Sweet T.’s asked me to accompany her to Matt & Megan’s at 3:30 PM for Easter-egg coloring. This is a week where all the SYNT writing is left until today, so after first draft and a quick rewrite, compromise is called for halfway through assembly in MailChimp.
“Give me until 4:15 and I should be done.”
Buckling down, SYNT’s cranked out by 4:25. Of course, there’s numerous mistakes. My consolation? The frequent, glaring errors found in far more prestigious publications. I’m not the only one sans editor. We’re in the car to egg-coloring by 4:30. Matt & Megan have a driveway but Sweet T. doesn't want to brave it (pulling in is not difficult: backing out is), so we find a street space. Wanting to be sure all is legit, I locate the nearest street sign and check. No issue. Somehow, my right foot catches the bottom of the sign post, which trips me. I go down like the proverbial ton of bricks, landing on my left knee and scraping deep gouges in the pinky and ring fingers of my left hand. Sweet. T., still parking the car, doesn't see me fall but gets out of to hear me bitch.
"FUCK! MOTHERFUCKER!"
That kind of totally inappropriate Easter egg-coloring talk. I look around, hoping no one else sees me splayed on the sidewalk. It’s just me and Sweet T., who helps me to my feet and over to Matt and Megan’s stoop. The shock hasn't worn off but now I’m also pissed at myself for tripping over a street sign. Trying not to get blood on my clothes, I reach in a pocket for my ubiquitous bandana. Not there. Sweet T. hands me her KN95 mask to stanch the flow, asking if I want to go home. Rocking back and forth on the stoop I process the pain, unable to answer.
“Just let me sit here a moment. Just let me sit here.”
I finally tell her I want to stay and she rings the doorbell. Megan answers a moment later, her children in tow. Sweet T. explains what happened and I’m asked if I can get myself upstairs.
"Yeah."
I’m more chagrined than anything, feeling an utter dope for arriving with so much drama. Charlie, four years old, keeps asking one question as we go up the stairs.
"Are you okay?"
"I don't know yet.”
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
She asks until Megan tells her stop. I’m handed baby wipes for the gouges on my hand. Raising my left pant leg, I find bloody scrapes on my knee.
"How the hell do you scrape yourself through pants? There's no damage to the fabric. So how does this happen?!”
I wipe my knee clean and Megan gives me bandages. Charlie continues to express concern. I finally assuage her.
“I’ll be okay."
When Matt gets home we tell him what happened and he asks if I need anything.
"Whiskey?"
He produces a bottle of Maker's Mark and pours me three fingers over ice. The egg-coloring dyes are already out on a baker’s tray, so we get to work. I make a Jesus egg and nurse my wounds. Matt's dad arrives with pizza and salad, so we eat and drink and color more eggs. This is the kind of thing we'd take for granted prior to March 2020. Now it seems the best time possible, even with a spill on the sidewalk. Charlie pulls out a bunch of board games and makes us play. Her baby sister smiles, coos, looks the adorable drunk while ambling around trying to keep upright. We stay until sundown, reluctantly parting ways having colored two dozen eggs. Jesus Egg comes home with us, along with three or four other pastel creations of ours. Later, I treat my pain with soon-to-be-legal NJ weed. Fuck street signs.
WEDNESDAY
Sweet T.’s on Spring Break, so we're headed into the city ("the city" around here always means "Manhattan") for the Whitney Biennial. I've mostly shaken off the street-sign fall but my hand hurts like a motherfucker and I'm certain it'll leave a scar. The top layer of skin is gone in three places.
After breakfast I shower, shave and decide to dress up in my best suit, shirt and shoes. The suit came off eBay, a custom-tailored job that happened to fit me well, especially after a bit of additional tailoring. The color’s hard to describe, a dark bluish-green with an orange windowpane pattern. It's paired with a custom-tailored Proper Cloth white shirt, a skull-festooned tie purchased in California and the Made-in-England Doc Marten wingtips Sweet T. bought me one year at Christmas. The final touch is a set of mother-of-pearl tie-clip and cuff-links. When Sweet T. sees me descend the stairs she lets out a Whoa!
"I decided to dress up. What the hell. How often do I get to do this?"
The suit is a bit big on me. Last time I tried to wear it I had the opposite problem. It might be time to get back to the tailor. I don't own many "good" clothes but always admire those who have the taste to dress well. Maybe if I lose another twenty pounds I'll join that fraternity.
Sweet T.'s car gets us to the Weehawken waterfront where we pose for a Hamilton-Burr selfie. The ferry arrives within minutes and I'm regretting the choice to wear long-johns beneath the suit. It's sunny and 65º. Sweet T. tells me I can go in a bathroom at the Whitney and remove the long-johns if it gets too uncomfortable.
"Then what do I do with them? They're not gonna fit in your pocketbook."
On the ride across the Hudson I see myself commuting all those mornings to 1221 Ave of the Americas and SiriusXM. In a few weeks it’ll be four years since being shit-canned but feels twenty years gone. The boat stops in Hoboken and now boards a finance bro doing finance bro talk on his Air-pods. He's also in a suit but lacks my finishing touch, a Goorin Bros. embroidered "Tiger" mesh trucker hat. On my worst days when I miss regular employment and the steady paycheck it brings I still can't relate to these dudes moving money around for a living. How do you even decide on that as a career?
The ride across the Hudson’s brief and we're soon on the NY side in the NY Waterway terminal taxi line. No cabs materialize, so I open the Lyft app and request a ride. It's Manhattan, so a Toyota Sienna arrives in thirty seconds. We pay $15 plus tip to be brought to the Whitney's doorstep.
“Should we have rented Citibikes?"
Sweet T. likes this idea but points out I'm in a nice suit. Oh, yeah. Maybe in slobwear.
The Whitney’s busy. Lots of tourists and parents with kids off school. Most people wear masks but there's no sign requiring it, so many go without. It's a weird transitional phase and who knows what it portends. I can't shake the fear catching COVID would go worse for me than most, so the mask stays on except for selfies.
We decide to take the elevator to the top and work our way down. When the doors open on the sixth floor we're plunged into darkness. This floor features video installations and projections and we stumble around in the dim, trying not to bang into fellow museum-goers. Sweet T.'s a Whitney member with early entry access and keeps pointing out It's never like this when I come here. Prior to COVID crowded places didn't phase me. My concerns were less about catching a deadly virus and more to do with being annoyed by the completely unaware. A large city like New York is not where you stop on a dime and suddenly lurch in another direction, which happens in front of me CONSTANTLY. Someone decides Oh! I need to go over there RIGHT FUCKING NOW! and they force you to stop short or take evasive maneuvers to avoid contact. The Whitney is crammed with the spatially unaware, that peculiar breed who doesn’t know they occupy space with others. Like the clueless lady parked on the top step of the stairs from floor six to five. She's blocking the right "lane", the one most people agree is for downward traffic. We're clumped up behind her, unable to pass on the left because other museum-goers are streaming up the stairs. A few of us try to squeeze past her but I refuse to do so. I want that fucking handrail she’s blocking, so I admonish her.
"That seems like a bad place to stand."
People standing still at the top or bottom of stairs or an escalator make me NUTS. I’ve told my share of human statues they’ve made a poor choice. Most never respond, they just move the fuck out of the way. This woman is different. She has an excuse.
"I was taking a picture."
I find myself muttering as we head downstairs.
Taking a picture of what? How long does it take to get a picture in a stairwell?
I can feel her umbrage, as if I'm the one in the wrong. I'm half-hoping she'll engage me so I can tell her to fuck off. But Sweet T.'s here and we have a pact about me not embarrassing her in public. I let it go and we enjoy floor five, scoping out the bar for lunch. They're short-staffed and not serving food so we’ll wait until the ground floor cafe. Stopping to take pictures if something's particularly engaging, we find much is not. I haven't been to many Biennials but some of the work strikes me as… umm… less than impressive. What the hell do I know?
When we get into the elevator to head to floor three (the Biennal skips floors housing the Whitney’s permanent collection), a group of eight or nine unmasked tourists crowd in. The doors close and one of the group addresses the rest in loud, theatrical Castilian-accented Spanish. He's going on and on and I shoot Sweet T. an Is THIS where we get COVID?! glance, sighing in relief when the loudmouth and his crew depart on the next floor.
"Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with people?"
Sweet T. has no idea but agrees: that was messed up.
After we see everything we end up seated outdoors near the cafe. I've ordered food and beer and when it arrives question if tomato soup was the right choice in this suit. Fuck it. I tuck a napkin into my shirt collar ala Sterling Hayden in The Godfather. Now I just have to be alert to food ending up in my beard. Flavor Saver my ass. I do not want to be that guy, going around with lunch remnants in his facial hair.
After food we hit the gift shop but who needs yet more shit? Sweet T. searches out gifts for co-workers also retiring but can't find what she has in mind. On the way down 12th Avenue earlier we passed Little Island, the new park at Pier 55 that opened last May. Now I suggest we take a look before heading home. It's a short walk from the Whitney and we're instantly glad we added it to the itinerary. The park rises up out of the water on a multitude of concrete "tulips" in which the flowers and trees are planted. The landscaping's meant to delight and it does.
"Shit. I wish they'd do something like this on the Weehawken waterfront."
Sweet T. nods in agreement and we both laugh, knowing it took Weehawken thirty or more years to put in a pool. We're making our way to the top of Little Island when a pair of park workers stop us to complement our clothes.
"You two are looking very sharp!"
We have one of those conversations I treasure, the random interaction with strangers that leaves a smile on your face.
"That suit is really something!"
"You haven't seen the lining yet."
I unbutton the jacket, show off the orange silk lining.
"My man!”
I also point out the mother-of-pearl tie-tack and cuff-links.
"I always appreciate someone who dresses nice. I'm an artist myself..."
He points to his customized Jackson Pollacked-work boots.
"...and I usually like to put myself together."
We ask them about Little Island and they fill us in on the place and what's coming up.
"We'll definitely be back."
But now it's time to go. I'm sweating balls in these long-johns. On the north side of 12th Ave we snag a taxi, paying $20 with tip to get back to the ferry terminal. We're home in thirty minutes and I decide to spend a few hours in the garage doing more triage on the ungodly pile left from That Cave. I'd say it was to no avail but I'm making incremental progress.
Emphasis on "mental".
THURSDAY
Dan from Guttenberg Arts mentioned during Easter-egg coloring that his wifi and Ring cameras haven't worked properly since pipes burst in his house back in January. I offered to get him up and running and today's the day. I'm due at his house at 10 AM. After breakfast and Sweet T.'s departure for Toyota (damn MAINTENANCE REQUIRED message on her dashboard again), I get my act together, not easy these days. I find myself often overwhelmed. My hand hurts like hell and my stomach's making weird gurgling noises. It’s likely my nervousness over being forced into early retirement as my 401K continues to shed value, losing 8.6% since Jan. 1. I don't know what to do. Jumping out now seems foolhardy. Staying in seems equally dumb. Why didn't I empty my account two years ago and buy that Woodstock Byrdcliffe Colony house? I could be renting it out, earning income. Or we might be living in it and renting this place out. Or we could’ve moved there and sold this house. I continue to kick myself over that decision, while reminding myself I asked every savvy person I know (and two financial advisers). They all repeated that canard: ”Traditionally, your best returns comes from the stock market. Over time, it outperforms other asset classes.” Except tradition is all shot to hell now and it looks to me like the market’s in a barely breathing state that will persist for years.
I hustle over to Dan's and spend four hours getting his wifi and Ring cameras working. It takes that long because every last device needs a firmware upgrade. Two of the Ring cameras require Dan scaling a 20-foot camera to press the reset button. How convenient! Dan's supposed to buy me lunch but offers cold-cuts instead.
"Not eating meat. Sorry."
What about a frozen pizza?
"Thanks anyway."
I end up eating three cookies, then remind Dan what he promised.
"You said you were gonna take me out for the best lunch I ever had."
He laughs and we agree to table it until next week. It's time for me to get home and contemplate dinner. I end up making a ricotta and broccoli rabe farfalle dish. Okay, so we had no walnuts. It turned out pretty good anyway.
FRIDAY
While in Whole Foods I spot a wee birthday cake and pick it up for our visit to Frank and Joan's Easter Sunday. Can it be I haven't seen the in-laws since before the pandemic? Shit. This COVID era’s already gone down as the worst I've known. I keep wondering how long it’ll linger, how many years it’ll steal, how much it'll transform us. It's a massive WHAT IF? that leaves me yearning to know the life shunted aside.
Today I'm back at Sixth Street Vintage between 2 and 6 PM. I kill time beforehand shopping for food, gathering up more items to sell and getting the car washed. I'm in Hoboken by 1:30, parking directly across from my old apartment house on Adams Street. Sharon's in the store when I get there, preparing for a drive to Oradell to pick up more old stuff. We chat a bit and she heads out. The weather's spectacular for this Good Friday and there's foot traffic in and out of the store. But no one goes in pocket to buy. I occupy myself rearranging my table, squeezing in more items, bagging up the postcards, Playbills and other old paper currently unprotected in cellophane. One potential customer seems a bit "off". There's something in her affect that puts up warning signs. She engages me in conversation but I honestly can't understand her mangled speech and end up nodding “Absolutely!" She could've just told me she loves to eat newborns.
At 6 PM I close the place up, then get to International Liquors for beer and canned cocktails. Arriving home for pizza night I note a realtor leading more potential buyers past the FOR SALE sign and into the house next door. I find myself sizing them up.
Are these going to be good neighbors? Or more assholes, like Dr. Ketamine?
At 10 PM, as we're watching TV, Sharon texts.
Did you sell one of the yellow gowns in the back room?
Yellow gowns? I didn’t notice any but tell her there were no sales. She writes back that six yellow gowns is now five.
Shit.
Some thieving magpie took one back to their nest.
Was it that woman who set my alarm bells ringing?And is that why?
I apologize to Sharon, ask if I should follow people into the back room next time. She doesn't want that. Rarely do things grow legs. I still feel terrible that it happened on my watch. Then I begin to worry about my stuff, the small items just right for pocketing. Oh well. At least I'd be rid one more object.
SATURDAY
If you need me, I'll be in the garage. All fucking day. Oh,sorry: except for the time I'm upstairs dealing with yet more That Cave aftermath. I want to put it all in the trash, God knows. I don't. There's yet more consolidating I concentrate on the stereo gear, shooting pictures and video of turntables, speakers, a receiver. Three set of speakers – Point Source (blown woofers), Tannoy (working) and Criterion (never hooked them up) – go at the curb. I think of making a FREE STUFF sign but instead write a curb alert for Facebook Marketplace. Within minutes someone contacts me, wants me to mark everything sold.
"I can't do that until they're gone."
I decide to keep the KLH speakers because the components are interchangeable with my Acoustic Research speakers. There's a pair that could fetch a few dollars cleaned up but the woofers are shot. When I take a break for lunch I come back to find the curbed speakers gone. I torture myself by imagining I could've got a few dollars for them. No one wants that shit unless it's free.
I'm reluctant to admit this but I was going to visit the Meadowlands Flea this morning. It's a good thing it was raining a bit. I still thought about it, when the sun came out and it was hitting Noon.
What is WRONG with me? Why would I go and buy more old shit?
Upstairs in the front bedroom and office I experience an existential crisis.
How did I accumulate all of this? What do I do with it all?
The only thing that gets me off the ledge is acknowledging there's a problem and realizing I've chosen to confront it now and not ten years from now.
SUNDAY
Daughter of New Jersey Patti Smith reminds me Jesus died for someone else's sins but not mine as I dig in the closet for a Western suit, the silver one. I bought several while on trucking radio. Something to wear for personal appearances, live remotes. I'd pick them up for $30 or $40 on eBay. You'd be amazed how cheap old suits are, especially in my size. These are USA-made and if you don't mind a high degree of polyester, you'll be resplendent on the cheap. I pair the silver suit with a multi-color Wrangler snap shirt. When Sweet T. sees me I spring an idea on her.
"Maybe this is what I'll wear when we fly to California."
Everything but the cowboy hat. Who wants to deal with that on a plane? But the Varvatos side-zip boots I dyed blue? Might have to wear those.
We get out the door and down the turnpike, headed for China Star for our Easter meal. Frank and Joan love their Sesame Chicken, which I order when we're ten minutes away. Sweet T. gets her usual and I try the Seafood Mei Fun and Shrimp Toast. When I pick up the order there’s a sign on the window: TAKE OUT ONLY. The bag is slipped through an elaborate Plexiglas™ drawer but the dollar amount on the receipt is six dollars less than what I came up with. Before I climb in the passenger seat I ask Sweet T if I need to check the bag.
“Should I see if they left something out?"
Sweet T.'s sure it's fine. We drive to Frank and Joan's, who are thrilled to see us. So thrilled, I'm allowed to keep my shoes on. But – of course – their food is the only thing missing when we empty the bag. Shit. We call China Star, they tell us to come back. Sweet T. offers to go, I offer to go with. Not necessary. I make do with shrimp toast until she returns. Then we dig in, admiring the Easter eggs and decorations. Joan tells us one story after another, usually about something that happened when she left the apartment for groceries or to take her car in for repair. We take turns sharing recent tales, Joan stopping Frank when he famously interrupts to start a spiel of his own.
"Frank, he's not finished."
It's hard for Frank but he'll be 86 in a few days and I understand the urgency. I think about myself in twenty-six years, if I manage to make it that far. What will I be like? Will I have any faculties left? Will I be gibbering, incomprehensible? Will my ass have fallen out?
When we tell Frank and Joan about our upcoming travel they encourage us to do as much as possible while we can. They traveled all over when they first got together and I find myself envious. If this pandemic calms the hell down there are many places we want to see. England. France. Italy. Greece. Malta. Spain. Hell, let's throw in the Scandinavian countries.
We're in the car driving home in a few hours. Then it hits me. Today's the one-year anniversary of having reopened That Cave. I knew I was feeling bummed out but couldn't quite place why. The Anniversary Effect is real.
MONDAY
Sweet T.’s headed back to work, making the last push before retirement. I'm up at 6 AM and at my mechanic by 9 AM. The low anti-freeze light's been going on and it may be time for a flush and fill. When I get to Hybrid Motors it turns out I only need a top-off. Good. I've spent enough on this car recently.
I'm due at Dan's by 12:30 PM so he can take me to that promised lunch. I swing by, pick him up. We go to a Greek restaurant in Fort Lee, where I make the colossal error of ordering the stuffed Calamari lunch special. Stupid me, I'm thinking scungili, squid, etc. Two milky-white aliens the size of my fist arrive, stuffed with spinach. It's fairly inedible but I pick at it, not wanting to alert Dan. He knows the owner and the last thing I'd do is complain about the food. Thank Jesus for the excellent Greek salad and the orzo and squash with the calamari. And especially for the baklava. The talk turns to the stock market.
"I was in it years ago but could never figure it out. I got out, got into real estate. Something I could touch. I could rent out. Or live in, if I had to."
I tell Dan about the house in Woodstock, how everyone talked me out of buying it. How it's now estimated to be worth almost double what I could've gotten it for. Meanwhile, the stock market is breaking my balls. I've never been good at trusting myself, my instincts. The biggest risk I've taken since leaving that NPR union job for Sirius was opening That Cave. Emptying my 401K would've gotten me within twenty grand of buying that Woodstock place and I could've dug up the rest somewhere, even if I had to take a small loan. Someone could be living in it right now, paying me a few grand each month. The damn thing would be going up in value and I wouldn't have this gnawing fear in the pit of my stomach.
Lunch over, I get myself home and try to again reduce the clutter ruling my life. I put the calamari in the refrigerator with a sign on the bag: DON’T EAT THIS.
Elvis Costello – Watching The Detectives
TODAY
6 pm ET: All The Way From Memphis (By Way Of Seattle)
An Aerial View Archive from April 12, 2019, featuring a report and audio from a trip to Seattle on the 25th anniversary of Kurt Cobain's death.
FRIDAY
6 pm ET: Weedhawken
Aerial View is back LIVE as we celebrate LEGAL NJ WEED!
