed to be back today but has to cancel (see above). Too bad. The rest of my day is spent – you guessed it – cleaning up.
FRIDAY
Sweet T. tells me I won't have to wake up this early too many more Fridays. She's getting a few off between now and retirement, so someday soon I can sleep in. We have our half a bagel and coffee, take our supplements, and she's out the door. I spend time on the Freewrite trying to set down what happened Thursday while it's fresh. Then I need to get to Hoboken for my second booster shot. More Moderna, please. Knowing Hoboken and the parking situation I'm out the door by 9:15 AM. The parking Gods have smiled on me and there's a legal space a block from the pharmacy jabbing me. I'm there 15 minutes early, 9:45, and cool my heels while they get ready. Two older women come in after me for their boosters. One goes before me and I feel that stab of I was here FIRST! injustice. Who knows? Maybe her scheduled time was before mine? By the way the pharmacist engages with the woman it's clear they know each other. They talk about their kids, local goings on. And I wait. And wait. At 10:20 they usher me to the back where my shot takes all of five minutes to administer. Then I get my ass over to the post office on Grand Street, again lucking into a parking space (which may not be legal because I'm no longer a resident). There's no one on line when I get inside what once was my local branch. Then two of Hoboken's bright young things crowd in behind me. We all shove our packages into the This ought to save postal employees from bombs portal. The beautiful people just need receipts. I need First Class Package Service postage and a tracking number. My return is weighed and comes in at one pound one ounce.
"First Class with tracking is sixteen ten."
"Huh? It was nine dollars at home."
"It's because it's over thirteen ounces."
"What about Priority Mail? Isn't there a flat rate?"
"Can you get it in this?"
The clerk hands me a Priority Mail envelope and I know this box with the fancy-schmancy belt won't fit. I feel the other two breathing down my neck and decide to fuck off out of there.
"Thanks anyway. I'll do it at home."
Next door at Dom's Bakery Grand I get a loaf of semolina bread, a piece of focaccia and a sfogliatelle. On my way out of Hoboken I also stop at the Italian deli on Adams for a pound of fresh mozzarella for tonight's pizza. When I get home Joe the Painter is waiting on the steps. I park, grab the items in the trunk.
"How did it go with your catalytic converter? Did you find out what happened to it? Was it stolen?"
"I think they might've tried to steal it and got interrupted."
"Wow. How fucked up."
"Yeah. My mechanic quoted me four hundred and change. I'm waiting to hear about another place."
I usher Joe inside, then go get the paint he'll need for the bathroom. While he works I get to the basement and spend an hour dealing with That Cave stock. I'm hoping to get the boxes of books out and upstairs with the other books. Maybe then I can sell them online. My left arm begins to throb at the injection site and I keep hearing Dr. Frio's admonition not to lift anything heavy. What can I do? This is my burden.
Around 3 PM I've had enough and get upstairs to intercept Joe, who's wrapping up. He asks if he might get paid for the work done until now.
"Sure. I was going to write you a check. Unless you take some electronic payment."
"Yeah, I guess Venmo? I would use Zelle but don't have the right account."
"Oh. Zelle would be best for us but I can also do Venmo. What's your name on there?"
Joe tells me and I open the Venmo app and find him.
"Okay. I think I have you here. What do we owe so far?"
"I don't know. I guess three hundred?"
"Alright, let me send you that. It's asking for the last four digits of your phone number."
He tells me, I plug them in, nothing. I try again. Nope. Then Venmo asks if I want to send money without the phone number verification. It also wants to know if I'd like purchase protection. I answer YES and NO.
"Okay, I just paid you. Let me know if you see it."
Joe sits on the first floor landing staring at his phone.
"No."
"Your last name is spelled C-O-N-T-E, right?"
"No. It's an 'I' at the end."
"OH SHIT. I just paid the wrong person. Oh fuck. There's no way to get it back. SHIT."
"No, no... there has to be a way. What about calling your bank?"
I begin spiraling, imagining $300 going to some stranger who decides to hold on to it for a night on the town.
"Fuck. Fuck. I knew I shouldn't have used Venmo."
It's not even connected to our joint account. This $300 came out of my account and I was going to reimburse myself.
"Call your bank, see if they can stop it."
I do just that. They cannot. They tell me to contact Venmo. Which I do. It's a prerecorded message and I get nowhere.
"Joe, I'm sorry but I'm gonna write you a check and say goodbye."
I hurriedly make out a check for $300 and get Joe out the door. Then I Google How do I get my money back on Venmo if I paid the wrong person? The Venmo site says to make a request to that person for the same amount. Good luck with that. I decide to initiate a chat with Venmo Support. After explaining what happened and providing them all the info, the customer service rep issues a refund as a "One time courtesy". DON'T DO IT AGAIN, ASSHOLE. It'll take 1 - 5 business days to see the money. I ask the rep why. BECAUSE THAT'S HOW WE DO is the essence of the reply. I should consider myself lucky I'm not shit out of luck. I text Joe to tell him I should be able to get my money back. He's relieved. I don't add I'll believe it when I see it.
My head's pounding and I don't know whether to blame the 2nd Moderna booster or Venmo. I'm leaning Venmo. Time to get up to the office and set up for a new Aerial View. Tom Crowe joins me to discuss getting rid of shit. It's a Death Kleen for the May Queen.
I'm back. Aerial View went well. Started out with 1 person (probably me, monitoring the show) listening live at 6 PM and increased to 14 people by 6:30. That's right, a 1300% percent increase in listenership. I debated whether to share this with you. Who highlights having 14 listeners? But I've tried to be honest here, as much as possible without boring or depressing you to death. Writing SYNT is very much about what goes in and what's kept out. I'm not Karl Ove Knaussgard and this is not My Struggle. It's also not a diary or journal written for one's self. It's been years since I came home every day and "journaled". I may regret giving up on that ongoing documentation because this newsletter is an incomplete record. Left out are whole areas too personal to share, categories best navigated via shrink. Writing SYNT is therapeutic but not therapy. My mental health – like yours – has taken a hit since COVID-19. But so has my wallet, so I've cut back my weekly shrink sessions to bi-weekly until I can do more belt-tightening. These are the most fraught times I've known and getting through them has been a challenge on multiple fronts. My struggle is to keep pressing on despite frequently feeling overwhelmed and like I'm doing "it" wrong. "It" does heavy lifting here. A short alliterative "It" list:
Forgetful friend
Horrible husband
Hapless Homehowner
Jaded job-seeker
Miserable man
See? I'm convinced I'm awful at most things. This raises the important question What are you GOOD at?
Finding the humor in most things
Wordle
There. That's the whole list.
SATURDAY
Got up late today, 7:15 AM. After breakfast I set out for the Meadowlands Flea to meet up with Fabio. He's shopping for vinyl and I'm on the hunt for a vintage metal medicine cabinet. Ironically, I had one in That Cave. It came from the Myron Levistky Memorial Stash™. But it was too wide to fit in our upstairs bathroom, currently getting a mild refresh (new paint, deep clean). I need something less than 14" wide, 22" tall and 3.25" deep to fit in the same space as the current medicine cabinet. It's perfectly adequate but I never liked the farmhouse look. I'm also bringing a schoolhouse light fixture in hopes of finding a replacement (years of exposure to moisture brought on rust). I'm parked and hitting the first aisle (nearest Route 3) of "old junk" by 9 AM. It's already 73 degrees and I question my layered clothing approach. Soon I'll be removing my black snap-shirt. I've missed these Saturday mornings in the Meadowlands searching through all the trash for some treasure. Absent That Cave there isn't much point and while I owned That Cave I couldn't get here Saturday mornings. I was either in Saugerties or headed there at this hour. Now I'm moving from one side of the wide row to another, constantly criss-crossing to do the cursory scan, hoping my eye lights on something worth further inspection. The Meadowlands Flea (officially, the New Meadowlands Market) has an amazing array of offerings. You can find literally anything here and I have. So much of the stuff I'm now trying to lose came out of this place. I’m now considering getting a table here to unload it all. This is my circle of life. Today I am disciplined. The cash in my pocket is for a medicine cabinet and light fixture. If I find a nice old automatic watch reasonably priced (under $100) I may buy it. I'm also looking out for more vintage lighters: Sharon's asked me to put together lighters and watches for a Father's Day That Cave offering in Sixth Street Vintage beginning June 10th. I'm halfway up this first row when Fabio replies to my I'm here text. He's just parked and will catch up with me. I don't envy his task. Plowing through all the vinyl to find something not roached, reasonably priced and in demand requires diligence. There are other record dealers trolling here and too many vendors think their scratched-to-hell LPs are worth something.
At the end of the row I've yet to go in pocket despite being tempted by the switchblade salesman. I've seen him before. Keeps the legit blades out front, the illegal automatics stay in a canvas mechanic's bag. He'll put out a knife, flick the blade, lay it by the bag. He wants you to see but to not attract attention from the yellow-shirted Flea Security staff on the lookout for counterfeit and illegal merchandise. I have a switchblade collection focused on American, German and Italian manufacturers, with one or two Chinese knives mixed in. This guy – who sounds Russian – is selling only Chinese stuff. When I reach for a stiletto-style knife he grabs it from me, pushing my hand away.
"I do, I do."
He flicks the blade out, quickly collapses the knife, shoves it back in its nylon sheath. I reach for an OTF (Out The Front) automatic and he again slaps my hand away.
"No. Leave. I do."
He demonstrates the OTF. It dawns on me: this is the guy from whom I bought those red, white and blue-scaled stilettos and that OTF knife years ago. Something about the way he speaks to me today pisses me off. When I get out of earshot I call the main Flea number, ask if they have anyone doing enforcement. They do.
"You want to check out the knife vendor at J1."
That's the letter and number on the light-pole where the Switchblade Guy does his thing. Am I hypocrite? Of course. I own switchblades, even bought some from this guy. And I think the NJ law on buying, selling and owning them is antiquated in an age when almost anyone can buy a gun. But I also didn't like the way this guy treated me, warmly greeting a regular customer after he all but shooed me away. Fuck you, Switchblade Guy.
I turn the corner, head down the next aisle. Within a hundred feet I spy Fabio. He can't believe how hot it is already.
"That's the Meadowlands. No shade, nothing but hot asphalt. It can be brutal."
When Fabio's done with the box of records he's examining we continue down the aisle together. We criss-cross and I hit upon a Halliburton case. I can spot them a mile off. They have a distinctive aluminum shell and this one's in good shape. Not dented, no bad scratches. It appears to be a makeup-case and when I open it the distinct waft of vintage foundation hits me. I'm put in mind of that paper company co-worker who sent me anonymous emails professing a crush. When we finally met I let her know it wasn't cool to mislead someone who'd already said "I'm not interested." She wasn't a bad person but I couldn't get past the smell of her makeup.
"How much for the makeup case?!"
I'm being a bit loud to catch the vendor's attention. It's obvious this is a clean-out table (a random assortment of stuff from someone's home or storage unit) so I'm hoping the price is reasonable. Vintage Halliburton cases go for decent money depending on condition, and I've never seen a makeup case. This one has a removable mirror, intact, and a red pleather interior free from rips. There's also a bunch of crap in the case: tiny travel sewing kits from Atlantic City and Boston hotels probably long gone; a pair of travel slippers; a card with miniature clothespins for your lingerie, etc.
The vendor shouts back.
"It depends. Anything in there?"
He comes over, I show him the contents of the case.
"You want that stuff, take it. I'm only interested in the case. How much?"
The vendor give the Halliburton the once-over.
"Ten dollars?"
"Got any flexibility on that?"
"No. Ten dollars is good."
I hand him a twenty, get two fives in change.
"Thanks."
I find Fabio down the aisle a bit, crouched down, going through more records. We make slow progress because there's a fair amount of vinyl today. The next stash we stumble on is a dealer and is prices are out of whack. Fabio pulls out a copy of Led Zeppelin IV.
"This is pretty scratched. You have fifteen on it."
"It's Led Zeppelin."
"But it's beat up."
"So don't buy it."
"I won't."
He puts the record back. I wonder if I own a copy, then realize I must. Fabio and I discuss the vendor and the general disheartening trend of overpriced crappy records. A the end of this aisle we turn the corner and head up the aisle I've already done. I don't mind. This is my exercise for the day and the weather's agreeable if a bit too hot. I'm wondering if I should go in search of sunscreen but I'm focused on the medicine cabinet hunt. When we get back to where Switchblade Guy is I notice the automatic knives are gone. Were they confiscated? Or did he sell them to his regular? Perhaps he saw the yellow shirt coming and quickly chucked the mechanic's bag in his minivan? After Fabio and I stop to look at one vendor's watches, hearing a ludicrous price ($350) for a not-very-interesting Seiko 5 Automatic Diver's watch I let Fabio know my feelings.
"I hate to say this but when I hear a Russian accent here I know I'm about to get screwed."
"Yeah, they are...."
"Operators?"
"Yes, definitely operators."
Not to paint with too wide a brush but there's a few Russians – I'm looking at you, counterfeit Gibson and Fender guitar guy and you, overpriced watch guy – who are best avoided. I also avoid the Bellowing Men. There are always two or three older white dudes in funny hats who feel the need to bellow stock phrases, like
"Come and take some of this junk - umm, great stuff home, folks!"
"You won't find better prices than right here, people!"
"I'm selling and you're BUYING."
Today's Bellowing Man wears a beachcomber straw hat and XXL white T-shirt, nailing me in my right ear as I attempt to get past him.
"FOLKS, WE HAVE THE DEALS AND YOU HAVE THE CASH!"
Oh, please STFU.
I can't imagine the barking is helping, Bellowing Man.
At the end of this row (aisle, whatever) I tell Fabio I'm going to run the makeup case to my car. It's awkward to carry while also looking through shit. I fear I'll put it down and forget it. When I get back from my car Fabio's got a Technics turntable tucked under is arm.
"I leave you alone for two minutes and you buy a turntable?"
"It was ten dollars!"
Nice. It even has a cartridge, though who knows what the needle's like? Still, a great price on a belt-driven Technics. I tell Fabio about the Bang & Olufsen Beogram RX-2 I recently revived. I got it from the Brimfield Market for $40 and somehow lost the tiny cartridge it came with (stupid me, I thought it a better idea to remove the cartridge so it wouldn't get damaged carting the turntable around).
"Yeah, I found a reasonably-priced MMC4 cartridge on eBay, needle in good shape. The turntable was already set up for that cartridge and it sounds great."
Not long after I tell him about my Beogram we stumble on another. This is a different model, one with fake woodgrain now peeling off. I remove the cartridge and take a close look.
"Doesn't appear to be a tip on this."
And for $75 there's not enough meat on the bone to sell this at a profit. Oh well. We continue on, Fabio still bemoaning the heat. When we make it to Wade's collection of stuff I address the heat topic.
"Hey, Wade! You ever ask yourself why didn't they plant some trees when they were building this place?"
Wade laughs, then shows me a vintage Prohibition-era Sheriff's badge. It's cool but I don't need or want it. I want a vintage medicine cabinet and Wade doesn't have one. We move on. An aisle (row?) later I ask Fabio if he's heard recently from a mutual friend.
"I saw him a few weeks ago. He said you two had some kind of a tiff?"
"Yeah. I think I told you. I had put up a photo of a customer who bought a T-shirt from my store and I captioned it something like "Where are you gonna find one of these except at That Cave?' and he pasted a link to the place I bought the shirts from. It was fucked up."
"I'm sure he was just joking."
"Maybe. But it seemed pretty passive aggressive and when I called him out he gaslighted me. He acted like he didn't know I was selling the shirts myself. Meanwhile, that's why I posted the picture. These were shirts that sold for six dollars and I got twenty bucks for."
"Oh. Still, I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it."
"The history of our friendship was never good. In all the years I knew him he invited me over once. And that was because he wanted me to bring this girl I knew. He had a crush on her. It was supposed to be a party but I don't remember anyone else there. They ended up dating awhile."
Fabio tells me he understands, that this friend is a loner, comfortable that way and probably not in need of that much contact.
"I'm sure I'll reach out to him at some point. I no longer have the store so who cares about shirts? I was more upset that he gaslighted me, like what was happening wasn't what was happening."
Halfway down the next row (aisle) Fabio's bailing and we say our goodbyes. He's got to get to Hoboken where he's purchased a pair of vintage speakers. I continue to my last stop, Jimmy's Watches for two watch batteries, $5 each. The crowds have descended and I'm tired of dodging too many inattentive people, so I make a bee-line for my car and I'm home fifteen minutes later. Sweet T. and I are visiting friends near Hackettstown tonight and the rest of my day is spent busting out a rattle can (Gloss White Rustoleum) to repaint the current medicine cabinet. I'm also hitting the light fixture's canopy (the part that goes on the ceiling to cover the wires) with a coat of paint now that I cleaned it up with steel wool. If it comes out okay I can avoid buying another semi-flushmount light fixture.
I spread out a large, opened cardboard box with a canvas drop-cloth beneath. The medicine cabinet parts are spread out along with the light fixture canopy. The garage door's opened and I begin shaking the Rustoleum can. Then I noticed another can of the same white and use that up before starting in on the new can. Due to the heat I'm able to give it all a second coat in ten minutes. The rest of my time prior to our 4 PM departure is taken up with cleaning the upstairs bathroom and showering. Have I told you how much I hate cleaning, especially bathrooms? Fuck grout.
Sweet T. and I are out the door a bit early and the drive out to Hackettstown goes fast. We're at Tom and Jacque's by 5:20. Tom's still in the shower when we arrive. He's been putting up a garage with his friend Mike, who's joining us for dinner. The garage will harbor Crowe's hotrod, being cobbled together from bits and pieces acquired over a decade. We're here to contribute to his new garage in the form of some That Cave fixtures. I've brought Tom two shelving units from my backroom, a large entry mat and the drop-down shelf that was behind my counter. Oh, and one of those sliding screen inserts. After some chit-chat Tom and I go out to my car and transfer all the stuff to his car's trunk. The next few hours are spent happily eating, drinking and smoking some weed. It's mostly about the conversation, though. Tom and Jacque are great story-tellers and Sweet T. and I love being in their presence. There's lots of collective wisdom between them and we don't get to bask in it often.
Sweet T. and I had a conversation on the way here about when we'd pull up stakes. It's getting to be that time, after 9:30, before 10 PM. We reluctantly get up and out into the pitch-blackness. There's a house for sale not far from the Crowe's and we daydream about moving here.
"I'm not sure I'm ready to leave Weehawken yet."
I can't believe I'm saying that. And what do I mean? That I'm not physically ready because the house is still larded with my stuff? Or that I'm not ready to be uprooted and head into the Great Unknown? The heat these last few days – topping out at 93 today – makes me think I'd be suffering constantly in Southern California. Escaping the snow would be lovely but not to be endlessly sweating balls. There's also too much going on right now with the housing market. Is this where we'll age in place? Who knows. It's where we are now. But first we have to get home and Route 80 is not playing ball. When we get a bit east of Tom and Jacque's we hit a wall of traffic. It's 10:15 PM on a Saturday and the NJDOT has closed three lanes of Route 80, then shuttled us off the road entirely to run alongside it on some parallel route. We end up crawling for almost an hour in 5 mph or less bumper-to-bumper traffic. Sweet T. keeps hearing things like this from me:
"WHAT the FUCK is THIS?"
"There's NO actual CONSTRUCTION going on!"
"Why would they DO THIS to people on a SATURDAY night?"
Etc.
On Waze we see nothing but a solid red line stretching for miles. Route 80 is still to our left and there's no construction vehicles, unless you count a few NJDOT pickup trucks speeding along unhindered. It's like some sick joke.
"This is like that podcast Dead End we've been listening to. It's got to be about corruption. Someone's like "Yeah, let's give my guys something to do Saturday night.' but it's too hot to actually work so they just put out cones."
It's more traffic cones than I've seen in my life. They stretch on in multiple rows for miles and miles. If this lasts much longer we may be stuck here. I let Sweet T. know.
"We might overheat. Lee didn't do that flush and fill last time, he just topped off the antifreeze. The car's running very hot and if we don't get moving soon we could have a problem.”
What a memorable Saturday night that would be. I call Tom Crowe and deliver a heads up.
"If you know anyone looking to go eastbound on 80 tell them to forget it. It's a parking lot."
Tom says he'll warn his son who may or may not need Route 80 tonight. He wishes us luck and it must work because soon we're back on 80 and hurtling towards home. We make it just in time to catch the start of SNL’s season finale.
SUNDAY
Another hot day. We sleep late, 8:30 AM, get up and have a "big" breakfast. (two eggs, toast, fake breakfast sausage) and I start in on the cleaning/restoring of the upstairs bathroom. First I want to rehang the semi-flushmount schoolhouse light. I position our Fiberglas™ ladder straddling the tub and climb up to the ceiling with the fixture and its acorn nuts to attach it to the ceiling plate. I reconnect the wires with wire nuts but cannot get the bolts to peek through the holes in the canopy plate. I can get one through but when I go for two I lose one. Only a stream of cursing will help and I let loose.
"YOU MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!”
…is the least of it. I'd be embarrassed but the window's closed and Sweet T.'s in her studio with the radio up. She still asks what's wrong and my response is clipped, angry.
"I can't have a conversation about it right now."
I wouldn't know where to begin: There's a rat's nest of old wires up here and I can't get this thing to mount properly? And I can't, no matter what I do. Then it goes from bad to worse when I notice bare insulation on the hot wire (I've turned the power to the light off). It's old, cloth-covered wire probably in place since Christ left Chicago. I don't want to mess around with any further for fear of more insulation giving up the ghost. I climb down the ladder with more choice curse words. Then I text the electrician, due here on Wednesday. He writes back that he should be able to re-insulate the wires with rubber (AKA Friction) tape. I'm skeptical. Who knows the extent of the insulation loss? Or how many times these wires come in close contact? Fuck. I'm envisioning a top-to-bottom rewiring to the tune of ten grand. Fuck.
I'm completely drenched through my T-shirt but get back into the bathroom, remove the ladder and continue cleaning the grout and tile. We'd love to do a re-model on this bathroom but it'll have to wait until more pressing issues are addressed. At 4 PM I've had enough. Time to shower, have a Kyiv Mule and eat some dinner. The night ends with three hours of American Idol. Of course, the white Country dude wins.
MONDAY
Sweet T. assures me there aren't too many more Mondays when we'll need to arise at 6:00 AM. While I love getting a jump on the day I can't seem to fall asleep until Midnight or just after. I'm routinely getting less than six hours of sleep a night. This is yet another Thing That's Bad For Me That I Really Need To Change Yet Can't Seem To. It's here where I digress into a self-hating sidebar about my utter lack of will or discipline. As 60 rapidly approaches I ask with increasing frequency What have I achieved? and How do I work toward what I want? and Why does it hurt when I pee?
OK, only two of those are true.
But questions about my willpower and discipline have dogged me since I first put on weight during puberty. Sweet T. and I were watching Shark Tank Friday and one of the entrepreneurs was a guy who lost 200 or 300 pounds. Some shark asked how and he said he took to the gym for six hours a day and changed the way he ate. He made it sound simple. When I was deep in teenage self-loathing I'd sit on the edge of my bed imagining tearing off fat in chunks and throwing it in the trash. I also dreamt of waking up thin. My hatred of my own body was so profound I couldn't imagine doing anything good for it. Exercise? That's hard and painful. Eat well? Fuck that. I want something that tastes good and I want more of it. I was utterly disconnected from my corporeal self and wanted to live entirely in my mind.
If only they knew the real me, if only they saw past this shell was something I muttered so often I should've gotten it tattooed on me. Maybe in Latin? Or Chinese characters? I existed in limbo, stuck between a desperate need for acceptance and resentment most couldn't overlook my weight to see other qualities. I suppose I was an incel before we knew what that was. What saved me from today's incel fate? Punk Rock. A sense of humor. My huge cock. OK, only two of those are true.
If I never had success dating maybe I would've done something about my body sooner. Now that I've been married almost 15 years I'm at my lowest weight in 40. Have I finally gotten willpower, discipline? Not so much. I stopped hating myself. Which led to being better to myself. It certainly helps that I found someone who loves me for me, who did see past my body. I was probably at my heaviest when Sweet T. and I met but I won her over with my sparkling wit and shimmering personality. And huge cock.
OK, only two of those are true.
Willpower and discipline will be required today. I'm putting the upstairs bathroom back together, even if I can't reinstall the ceiling light fixture. After breakfast and Sweet T.'s departure I do some writing for the newsletter, then get my ass to LIDL for groceries. We're trying to get what we need somewhere besides Whole Paycheck. LIDL claims to have Organic Produce but their selection is meager. I grab organic brussels sprouts, lettuce, limes and spinach. Despite the "Organic" signs I don't find much else and pass on the garlic, onions, peppers, potatoes and fruit. I go up and down every row and bemoan the selection, though they are offering more choices. They finally have a fresh fish section, despite not having a fishmonger or fish counter. Everything's prepackaged, like the cold-cuts and meat. There's no butcher at LIDL. It's a bare-bones operation, with one or two of the six registers manned regularly. I've never seen three open registers. And there's no Self Serve, though they DO make you bag your own groceries. I have bags with me. Since the statewide bag ban began (May 4) they won't even give you paper bags. BUY THEM. Or those Tyvex bags. LIDL turns over an incredible amount of square footage to hard goods and I don't know why. Someone must be buying the random, weird shit on offer (full disclosure: I bought a $19 laminator and a $10 mixer at LIDL). But a backyard POOL for $149? Is someone REALLY buying an above-ground pool at LIDL?
The shopping takes an hour and when I get to the register my bags from home are missing. Stupidly, I put them on the bottom of the cart and they must've fallen off. My purchases have all been scanned: I only need to pay up and bag them. In a first for a LIDL employee, the cashier offers to go look for the bags himself.
"What do they look like?"
"It's a black ACME bag with red trim and a zipper. The other bags are in that."
"I'll be right back. Hopefully, no one took it."
I don't know whether to join him or wait with my paid-for food. I decide to pile it all into my cart and roll the cart off to the side near a window. The cashier quickly reappears with my bags.
"Found them!"
"Where?"
"Over by the cereal."
Young man you will go far in the LIDL organization.
At home I eat last night's pasta and pesto for lunch, then gather myself to reassemble the bathroom. First, I need to clean the bathtub, sink and toilet. My rubber cleaning gloves and a KN95 mask go on. The bathtub is hit with a pumice stick, then a rinse, more pumice, another rinse and then Bon Ami scouring powder. I use my Hitachi drill with a scrubber attachment all over the bathtub. Then rinse again. The results are encouraging and I move on to the sink. More pumice and Bon Ami. The toilet's last and I use Clorox toilet bowl cleaner first, then flush, then go at the hard water stains with the pumice stick. The window's wide open and there's a bit of a breeze. But I keep the door closed so curious Marty doesn't come to inspect my work. This bathroom is tiny and navigating requires much contorting. I'm gonna need more chiropractic when this is done.
With the cleaning finished I repatriate everything cleared out prior to painting. Shower curtain. Glass shelf. Bathroom scale. Rug. Antique mirror. Garbage can. Soap dispenser. Everything that didn't come out of the medicine cabinet goes back where it lived previously. Then I reinstall the medicine cabinet minus its door and shelves. Sweet T. gets home and I call down to her.
"I'm in the bathroom rebuilding it!"
Fine by her. She's taking a shower downstairs.
The hinges are installed, then the door's attached. I've kept the mirror out of the door until now. Sweet T.'s out of the shower and she assists on the mirror installation, holding the medicine cabinet door so it doesn't flop around.
"Thanks, honey."
The shelf supports go in and the three wooden shelves are added. I've cut up some Naugahyde as shelf liner and those go in. Then I repopulate the cabinet with my shaving gear, deodorant, bandages and all the other shit you hide away in the medicine cabinet. The bathroom (except for the damn light fixture) is done.
We order Chinese food and discuss our respective days over dinner. Both of us are excited about the next few weekends when we'll get to visit loved ones and friends. My cabin fever is finally subsiding and I look forward to packing some suitcases and spending time with those who matter.
OK, only two of those are true.
Meatloaf – Two Out Of Three Ain't Bad
ART MAKES YOU SMART!
Sweet T.'s in a few art shows. Get out of the house and join us!
Sat. May 7 – Sat., June 11, 2022
Expressions 2022
NCA Gallery at the Shirt Factory
71 Lawrence Street – Suite #120
Glens Falls, NY 12801