Sweet T.’s off today so we sleep late. 7 AM. Wow! Breakfast is "Salmon Candy" (cream cheese & salmon spread) on whole wheat bagels with “Hybrid” (half decaf) coffee and an orange. Then Sweet T. returns to the Orthopedic Surgeon for an update on her fractured leg while I busy myself here with – yes –straightening up. My other activity? Trying not to shit-talk myself for yet another premature withdrawal from my 401. I hoped to wait until September but Fidelity called, something they never do and wouldn’t absent the market’s current stomach-churning gyrations. After counseling me about “volatility” I was asked “Is there anything else we can do for you today?”
I want to ask “If the market takes a giant shit and my 401K’s wiped out yet I somehow manage to live to a ripe old age is it true I’m royally fucked”
What I said was "Actually, there IS something else. I want to make a withdrawal.”
It hurt like hell but in under minute I took out what should get me through the next year. Was it because I just read that New York Times article For Tens of Millions of Americans, the Good Times Are Right Now, then made the mistake of also perusing the comments section?
What the hell are you talking about? My retirement fund is down 12%!
I don't dare sell my house because I couldn't afford another one.
What planet does this author live on?!
Maybe this was true six months ago. Not now, not with inflation!
I concur. It all seems precarious, like it could quickly go pear-shaped. Full disclosure: I was raised to worry endlessly about the one thing we never had. Some of my mother’s greatest money hits:
"How'd ya like to live on the street?!"
"You'll drive us to the poor house!"
"Do you think we're MADE of money?!"
These and so many more etched forever in my brain are why I see ruin wherever I look and have no confidence in my ability to keep the lights on, despite decades of proof to the contrary. Fuck this. TIME TO BE IN THE MOMENT. TIME TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE. When Sweet T. gets back home she asks if I want to accompany her to the Secaucus Outlet stores so she can find fancy shoes to go with the dress she's wearing to my niece's wedding.
"Outlet stores? They don't have those anymore, not that I know of. I was in Secaucus not that long ago."
That's inaccurate. I was in Secaucus prior to the lockdown, March 2020. Long ago and far away. I saw a few outlet stores, not the dozen or more that once dotted the area. To confirm, I go online, look. PERMANENTLY CLOSED over and over. Recent articles in local publications lament the disappearing outlet stores. I convey all this to my wife but she must me from Missouri because she needs to see for herself.
She lets me know she's not going to any indoor malls. And taking the highway to Elizabeth on her day off is like going to work. No way. We get in the Prius and drive west via Route 3 to Secaucus. Ten minutes later we’re on Meadowlands Parkway amongst an odd mix of warehouses, broadcast operations (WOR-TV, Major League Baseball, etc.), medical offices, hospitals and condos. UPS also has a massive complex here. But it's an ugly, isolated area with no supermarkets, drugstores, banks, restaurants or retail you can walk to. They don't bother with sidewalks here.
I navigate as Sweet T. drives but I can't tell you where we're headed except "this area". “This area" is where there was one outlet after another. Now all that remains is Eileen Fisher, Calvin Klein and one or two others. No shoe outlets. We stop at Calvin Klein and they have one or two casual shoe styles. Eileen Fisher has a bigger assortment but the ones Sweet T. likes are not in her size and if her size is in stock she doesn't like the look.
When we get back in the car she admits You were right. That's when I lower the boom.
"Hear me out. American Dream is right here, not even two miles away. They must have shoe stores in there. It won't be busy. Let's give it a try."
Sweet T. reluctantly agrees. She's having no luck shopping online for shoes and has already returned several pair. She needs to do this in person. So she agrees. Let's try it.
American Dream in the Meadowlands began life in 1994 and has a tortured, meandering history. It was conceived as an 70% entertainment, 30% shopping and food destination but died numerous times during its multi-decade gestation. Developers ran out of time and money, the 2008 financial collapse intervened, the NY Giants and Jets sued, on and on. Finally, Triple 5 – the firm that brought you the Mall of America – stepped in. They finished the construction and were set to open to great fanfare in Spring of 2020. You know the rest. COVID. Lockdown. Of the 450 retail locations only 200 are occupied. By far the most popular part of the mall is the amusement area, though the one-a-kind ski jump closed due to a fire and has yet to reopen. I suppose people ride the huge ferris wheel but I'm not. We're here for shoes and that's it. MAYBE a pretzel. BUT THAT'S IT.
We park, which is super-easy because it's 11 am on a Wednesday and no one's here. Knowing nothing about the layout, we've managed to park at one end of the mall, the A section (there's four sections, A through D). The first business I spot on entering is a Walgreen's. An upscale shopping destination with a Walgreen's? I don't know what I was expecting but it looks like a bigger, slightly fancier version of any mall you've seen. We stop at an interactive directory to find shoe stores.
"Let's type in S-H-O-E-S..."
THERE ARE NO RESULTS FOR YOUR SEARCH.
"How can that be? Are they saying there's no shoe stores in here?"
Sweet T.'s at another directory and tells me I need to type in FOOTWEAR.
"Are you fucking kidding me? This thing can't respond to SHOES but footwear is okay? That's just dumb."
We get the names and locations of a few stores selling shoes and begin walking. The ratio of mall employees to customers is 4-to-1 and every worker we see is staring at their phone. A storefront renting strange stuffed animals to ride on catches my eye.
“They must be self-propelled or why would you pay $10 to take one out?”
Sweet T. shows no interest so we keep walking through A-block and toward C-block. That's where the shoes are supposed to be. There are three levels to American Dream and I keep wondering if were on the right one. Maybe all the shoes are just above us? Whenever we see shoes in a store we stop in, unless it's Foot Locker or Champs or another athletic shoe joint. I'm surprised to see no standalone shoe stores, no Fabco or Globe or – fuck me – Thom McCann. I ask one salesperson where we can find some shoes and he waves his arm toward the rest of the mall.
"Keep going that way. There's an escalator on your right. Take that to the second floor, section C."
"C section, eh?"
He doesn't laugh.
We head that way but there's a shoe store here. Just football field after football field of boarded up storefronts with cool graphics and pics of what's COMING SOON.
"They ought to change the name of this place to 'Coming soon in the Meadowlands'..."
We walk and walk and walk. Then we walk some more. All the way to the D section, past the ski jump and ferris wheel and amusement park. This way madness lies. When we reach Saks 5th Avenue we're at the end, so we turn around and come back on the second level. It's the same thing. No shoe stores. Just a pair of non-suitable shoe here and there. Sweet T. checks another directory and somehow discovers a Designer Shoe Warehouse (DSW). Fuck. It's all the way back in Section A, right about where we entered. We head back. And there it is. A big, shiny standalone DSW. The selection is mind-boggling and everything's discounted. Sweet T.’s after a particular style black shoe. Kitten heels are mentioned but I don't know what those are so I hold up any shoe that might fit the bill, waiting for her thumbs up or down. Occasionally I hit pay dirt and she asks to see what I hold. More often I bomb. We spend a solid twenty minutes in DSW looking at countless pairs of shoes. Then we leave empty-handed.
"If you can't find them here you're not gonna find them anywhere but Zappos or something online like that."
Sweet T. agrees. We head for the exit.
"Hey, I'm getting a pretzel."
Our parking’s free until 12:08 PM, then we pay $4. By the time the nice girl at Wetzel's Pretzels hands me my pretzel and cheese dip I know we'll never make.
"Keep the change."
We get back to the car and hit the exit four minutes late. That'll cost me $4. All told, I get in a mile or more of power walking, eat a $10 pretzel, pay $4 to park for four minutes and otherwise leave empty-handed.
Sounds like the American Dream, no?
THURSDAY
These early mornings will soon be a thing of the past. Sweet T. has 29 or 28 days left at her job. Then she's retired and I sincerely doubt we’ll be rising at 6 AM. Maybe if we're taking a long drive somewhere. Me, I'd be okay with 8 AM, 7 to not feel a total slacker. Or maybe we let the sun wake us. This I didn't fall asleep until after Midnight and got less than six hours in Slumberland shit has run its course. I feel exhausted. And I face a few big decisions today.
Decision #1: Do I go to that interview at 10:30 AM with NY Waterway, the people who run the ferries across the Hudson? Yesterday, on a whim, I applied for a Deckhand position, thinking This is a low-pressure job I can do. I’ll admit to not thinking it through and acting more from panic. Within minutes of sending an email with resume PDF attached I heard back.
Can you come in tomorrow, 10:30 AM, for an interview?
Yes. Where do I find you?
NY Waterway's offices are at their Port Imperial Ferry Terminal, a place I've been many times since moving to Weehawken in 2007. The ferry service began life in 1986, cobbled together by Arthur Imperatore, who – with his brothers -– went into trucking after World War II and did well enough to buy a two-mile stretch along the Weehawken coast. Then he needed to figure out what to do with the land. This area traditionally had ferry service up and down the Hudson River. But the boats were eventually abandoned in favor of rail and bus lines into Manhattan. Ridership plummeted and the ferries went away. Arthur Imperatore thought he could get people back on the water with an innovation: free bus service down to the water. People thought it folly but he stuck with it, even designing the boats in-house (to be built in Warren, RI). NY Waterway almost went into Chapter 11 a few years before I became a regular customer (paying roughly $250 – $290 per monthly pass). It’s hung in there and now has routes from Jersey City up to Haverstraw. I took to the water initially in the late '90s when I needed to get to NPR's NY Bureau on 2nd Ave. just north of 42nd Street. My 126 bus from Hoboken routinely got delayed in the Lincoln Tunnel and a quick trip turn would turn into an hours-long slog. When cellphones began working everywhere (even in the tunnel) and "Anytime Minutes" became a thing, the bus ride went from insufferable to hellish. The roots of my tinnitus are in those bus rides. I'd cram earbuds into my earholes as far as possible, turning the music up to harmful levels. Anything to escape the inane conversations of my fellow passengers. Strike that. These weren't conversations because you never heard the other side, just the moron sitting near you. I got into confrontations regularly.
"Hey. How long you gonna be on the phone?"
It was a losing battle. People looked at me like I transported in from the last century. It was their Constitutionally-protected right to gossip with friends while giving themselves brain cancer (oh, the old days, when inconsiderate assholes would hold a phone to an ear instead of out in front of them while shouting into the speakerphone). The ferry – eventually billing itself The Civilized Commute – took 7, 8 minutes. Yes, it was more expensive. But you got a free bus ride to the boat and a free bus in Manhattan to within walking distance of your destination. And you didn't have to listen to She got SO drunk last night, dude...
Often my ass was saved by the NY Waterway buses across 42nd Street, which moved at a faster clip than the M42 bus the city runs (the M42 is always the slowest bus line in Manhattan). When we moved to Weehawken in 2007 Sweet T. would drop be at Lincoln Harbor in the morning on her way to work and I'd figure out how to get home in the afternoon. I was on my way to the ferry terminal the day Sully landed that plane on the Hudson. Missed it by that much (holds thumb and forefinger together), delayed from my usual boat while filling in for my co-host on the channel. By the time I got to the ferry terminal they were bringing in survivors of the Miracle on the Hudson. In a heavy Noo Yawk accent a cop told us "If you don't have any business heah yoo need to LEAVE.”
I got a jitney near the Burger King on 42nd and made it back to Weehawken in time to watch the plane float down the Hudson.
I enjoyed my morning ferry ride from Lincoln Harbor as it was usually just me and a handful of others. Even if a fellow commuter was on the phone our presence in each other's company was over quick. The boat never got stuck halfway across the river (the bus got stuck coming up the long hill to Boulevard East but that was due to heavy snow). I rode the bus and boat in all weather, learned how to protect myself from the elements via layers. I rode it so often I even ended up in one of their commercials. I'm not sure I ever took much notice of the deckhands except to show my ticket and say Hello. The Deckhand ad I saw doesn't mention the pay but online the possible range is $12 – $15 per hour. I wasn't going to tell Sweet T. about the interview but I end up doing so over breakfast. She's a bit incredulous, asking if I really want to do that.
Don't you need to know how to swim?
"I don't know. Probably. It would be a good idea, if you're on a boat all day."
Stupid me, I pictured one of those lifesaving rings tossed to me if I went overboard.
"It could be okay. I don't know. I worry that I'll have to pee and where am I supposed to do that?"
Sweet T. asks if there's a bathroom on the boats.
"No. They use the bathroom at the terminal if they have to go."
I find other ways to talk myself out of it. Like I'd be taking a job away from someone who truly needs it. Or that they'd get one look at me and judge me too old. Perhaps most compelling? It's not what I want to do with my time. Still. I should go, see what it's all about. I'll need to shower, change.
My phone pops up a Ring alert. Someone's moving outside our door. I open the Ring app, see a gold Honda sedan parked at an odd angle blocking our driveway.
Not this shit again.
The Honda’s behind a U-Haul van. A black woman is crouched down by the van’s front passenger tire, which is completely flat. I put on my boots and a hat, grab the garage door remote and go outside.
"Excuse me? Do you know who owns the Honda?”
She pulls her phone away from her ear.
"Oh! That's mine. I'm sorry."
I hear a French accent and take her for Haitian.
"My tire is flat. I'm on the phone with U-Haul. They have me on hold."
There's foam on the tire, like she tried some Fix-a-Flat. As we speak a middle-aged white man approaches from the other side of the street, eyeing me suspiciously.
"Everything okay Jessie?"
"I was trying to find you. I have a flat."
I point at our house.
"I live right here. I was going to help."
"Hi. I'm John. Across the street, down the block. Jessie is my tenant."
I've never seen either one of them before. But they’re neighbors.
"Listen, I'm going to go change and I'll come back out and help.”
As I head in the house John gets on his phone.
"Jessie, no luck with U-Haul? Maybe I can call triple A."
I go back inside and put on actual pants (I was in sweats). On the way back to the U-Haul I stop in our garage for my four-way lug wrench and work gloves. From my trunk I grab my wheel-chock. Jessie and John have located the van's scissor jack and are trying to figure out how the spare – mounted beneath the van’s rear – is removed.
"I'm not sure this is the best place to do this. You're on a hill. This thing may want to roll. Probably want to get to a flat spot."
Jessie climbs in, moves the van to the corner opposite the Volunteer Ambulance Corps and Senior Nutrition Center parking lot. John and I walk down to meet her. I hand him my wheel chock.
"Would you please put this behind the driver's side rear tire?"
I ask Jessie to make sure the van's parking brake is applied. Then I begin loosening lug nuts with the four-way. Except these lug nuts are plastic.
"What the hell? Fake lug nuts? Never seen this before."
The lug nuts loosen but don't come entirely out of the center cap. I've never changed a tire on a GMC van, so this will require some consultation.
"Can someone locate the owner's manual? Or Google how to remove the tire?"
Jessie finds the owner's manual and hands it to John. He finds something towards the back about what to do if your tire blows out while driving. He hands me the manual.
"Here you go..."
"Yeah, this is about a blowout. We need the part where they tell us how to remove the tire and jack this up."
I look in the index, find TIRE, REMOVAL.
"Page 265. Here we go."
The eight lug nuts need around the center cap need to be completely loosened, then the center cap can be removed.
I do as the manual commands. The center cap comes off, revealing actual lug nuts.
"I've never seen anything like this. What the hell is the point?"
With the four-way I loosen the lug nuts a bit. The next struggle is figuring out how to drop the mechanism holding the spare. The manual tells us to assemble several lengths of “spear”, shove it through a hole near the back bumper, then guide it into a slot on the lowering mechanism and turn it counter-clockwise via the jack handle/lug wrench. The spare will then obligingly lower itself to the ground. Except we can't find the hole. I’m guessing it’s in the van floor around the vicinity of the spare.
"Should be under this piece of rubber."
In the back of the van Jessie’s moving her catering equipment so we can lift the rubber floor mat. John’s curious.
"Jessie, do you have an event or something? What time do you need to be there?"
"Yes. I'm supposed to be setting up by 11 AM and need to be there by 10 AM."
I glance at my watch. It's a few minutes to 9.
"If we can figure this out you might still make it."
But we can't find the hole, even after Jessie slides all the catering equipment forward and pulls up the rubber mat. Then I spy a hole just about the back bumper.
"They could've put an illustration in the manual. Duh."
We stick the "spear" in the hole, engage with the mechanism and lower the spare to the street. Jessie crawls under, frees the spare.
"Got it!"
John updates us on AAA.
"They say they'll be here in half an hour.
"We might be done by then."
"Should we wait?"
"We're almost finished. Now we just need to jack this up. Does the manual tell you where to place the jack?"
John hands me the manual. The jack needs to go under a crossmember and behind the wheel with the flat. I get down on my stomach and move the jack into place. It's way short of the crossmember, so I raise it by hand until it's just snug. Then we use the same "spear" with a hook on the end to raise the jack. It's fucking hard and slow-going. After a dozen rotations I'm huffing and puffing, amazed no one’s jumping in to relieve me.
"Does anyone else want to have this much fun?"
Jessie takes over until she's also petered out. John's on his phone with AAA again. He shows no interest in getting involved with this part but offers an opinion.
"I think you're clear now..."
The flat is barely off the street.
"I don't think so. There isn't enough room to get the spare on."
I take over from an exhausted Jessie and manage to get the front of the van sufficiently lifted to accommodate the spare. Now it's time to remove the lug nuts, which goes quickly with the four-way wrench. I lift the flat off, place it against the curb.
"Someone want to roll that spare over here?"
John goes and gets the spare from the rear of the van. With Jessie he tries to lift it into place and get it aligned with the lugs. They're having no luck and I'm about to get on my butt and do it the old-school way, with my feet and hands. Then they manage to get it placed properly.
"Triple A says they're two minutes away."
"In my experience, they never account for Lincoln Tunnel traffic. Anyone coming here is always thirty to sixty minutes late."
I grab the center cap holding the lug nuts and start to twist them on to the lugs. Jessie helps We snug them all down.
"Can you lower the jack?"
Jessie makes short work of it and the van's back on the ground. I use the four-way to tighten the lugs fully.
"Triple A is right around the corner."
"We're basically done."
Then they show up, two dudes in a small pickup. They park and walk over to us
"Hey! Doing it old school!"
One of them likes my four-way lug wrench. But he wants to grab his impact wrench anyway, tighten the lug nuts further. John’s encouraging them.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea. Then you can't get this off again if you need to."
It's like my engineer friend John Fogarazzo said to me years ago: "You're not building a bridge."
In other words, don't over-tighten this shit.
Triple A dude is determined to do SOMETHING, so he retrieves his impact wrench and an assortment of sockets and goes at it. When he's done the lug nuts show tell-tale signs of having been slightly stripped. This is why I invested in a torque wrench for swapping out my Mercedes rims. You're not building a bridge.
The Triple A dude replaces the center cap and ignores my "Hey, those are plastic!" as he uses the same impact wrench to snug the cap down. The flat goes in the back of the van, along with the jack, lug wrench and "spear". I look at my watch. It's 9:22 AM.
"Hey, you can still make it!"
Jessie is hugely relieved, a smile on her face. She thanks us profusely and climbs in the van. As she drives off and John and I walk back up the hill I wonder if anyone remembered to pull the spare mechanism back up. Or is it dragging along the road now? Oh well. I did what I could.
John and I chat as we walk. Jessie's been his tenant for three years, moving out in a few days.
"I'm sorry this is the first time we're meeting."
"Yeah. Same here."
But they live in the middle of the block and it might as well be Pennsylvania.
Back inside, I have enough time to shower and change yet again for my 10:30 interview. Then I notice a twinge over my left shoulder blade. Whatever I woke up with has been exacerbated by the tire change. Dropping into a living room chair (Marty jumps on my lap as soon as I do), I grab my phone and check email. There's one from the NY Waterway people. We look forward to seeing you. Here's an application to fill out before you get here. The pay is $15 an hour. Minimum wage. After 60 days I'd also get health benefits and a shot at a 401K. I'd be on a split-shift, expected to work nights and weekends and whenever they need me ("Expect overtime.”). I write back.
"Thanks for the opportunity but unfortunately I can't work for that rate of pay. I appreciate this."
Maybe I'm making a mistake. I probably should've gone, seen if they have any other jobs, customer service work, etc. But they would've advertised that gig, right? Alongside the Deckhand and Bus Driver and Third Mate jobs? Fuck. Here am I turning down potential work. Do I think I'm too good for it? Or do I want my freedom?
Marty and I take a nice cat nap, then I'm in the front bedroom clearing off bookcase shelves, relocating some items, throwing out the rest. There's more of the same work in the office and out in the garage. The garage mess occupies most of my time. When there was nowhere else to dump shit from That Cave it was piled on my workbench. I do mean "piled". The stack of crap is two to three feet high. Approaching it like any other mess, I start from one corner – in this case, the left – and work my way to the right, making multiple decisions about each item. Is this trash? Can it serve a future purpose? Can it be sold? Given away? Is it time to let go of it? When I get to the two sets of mid-'60s KLH stereo speakers I decide to keep the pair with the cabinets not beat-to-hell and toss the other ones. I can't bring myself to throw the drivers out, too, so I use my power drill to remove the woofers and tweeters. They're the same size as those in my Acoustic Research speakers and the nice pair of KLHs, so who knows? If I had any sense it’d all go in the trash.
I'm still in the garage working when Sweet T. gets home. She inches the Prius past me and I wrap up what I was doing. To my great relief, she notices my effort.
Over take-out dinner we discuss the situation next door, the Tiki torch incident from Monday night. I've written an email to the homeowner, Dr. Ketamine – who we haven't seen in person since last August or September – and sent it off to my lawyer friend Bob for vetting. He suggests some changes and I do a rewrite, then send it off at 5:20 PM. Sometime between then and 8 PM Sweet T. notices the Tiki torches are now gone.
"He must've contacted his tenants, told them to get rid of them."
While we're watching The Big Conn on Netflix my phone rings. It's Dr. Ketamine. NOW he wants to talk? I let it go into voicemail and he leaves a 12-second message, roughly Call me back.
No, I don't think I will. When I tell Bob about the developments since sending our email, he writes back Good! Let him hang. Work with your other neighbors on this.
FRIDAY
Again, the week has flown by and I'm left bemoaning my time management skills. There's an endless to do list and I get to a tenth of it if lucky. Too many mornings I can't get started, like today, when I crawl back into bed after Sweet T. leaves. I know this isn't good, that I need to stop. Maybe tomorrow. Right now, two more hours of sleep would be bliss. Marty snuggles up to my left side, Roger goes in his "bassinet" on the low dresser and we all cat nap. When I finally wake it's almost 10:30 AM. I call the chiropractor, make an appointment for Noon in Hoboken. Then I get dressed and grab some shopping bags so I can hit the food store on the way back. By 11:15 I'm headed to Hoboken, building in enough time to find parking and arrive fifteen minutes early. Dr. Frio ushers me into his office and asks what's going on.
"I messed up my left shoulder blade. Probably lifting something."
Frio does all his pressure point hoodoo and exclaims "Here you go! You see that?"
I nod, even though I have no idea how he pinpoints the problem. He makes a few adjustments and the pain above my left shoulder blade is gone. Then he goes for extra points with my neck via the ol' head-twist. CRACK. Fuck, that is so disconcerting.
After he's done we talk about our wives retiring. They're both schoolteachers and are done with the profession. But his wife is retiring four years shy of qualifying for paid health care.
"They would've covered her for life! Now I have to pay for it."
I tell him about my struggles finding work.
"They don't want you if you're my age."
"Tell me about it. I'm seventy."
"When do you plan to retire?"
"Who knows? Now I'm paying for health care. And I still have kids in college."
I'd feel worse for Dr. Frio but he moves patients in and out like Jiffy Lube does oil changes. To my surprise, I have a credit, so no co-pay. I take the money I saved to Uptown Pizza across the street for lunch, then I get to the car wash. I debate washing the car at home but I hate washing my car. I always feel I'm doing it wrong. And I no longer have the car wash concentrate. I'm not sure what soap makes a suitable replacement. The car wash recently upped their EXTERIOR ONLY wash to $13 and I tip $2, so it's now a $15 for my car to look good for 24 – 48 hours. Then the birds will shit all over it and it'll get dirty and dusty. Maybe I should invest in some good car wash soap. I have everything else but a decent chamois.
After the car wash I hit the Whole Paycheck for soy creamer and a few other hold-us-over items. Back home I go tearing apart the basement closet to find a blender jar for my cousin Nancy, coming to cat-sit tomorrow. Of course, the box with the blenders is at the bottom of a stack of six bankers boxes BEHIND a stack of six bankers boxes. Fuck. Nancy and I have been going back and forth on this blender business for months. The first blender jar I got her – from Zaborski's Emporium in Kingston – turned out to be too small. Let's see if I come up with a suitable size. I've offered Nancy a complete blender (three came back from That Cave) in case we can't make a match. First, I need to extract the box with the blenders. Dr. Frio was just telling me not to lift anything heavy for a weeks and I'm doing exactly that. Fucking books. A banker's box stuffed with books must weigh thirty pounds. There are two at the bottom of the first pile. Angling them out of the confined space of the basement closet I ask myself that near-constant question Why am I keeping this shit?! These are books I got free, review copies sent to SiriusXM by publicists and publishing companies, sometimes authors themselves. Much of it is dreck. Hastily-released attempts to capitalize on a moment in the news or culture, almost none are books I'd buy. Would I go out and get Steve Schirippa's book about being a dad? Yes, he was on The Sopranos. No, I would't have a signed copy of his book if he wasnt' flogging it on the radio. Same can be said for Marvin Gaye's widow and her memoir. Or that Army member taken hostage in an international incident we've all forgotten. These boxes of books have been moved multiple times within and without this house. I've lost count but should start putting tick marks on the side of the box to remind me. I'd be horrified. Why am I keeping this shit? Because it might have value? Have you seen what used books sell for? Even signed? Then there's the aggravation of listing them online, boxing them up, printing labels, shipping. Rare books, first editions, those pulled from print – they might be worth a few bucks. The rest are destined to be unloved. I've been in enough thrift stores to know. Now the heavy boxes are dropped on the sofa while I excavate. After five minutes I've moved nine boxes to reveal one labeled BLENDERS. It's shuttled upstairs. If what Nancy needs isn't in this box I don't have it.
It's a crap, rainy day and I'm glad to be indoors and dry. Even if it was sunny I'm pinned down here because my new Doc Martens are due between 2:45 and 5:15 PM. We have a porch pirate problem and if I'm not here when that big, fat, juicy box is placed against our door the odds are good it'll quickly grow legs. All the years we've been here you'd think we'd figure out a better solution than Put it on the side of the house (anyone could yoink a package over our low gate) or texting the neighbors to ask if they can retrieve a package ( works about 50% of the time). Me buying new shoes happens maybe once every four years and these are "fancy" shoes, so make it once every eight years. So I putter around the house getting ready for tonight's new Aerial View and submitting a tip to the Suffolk County LISK task force.
What is LISK? Long Island Serial Killer. Sometimes LISK's victims are collectively known as the Gilgo Beach Murders, as that's where the bodies were eventually found. After a long period with no momentum there's been an information dump the past few days. Some of what's come to light only helps fuel my theory that my old friend and Nihiistics bandmate Mike Nicolosi should be ruled out as a suspect. Hear me out. I've told the story here about the last time I saw Mike, around Thanksgiving 2000. He tried to strangle me to death. I'm not being hyperbolic or dramatic. After a night of beer drinking and watching Maniac (a movie about a serial killer), Mike pushed me back into a couch, stuck his knee in my chest and clamped his hands around my throat. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, and was beginning to black out when his wife Jeanine saw what was happening from the kitchen and rushed out to pull Mike off of me. The LISK victims were strangled to death. What else makes me think Mike could be LISK? He grew up in Lindenhurst and was living in West Babylon when I visited him last. Gilgo is directly south of both towns. The info that was released today shows one of the victims using her cellphone in Farmingdale, Massapequa and Lindenhurst. Another victim, being chased, made a 911 call and could be heard saying "Why are you chasing me, Mike?" The police think this is a different Mike, Michael Pak, who set up the liaison between the doomed escort and someone on Gilgo. They ruled him out as a suspect. The thought is that the victim was having a breakdown and imagined being chased, eventually getting lost and somehow succumbing. What if it was a different Mike? I know, I know. This all seems so far-fetched. But Mike was a dark, disturbed guy. He utterly changed from a sweet, good-natured fat kid who was into Monty Python and professional wrestling into an intimidating, skinny, mean-when-drunk punk after his father died prematurely from injuries received in a car accident. What else leads me to point a finger at Mike? He worked for the power company LILCO (Long Island Lighting Co., later LIPA, Long Island Power Authority) and may have had access to a company vehicle. He would've been essentially invisible in such a truck, no one takes notice of a service worker out at any hour doing "repairs". But these can all be coincidences, even Mike's fascination with serial killers (Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy and others). It's the strangulation that puts me over the edge. I truly believe, absent Jeanine, Mike would've choked me to death. I think he had that rage in him. He was very close to his father and after Gaspar died (supposedly from malpractice, the hospital unaware of serious internal bleeding) he went into his room and didn't come out for days. That's when he wrote those early Nihilistics lyrics for songs like After Death and You're to Blame. Songs full of bleak, inchoate rage. Mike also came off as a misogynist after being dumped by his first girlfriend. That reminds me. The LISK victims are all described as petite, under 5-feet tall and a hundred pounds. Mike's first girlfriend was petite and about under a hundred pounds. Could it be he sought a type to punish?
This sort of conjecture is what happens when you start listening to True Crime podcasts, the most listened-to type.
I forgot to mention one other evidence point. The LISK murders apparently ended in 2010. Mike got cancer and died in 2011. If I was putting together a profile of a potential LISK suspect Mike would tick too many boxes to ignore. Which is why I went to the LISK website and submitted the tip. Let's see if the Suffolk County Police follows up. One possible verification occurred to me. The killer called the sister of one victim from the victim's cellphone. He taunted her for several minutes. The sister says she can't forget the person's voice. I have recordings of Mike's speaking voice, which was very distinctive due to his Long Island accent and other markers. Would playing Mike's voice for the sister crack this case open? I'll keep you updated if anything comes to pass.
Right now, it's time to get my act together for Aerial View with Ken Katkin guesting. We'll talk about the Supreme Court and abortion. Then it's time for me to pack for tomorrow's weekend trip.
SATURDAY
Sweet T.'s in another art show down on Long Beach Island. We've booked a local hotel and plan to stop in Asbury Park on our way to Loveladies and Ship Bottom. Up around 6:30 AM despite wanting to sleep until 8:00 AM (thanks, Marty!), we get breakfast together and then decide to cancel the hotel and come back after dinner. The weather's terrible – rainy, foggy, chilly – and our experience last weekend at the Queensbury Hotel in Glens Falls has put us off. Plus, with fees our hotel is $290 for one night. Fuck that. We call the hotel to ask if it's too late to cancel.
"Our policy on cancellations says three days. If you cancel today you forfeit your deposit."
"We paid in full."
"You'd forfeit that. But why are you cancelling?"
I pause, think of something besides "The weather sucks and we had a shitty hotel experience last weekend."
"One of our party came down sick."
There's a pause on the other end of the line.
"Oh. Okay. We can issue a refund."
Thank you, age of COVID. That's one hotel owner who'd rather we didn't infect her other guests. She tells us to give it a few days but the charge will be reversed. Good. I tell Sweet T. I need to shower and shave (I planned to do so in the motel). We don't get out the door until 10:30 AM and hit Asbury Park around Noon. We hit our favorite shops on Cookman Avenue and get lunch at MOGO, the Korean fusion joint. The rain begins coming down in earnest and we need to kill at least another hour before heading to LBI. Next stop, the Shore Antique Center in Allenhurst. We've been many times and it looks like much of the stock's been sitting there for years unchanged. But we're out of the weather and happily browsing. I need more antiques like I need more subscriptions but I’m on the hunt for decent snap shirts. Snap shirts are my favorite kind. Buttons are a pain in the ass. I love snap shirts so much I once owned the URL "snapshirtking.com". I had this vague idea I'd sell nothing but snap shirts and get into manufacturing my own. Hilarious. The Shore Antique Center has some men's vintage clothing on offer but that's not what I leave with. While we wait for the rain to let up I browse the front room's vinyl selection and grab up four Country Music LPs, $5 each. Two Glen Campbell records, a Porter Wagoner and Dolly Parton record and Lester "Roadhog" Moran & the Cadillac Cowboys Live at the Johnny Mack Brown High School. After I settle up we make a break for the car. Next stop, Barnegat Light where our friends Lee and Jeff are ensconced in their motel. Avoiding the Garden State Parkway we take local roads south until we can't. Then it's the GSP until we take one of the two bridges over to Long Beach Island. The fog is truly impressive, an impenetrable white shroud with visibility down to twenty or thirty feet in front of the car. But we make it to Barnegat in an hour and we join Lee and Jeff for a quick beer before heading to the art opening at LBIF. The curator is from MOMA and Sweet T.'s entry was one of over a thousand submitted from all over the country. There's seventy pieces of artwork on the walls, so kudos to her for being in this rarified company. Our party wears masks inside but many do not. It's impossible not to wonder if this is where I get it. Is this where I get the COVID?
The curator does a bit of a talk about an outsider artist (while never referring to him as such, which leads me to wonder if "outsider artist" is now an outmoded term). She speaks in a monotone and I find myself drifting off. The humidity's through the roof and I want this portion of the evening to end so we can get dinner with our friends. Before we go I hit the bathroom and do a mirror selfie (above). Soon, we're gathered in the parking lot of Kubel's, a local institution bar/restaurant that seems to be the only place open around here. We're brought to a booth quickly and are soon eating quality seafood (and steak) and downing cocktails. We haven't seen Lee and Jeff in forever so we get caught up. It doesn't much matter what's being said, just that we get to spend time with people who matter to us. The time is over way too soon and as we exit there's a line out the door.
"Looks like we got here at the right time."
After goodbye hugs in the parking lot we make the slow, treacherous trip back to the Garden State Parkway. Jeff's warned me not to exceed the speed limit until I'm on the parkway, so I keep it 5 mph under. Sweet T. and I have been driving together since 2005 but she still white-knuckles it. I rib her.
"Don't I get any credit for all the times I got you to our destination safely? It's like Memento, like we're always resetting to zero. Is there no credit for seventeen years of safe driving?"
She tells me to just watch the road.
"I'm going to start replying 'Yes, dear.' in this voice..."
I go all Casper Milquetoast.
"Yesss, dear."
An hour and forty-five minutes later we're in our garage. Another safe return for yours truly.
SUNDAY
No matter how I try I can't get started today. Yesterday's rain has yielded to sunny skies, temperatures in the upper 60s. But all I've done is change the bed. I've yet to step outside and it's almost 3:30 PM. Time to put on my boots and get out to the garage. I'm going to vacuum Sweet T.'s car. It's that or end up back in the recliner with Marty napping on me.
Hooray! I got "outside" today. Does our driveway count as "outside"? Or if I'm in the garage with the door open? That's how I spent the last hour, the Prius backed a quarter of the way in, me crawling in and out with a shop vac. I'll never make a great auto detailer but I do what I can. My auto interior sprays and wipes are a bit out of reach currently so I wet a cloth face-mask and use it to dust the Prius interior. Before I got started on the cleaning I ran the car down to the Speedway and filled the tank, too. The car once more stowed in the garage, it’s dinner time. Then shower time. Then TV time. With Sweet T. off to bed I finally take in an episode of the new Kids In The Hall season. Wow. I don't think they've lost a step. Yes, they're all "old" now. No, that doesn't mean they're not funny.
MONDAY
Joe's supposed to come by today and paint our bathroom. Two problems: there's mildew on the sheetrock portion of the walls (which are 3/4 tiled) and a major lightning storm is due through here after 1 PM. Last night I went back and forth with Joe and he's less than happy that I'm postponing. Initially, I thought he could get started on something else we need painted inside. But the humidity is through the roof and I'm not ready to have someone here all day. Now Joe wants to stop by and see me at 9:30 AM. I’d prefer he didn't. I got up late, 6:35 AM, and only had time to put out the Raisin Bran, etc., so I'm not up for Joe dropping in. I've also asked if he could take a rapid test before he begins work. At 9:30 we get on the phone and I hear myself apologizing repeatedly for rescheduling on him. Huh? It's one day. Why am I saying I'm sorry and explaining again and again? Then Joe wants to know exactly how the work will proceed. We have four or five different jobs for him, from the bathroom to repair/repaint on interior walls to exterior trim and facade. Joe's worked up and down this block and is a localt. I trust him to know what he's doing. I'll admit to a slight sense of shame for not tackling this work myself. But I'm not good on ladders and my brush skills suck (give me a rattle can and I'll amaze). Joe texts around 8:40 AM, says he can speak now. I call him and it's a halting, awkward conversation. We go over the same ground several times. Then I try to wrap it up.
"Okay, so the schedule's good between now and Saturday. Wednesday you'd need to be done and out by 4 pm. It's my wife's birthday."
Joe agrees to everything but he still sounds disappointed. I've fucked up his day by not having him over right now. With more apologies I finally beg off the phone after telling him to check in with me tomorrow. Times like these I feel like a terrible homeowner.
Upstairs in the office I need to pack up that vintage Panasonic "TNT" 8-track player I sold on eBay for $200 plus shipping (plus tax, which eBay now collects). I'm sad to see the bright yellow machine go but I paid $25 for it at the Mower's Flea Market in Woodstock and it'll soon make someone else happy. The last thing I need is to start collecting 8-tracks on top of everything else. The Panasonic is also mono and if I DID get into 8 tracks I'd want a stereo machine (just so happens I own one, currently stashed in the basement closet). I locate a suitable box for the Panasonic and spend a solid thirty minutes bagging it twice (so no moisture gets in) and carefully packing it with foam and rolled up paper. When I'm convinced it's properly packed I print out a packing list, stick it in the box, tape it up and print out two labels. One is affixed to the front, one to the back. I'm due back at Dr. Frio today, 11:30 AM, so I get in the car and down to Hoboken. There's a single parking space and I grab it, paying $2.35 via the ParkMobile app for one hour. There's enough time to hit the Post Office first and I'm happy the box doesn't require more postage. When I get to Frio's I realize I don't have a mask and they want me wearing one.
"I forgot a mask. Do you have any?"
Erin behind the counter fishes out a box of blue surgical masks and peels one off the top.
"Here."
I put it on and it smells terrible. Moldy, mildewy.
"This doesn't smell good. Like mildew."
"Really? I just opened the box."
"They come from the factory like that."
I try to tough it out but the smell's getting to me.
"I'll be right back. I have masks out in my car."
Hoboken is quiet on a Monday morning and I'm to the car and back in two minutes. Dr. Frio is ready to see me when I return. He has me lay face down and does his pressure-point business, identifying what needs ad adjustment. Then there's the satisfying CRACK when he moves my bones back where they belong. He cracks my back, my neck and my hip.
"Come back in a month."
Sure thing, doc. What do we do when you retire? Sweet T. and I already lament the day.
Lunch again comes from Uptown Pizza and then I'm back home working on the upstairs bathroom so Joe can paint. The walls have mildewed because we stupidly failed to paint them after drywall repair work was done. Now I grab a scrub brush, mount it on a broom handle, get up on a step-stool and spray the mildew stains with the hardcore shit. The hydrogen peroxide-based natural stuff didn't get the most stubborn areas. I've opened the window wide but the smell of the not-fucking-around spray still gets to me. This shit has to work based on the odor alone. When the walls are wet with the mildew murdering spray I go at it with the scrub brush. It appears to be working but I'll leave it for awhile and see what it looks like when I return.
The rest of the afternoon is spent pulling paint out from under the workbench. Years ago I labeled all the paint cans with the color and date. Does it surprise me some of this paint's been here ten years? No. I pull out the cans Joe will need but realize I'll also be heading to Benjamin Moore for the special bathroom paint. Which is no longer called bathroom paint, apparently. It's special stuff that holds up to wet environments. Hell, it even contains a microbial to fight mildew and mold. No wonder antibiotics no longer work.
Paint Quest over, I empty out the upstairs bathroom of everything but the shower rod and medicine cabinet contents. The shower rod requires some figuring out to remove. I put it up myself when we first moved in but damn if I remember how it attaches to the tile walls. The medicine cabinet is full of expired products and all manner of shit no longer needed. How I wish I'd held on to that vintage metal medicine cabinet from That Cave's bathroom. It would've looked good in here but needed rust remediation. This medicine cabinet is tiny and I'd always intended to upgrade to something larger, more classic. Maybe we use this freshening up to do so.
While I'm emptying out the bathroom Sweet T. gets home. The school's let people out early because of the coming storm. Your National Weather Service has issued a warning about high winds, hail and even a possible tornado. That's why I pull down the hanging plants out front and shelter a bunch of solar lights and potted plants in a corner of the back yard. Our meal finished, we continue to wait on the storm. And wait. And wait. It amounts to some rain, some wind. No thunder and lightning, no gusts, no hail, no tornado. We dodge multiple bullets.
Considering what happened in Buffalo Saturday maybe I need to stop saying such things. I wasn't fully cognizant of the news because I was largely off my phone while we traveled Saturday. When we got back home and I had time to sit and read I was horrified but not surprised. Like most of you, I've become inured to America's unholy intersection of its penchant for random gun violence and predilection toward Racism. We just don't care enough to do anything meaningful about it. It’s the opposite. I can guarantee you the Buffalo Massacre is driving up gun sales. t's nonsense, of course. More guns equals more gun death. Maybe Buffalo, like George Floyd, represents a turning point.
After we watch Barry and The Great British Pottery Show I’m off to bed, utterly forgetting to look for the eclipse.
American Dream Tour
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
