Duel

TUESDAY

Apart from producing the newsletter, the significant event of the day is a Skype video call with Judy and Doris Nicastro. I've written about the Nicastro family before in SYNT. I met Doris, Judy and son Andy when I moved to Tenafly, NJ in 1986 and got an Inbound Telemarketing job at a company in Dumont, NJ. Before leaving Long Island I had two outbound Telemarketing jobs, one soliciting donations for the First Marine Division and Vietnam Veterans of America. I'd call local businesses from a squat building in Copiague and try to get them to take ads in a "yearbook". I'm sure it was a scam, with the aforementioned non-profits getting a tiny percentage of what we raised. The operation was owned by a son of a prominent local family, the Cromarty clan, and one of them bought the "Amityville Horror" house. My mother went to Amityville High School with the patriarch, who went on to be a local judge. While working for his kid's telemarketing firm I was invited to a Halloween party at the horror house on Ocean Avenue but declined. I'd just read High Hopes, the true story of the murders that occurred in the house and was too freaked out to go inside. I'm not a big believer in the supernatural, ghosts and all that shit. I see them as manifestations of the human mind and not actual physical phenomena. Yes, there's creepy shit out there and many people claim to have seen apparitions, etc. I suppose I'll believe it when I see it myself.

After the Cromarty company I went to work for a boiler room operation in North Lindenhurst, selling cleaning chemicals over the phone. By the time I applied for the Dumont job I had an actual resume. I was also well-spoken and my Lawn Guyland accent had been smoothed down. I was hired and Doris Nicastro became my supervisor. Her son Andy worked the phones, too. They became pivotal to my survival in NJ and I'd often find myself at their house in Waldwick, discussing work and the politics of the day. Doris became my ersatz mom, someone whose advice I'd seek on a range of topics. Sometime in the late '90s, Doris and Andy followed Judy out to Seattle. I've visited a few times, most recently when Doris turned 80 three years ago. I wrote it about it in this SYNT. Now we're reduced to a Skype video call, which is fine because I'm not getting on a plane just yet. The call lasts well over an hour. Judy talks about possible relocation to – wait for it – San Diego. She's been living in Majorca with her husband and two kids for years now. But they'd like to be back in the States to be closer to Doris. Judy peppers me with San Diego questions and I share what little I know. I ask Doris how she's holding up.

"Truth be told, I'm in pain. I can barely walk anymore."

It's a good life if you don't weaken.

Thirty-six years have flown by and there likely isn't another thirty-six ahead of me. The degradation of the flesh. Even with the inevitability of decline and death I still find it hard to get out of my own way and get done what I'd like to get done. Hell, even just figuring out how to enjoy what time remains. Why is it so hard? Why am I consumed constantly with worry? The world is too much with me, yet when I withdraw – ignore the phone, the news, the thousand bids for attention – I feel guilt for disengaging. Where’s the middle way?

WEDNESDAY
It's another day when I can't get started. Up at 6 AM, breakfast with Sweet T., then back to bed. As usual, it doesn't work. I drift off for half an hour, then wake up to try again. Then I give up and get up. There's work to do in the office straightening up the mess overwhelming the desk, procuring rental car for California and going online to pay what I've been billed for my recent emergency room visit, $125. The total cost? Almost $47,000. Holy shit. A seven hour hospital visit ran $6,714.28 an hour. I know I'm late to this party but our system of health care is beyond stupid. Yes, they did some tests while I was there. Yes, they gave me fluids and antibiotics. But $47K worth? Thank Jesus we have health insurance but I'm still endeavoring to stay the fuck out of the hospital if at all possible.

The office work is followed by time in the garage attempting to make sense of the mess I've created post-garage sale. I move a few items into the basement closet but it barely makes an impact. Then I begin searching for the jigsaw I brought back from Saugerties. It was part of the Myron Levistky Memorial Stash™ and I need it to help David next door cut an inch off an air conditioner trim piece. The Lees are selling their house and David's doing last-minute detail work, like a fresh coat of paint on the stoop railing. He saw me going into our house and stopped painting to ask if I had a table saw.

"A table saw? No. I have a jigsaw, a circular saw, hand saws. No table saw. Why?"

"I have to take an inch of wood off something. I'll text you a picture."

"Wednesday would be good for me. We should be able to do it with a jigsaw."

Now, of course, I can't find the fucking jigsaw. I know it's in this garage somewhere but good luck with that. The place is a fucking mess and I can't even access the spots where the jigsaw might be hiding. Here's a vintage Craftsman jigsaw I had for sale in That Cave but it doesn't have a blade. It also doesn't have the handy laser that makes it easy to lay down a straight line on what you're cutting. I should've located the Myron saw yesterday but I thought it was where I last laid eyes on it, on this LIDL shelf nearest the door into the garage from the house. It's not. It's also not on the other LIDL shelves at the back wall. Or under the workbench. Or on top of the workbench. Or in the basement closet. It must be packed away in a box. Fuck. I'm going to need the circular saw, buried under the workbench at the bottom of a pile of other tools. To reach the circular saw I need to move ten things out of the way. Then I have to contort myself so I can access the tool pile, removing one box at a time – torque wrench, Dremel, Ryobi cordless drill, Makita Impact driver, DeWalt circular saw. Finally. I haul the DeWalt out, leaving a mess behind. This is overkill for this job and probably won't work. The piece David wants cut is actually two pieces. A long board with a short one off one end at a right angle. When he shows up at my garage door a few minutes later he's got TWO pieces, both the same dimensions - approximately 30" long by 12" tall, with the short right angle board adding another 10".

"Let me see if this comes apart."

It doesn't. The short piece of MDF's been doweled and glued to the long piece. There's no real way to cut this with a circular saw unless we take it apart. And I'm not getting into that.

"I can't find the jigsaw. I'm gonna try the handsaw."

I own four handsaws of various lengths and vintages but I grab the shortest, newest one and a straight edge and pencil to mark the cut. Then I get down to it, sawing the short board first. My sawhorses are also inaccessible, so I use the guitar amp bottom I was trying to sell at the garage sale as a work table.

"Hey, David, could you please hold this down?"

David comes over, puts two hands on top of the trim piece I'm sawing. It's slow going and I stop to see if my Hitachi saw (their version of a Sawzall) will work. It won't. The bi-metallic blade is not quite right for the MDF and I go back to the handsaw. Fuck me. There's sawdust going all over the amp bottom and I'm have to stop every few minutes to come at it again. David grabs the other trim piece.

"If you have another saw I can do this one."

I grab him a saw I was trying to sell in my store and he sets to with a joke.

"For every one thing I fix at my house I break four."

"Yep. Being a homeowner is quite a thrill. But have you guys figured out where you're moving to?"

"Not yet. Hey, do you guys have mice?"

"No. We have two cats."

David laughs.

"They eat the mice?"

"Not really. They bat them around until they die. Did you guys ever have a cat?"

"No. But in addition to the schools the mice are a reason to move."

Sawing done, David takes his two trim pieces back to his house and tries them out. One requires more sawing, so he comes over and borrows a saw. When he returns it he asks if we're thinking of selling.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Who buys your place. You've been our favorite neighbors, so hopefully it's someone like you. But if it's anyone like this guy (I indicate the Ketamine Infusion Doctor's house) we'll probably have to seriously consider it."

"But didn't they leave?"

"Yes. And they're renting to a bunch of young people who don't really care about being neighbors."

"Oh."

Saw returned, it's time for me to shower and get ready to head to Garwood. Jeff Maschi and I are going to see My Darling Clementine at The Crossroads. I met the band years ago at SiriusXM when they came through to be interviewed. They're a duo – Michael Weston King and Lou Dagleish – from the UK and I was taken with their voices and approach to classic American Country music. We've remained in touch over the years and now they're back in the States for a mini-tour, postponed from pre-pandemic days. I've bought tickets for their local shows in Garwood tonight, Bethlehem Friday night and Green Brook, NJ Sunday afternoon. I suppose I could've asked them to put me on the list but I'm trying to be supportive.

Showered, I'm dressed and ready to go as Sweet T. arrives home. She tells me to have a good time and I rack my brain trying to remember when I was last out on a Wednesday night. I'm also tamping down my COVID-19 anxiety while stuffing two KN95 masks in my back pocket. Sweet T. and I kiss goodbye and I hit the road to Garwood just as rush hour begins in earnest. The drive is fairly horrid. When did everyone became such a selfish prick behind the wheel? My car is Rodney Dangerfield and gets no respect from the hulking SUVs and pickup trucks now de rigueur. If I compiled dash-cam footage of every time someone moves over in front of me sans turn signal it'd run an hour. And everyone's going a hundred miles an hour, no room between them and the next car. But I get to Garwood in one piece and Jeff's already arrived. We're getting dinner here.

"The food's good!"

"You've been here before?"

"Many times!"

"First time for me. I didn't know the place existed."

"We putting masks on?"

"I don't think we need to."

"I did do a rapid test today. Came up negative."

We go inside and no one asks to see my tickets. I see Michael Weston King seated, tuning his Martin D-35.

"Is that Chris?!"

We've been in touch via Facebook, so he knows I'm attending. Michael stands and we hug. Lou, his wife, greets me and we hug as well. I introduce Jeff and remember the T-shirts and hats I brought for them to check out. It's That Cave store stock and I'm happy to give it away at this point.

"Do you remember Mabel?"

Lou calls her daughter over, now taller than me in her thick-soled Doc Martens.

"Hi again, Mabel. You were maybe this tall when I met you."

I hold my left hand palm down around my knee.

"Please, feel free to dig into the shirts. Everyone gets one. And I brought hats."

"Hats, too?"

I've never been to this venue but it's celebrating its 25th year and the posters on the back wall present an interesting array of Americana, Folk and Blues acts. Tonight, however, Jeff and I are the only people here, except for the three drinking at the bar. We make small talk with Lou, Michael and Mabel while they go through the shirts and hats. Each family member takes something and thanks me. The hats either don't fit or don't "fit". I grab the "Nashville – Music City" trucker hat and wave it at Michael.

"Thanks, but it's a bit naft."

"I first heard that word from Paul Weller. 'Naft' - had to look it up.""Yeah. It means 'not cool'."

Jeff and I grab a table, order a Guinness each and peruse the menu. While we get caught up the band sound-checks. I'm impressed by how Michael communicates with the sound guy.

"Neal, I have this pedal here that has its own reverb, so no need to add any."

Lou also knows exactly what she wants.

"Not quite so much piano in the wedge, thanks."

These two have been at it a long time and I only hope some more bodies show up so they're not playing to an empty club. But it's a rainy, cold Wednesday in a forsaken part of New Jersey and the odds of a decent turnout are slim.

Jeff tells me all about his new squeeze. I've seen pics of the two of them on Facebook.

"You must like her because I don't remember any pictures of the other gals you dated."

"Well, she's my age and actually gets my references!"

"Any kids?"

"One. A 25 year-old son. He's in the Special Forces."

"Oh my God. Do not fuck up with this woman. He'll be hunting you down."

Jeff lets loose with one of his deep laughs.

"Hey, before we order food let's step outside and call my dad."

"Okay."

In the parking lot, Jeff pulls out his phone and I pull out my vaporizer.

"What's that? You vaping?"

"No. It's pot."

"I suppose it's legal here now."

"Yep."

Jeff's father's voice appears out of the aether.

"Dad, I'm here with Chris."

"Hello, Thomas."

Jeff's father laughs.

"Sorry. I mean 'Mr. Maschi'."

He laughs harder.

"So how are you guys?"

"I'm good. Here with Jeff to see a band from England."

"Oh."

"Dad, is mom there?"

"She's here. Say 'hello'."

"Hi, Jeff. Hello, Chris."

"Good to talk with you."

It seems so odd that Jeff's parents are still around. Mine have been gone ten years or more. We wrap up the call quickly and head back inside. At the table Jeff tells me that things are not good with his mom.

"She sounded good just now. But."

"So is it Alzheimer's or early-onset dementia?"

"They don't really know. But I'm glad my sister's nearby because I can't be going back and forth to Virginia. We're looking into a home health aid."

"My mother had one of those. She came in three or four days a week. But I dodged a bullet on that whole caretaker thing. My brother was still living at home, even though he claimed to be living on his boat."

"So he took care of her?"

"Yeah, but he complained about it all the time. He wanted me and my sister to go out there. But, listen, my mother had a rapid decline. We had her 80th birthday on December 28th and she was gone by Jan. 1."

"Wow."

"It was almost like she wanted to gather one more time before leaving."

Our waitress comes over with menus and I quickly order the Bavarian pretzel. Talk turns to food and we suss out what each other might order. The pretzel arrives in minutes, the size of a dinner plate. Jeff and I pull off pieces and dunk them in cheese sauce or brown mustard or both. The band finds their own table and are soon joined by someone I take for the record label guy. Jeff and I settle into conversation until the waitress returns. I order crawfish bisque and a Caesar salad; Jeff gets a Caesar with grilled chicken and the Brussels sprouts. When two people have known each other as long as we have there's nowhere the conversation doesn't go. Today we're talking mostly about his parents and the new gal. The food arrives and I tuck into my bisque. It's beyond creamy, big chunks of crawfish providing some protein. It's been decades since I've had any mud bugs. When I'm had my last spoonful I notice a sour small. Is it wafting off Jeff's Brussels sprouts or was it the bisque I just inhaled? Both? I start feeling nauseous and worry I'm about to puke right there at the table.

"Hey, Jeff, I'm hitting the head."

I get up fast, go the men's room and wait for it. Nothing. Then my head begins spinning and I feel the urge. Up comes the crawfish bisque in three well-timed hurls. I'm grateful no one's entered the men's room and I can puke in peace. I clean myself up in the mirror and get back to the table. The Caesar salad remains untouched and I carry on as if nothing's happened. I don't want to tell Jeff and get him concerned for no reason. It had to be the bisque. Either it had turned or was too much fat too quickly and my innards rebelled.

Unbeknownst to us, there's an opening act. She introduces herself onstage as Molly, no last name. She looks to be 25, 26, tall, blond, playing a Taylor acoustic guitar. As she reels off one song after another about men who cheat, men who leave and men who are plain assholes I think of another Taylor. Just then, Jeff leans over to whisper.

"I blame Taylor Swift for this."Molly must be relatively new to performing because she laughs nervously between songs, making jokes that land utterly flat to the roughly dozen assembled. Otherwise, she has a nice voice, plays well and can write melodic songs. She reminds me of an ex, the woman I was in a band with back in the early-to-mid '90s. She, too, had a nice voice, could play, could definitely write. But like so many her talent wasn't enough to break out of the pack and rise to the level where music is all you do. Which is why I admire what Lou and Michael built, on their own and with My Darling Clementine. They’re working musicians, though it must be a slog at times, especially in this part of New Jersey on a drizzly Wednesday. Yet, when they emerge from the dressing room they're in stage-wear. Lou wears a brilliant black and white modernistic caftan over a simple black dress and Michael sports an understated umber Western suit. Lou parks her small red handbag and they get to it. These are true professionals and they set about the job with joyous efficiency, engaging in stage banter that pokes fun at the small turnout, themselves and their marriage. Then they start to sing and play and I find myself wishing it could be for an audience of thousands. During the one hour set they bring daughter Mabel onstage to accompany them on recorder. She sings, too, and sounds like both Lou and Michael.

The show concludes with Lou's A cappella rendition of Last Night I Had The Strangest Dream. Then there's a quick pivot to the merch table where the family hawks CDs and LPs. I pull the gig poster from the back wall and ask them to sign it. Before Jeff and I head out I remind the band about Pennsylvania.

"I'll see you in Bethlehem!”

Sounds better than "I'll see you in HELL!"

Jeff and I say our goodbyes to each other and head home. The traffic, per usual, is insane. I get home just shy of Midnight.

THURSDAY

The plan was to sleep in but I get up at 6:30 and have breakfast with Sweet T. There's the usual failed attempt to get another hour or two of sleep. Then I'm up and trying to pull together car-related items for the Island Dragway Swap Meet Saturday. Tom Crowe turned me on to this event and it seems a good way to unload motorhead items, like my vintage trophies, an old Ward’s paint-striping kit, old Chilton repair manuals, various dealer brochures from the ‘50s and ‘60s, tools and a ton more having to do with racing and automobiles. I'm also bringing every die-cast vehicle in the garage. I'll sell those fuckers for a buck each just to be rid of them. Wait, shouldn't I nab myself a vendor space first? I go online, do just that. I'm at Sixth Street Vintage today beginning at Noon, so I grab a few things I'll need for pricing, then a bottle of water, hunk of cheddar cheese and an apple. Out in the garage I gather up the yellow step-stool. Sharon also asked me to bring the small sea-foam bookcase she'd seen Friday night but it's in rougher shape than I thought. When I text her I won't be bringing it she write back People like the distressed look.

"This isn't so much distressed as beat up."

There also might be future use for it here, if I can clear out books upstairs and lose the huge folding bookcases in the front bedroom. Same goes for the Navy chair I told Sharon I'd bring to the store. What am I supposed to sit on at the swap meet? Tom's bringing a table: shouldn't I bring a chair? The step-stool goes on the back seat (it won’t fit in the trunk) and during the short drive to Hoboken I keep wondering if a 1994 Mercedes E320 is the right tool for this job. Is it time to sell it before I beat it up much further? If I do some bodywork on it could it pull in five or six grand? A station wagon or SUV would make life easier. Or would it encourage me to hang on to shit longer, maybe buy even more shit? And didn't I say my next vehicle would be electric?

I luck into a parking space across from Sixth Street Vintage and get the step-stool inside. Sharon's left me a visitor parking pass, which is akin to a Golden Ticket in Hoboken. It goes on the dashboard. It's cold inside but I can't figure out how to fire up the wall-mounted gas heater. I text Sharon, who makes it clear it's tricky to get the thing working without breaking the knob. I tell her I'll go without, that I wore long-johns. Then I get to work. I’m here to price every last thing that currently isn't, so I pick a corner of “my" table and begin. Between WorthPoint and eBay I get rough ideas on the value of vintage Playbills, which is not much. Even shows you’ve heard of with classic casts aren't worth much. Ten bucks. Twelve. Except for the one signed by Harry Chapin for a 1975 Broadway bomb he wrote. Working my way around the table clockwise I manage to fill in all the pricing blanks in a few hours. There's an expensive package arriving at our house today and I can't stomach the thought of a porch pirate getting to it before I do. UPS tells me delivery occurs between 3:15 and 5:15, so I pack it in at 3:30 instead of 5:00, the usual Thursday closing time. I don't feel that bad about it because the weather's terrible –periods of heavy rain followed by light drizzle – and only three people have stopped in. I had one sale for $38 and consider myself lucky. When the customer brought the item to the counter I felt a momentary pang. It was something I've owned a long time, a framed set of girlie waterslide decals, blonde, brunette, redhead. No nudity but racy. I hesitated when she handed me something that’s hung on one wall or another since I lived in Hoboken, just around the corner from here. This is a test of my commitment to non-attachment. Silently, I say Thank you and I release you. Then I let go of the damn thing. No, I'm not insane. Yes, it does help. If you haven't noticed, I own too much shit. If this is what I need to do to get rid of some, so be it.

Thank you. I release you.

The store locked up, I climb in the car and drive home. This is so much better than dealing with back-and-forths to Saugerties. I'm home in ten minutes. Of course, UPS doesn't come until almost 7 PM. Of course I forget to return Sharon's parking pass.

FRIDAY

After Sweet T. leaves, Bill texts a screenshot of NOAA’s Delaware River predicted flood rise by him. It's not good. He's cancelling on today's trip to Bethlehem to save his dock from destruction. They lost a dock this past winter to ice and he doesn’t want to lose another. I get it. He says I’m welcome to stay with them so I can hit the swap meet Saturday but they’re not leaving the house. Shit. There's more rain predicted for tomorrow, so I'm beginning to doubt the swap meet will happen. Screw it. There's more than enough to do here. I call Island Dragway, tell them I'm not able to make it, ask for a refund. Then I contact Tom and let him know I won't be needing a table tomorrow. I'm bummed I won't be seeing him, or Bill and Jacque or My Darling Clementine. There's also a pile of items in the garage that won't be leaving my sight any time soon. Sharon had asked me yesterday if I could mind the store this weekend and I turned her down. Now I text her, say my plans fell through, I can help if you still need me. Her plans also changed. She's good for Saturday and Sunday but maybe I can spot her from 3 to 6 today? Absolutely. She's also requested I copy the store key and return hers, so I head to Home Depot in North Bergen. Being in Home Depot or Lowe's always feels like a reproach of my homeowner skills. So much more I could be doing to maintain and improve our house. I suppose we're guilty of some form of benign neglect via deferred maintenance and lack of upgrades. But it's also money we haven't spent. I make my way to the key kiosk where a bored young woman snaps to on my approach.

"Can I get two of these made?"

I hand her Sharon's store key and in half a minute she's returned two copies. The non-stop cacophony – especially the endless beeping of forklifts and scissor lifts and PA announcements – has me out the door fast and headed to Whole Foods in Edgewater. Somehow, I've yet to get acclimated to the wealth in our midst. The parking lot full of new Teslas, Porsche Cayennes and Range Rovers in white, black and shades of gray reminds me. So do all the Whole Foods personal shoppers or whatever Amazon dubs them – Associates? Team Members? Now, when I attempt to navigate the aisles I'm besieged on all sides by shopping carts full of tell-tale paper bags with labels affixed reading "BROWN" or "PURPLE" or “RED” and followed by a barcode. It's all I can do to avoid multiple collisions while these "Associates" hurry to complete their time-monitored tasks. While moving from Produce to Seafood I ponder all the human suffering engendered by our choices. Is it time to exit the Amazon ecosystem? Or swap AT&T for some other provider? Do I leave Facebook, Twitter? Sop using Google or buying from Apple? How else would I know what I'm here for if I can't pull out my phone and check our shared shopping list? Not that Sweet T. ever adds anything to GROCERIES in the Notes app: she’ll either write it down or text GET BLUEBERRIES.

Shopping cart full, I find a register with a cashier willing to bag. If there was a tip jar I'd put in a five because I hate bagging my own groceries if someone's waiting to check out behind me. I never feel I'm moving fast enough. But this particular cashier has my bags – a motley assortment brought from home – packed in moments. Before home I stop at the Speedway and pay through the nose for gas.

Getting all the bags up our stoop, into the house and unloaded takes twenty minutes. Then it's time to get to Hoboken. For whatever reason, traffic crawls past the Shop-Rite and I expect to see flooding or an accident or some other reason we're bumper-to-bumper at 3 mph. Nope. School's just let out and the streets are swarmed by little kids and their parents/caregivers. My timing's terrible but I get to the store and luck into another parking space by 3 pm. As I unlock the door three people are waiting to get in, a young boy of 9 or 10 and a man and a woman I take for his parents.

"Oh, look! Someone's here."

The boy’s thrilled and rushes in as soon as I swing open the door. The man and woman follow me inside.

"See if there's anything you like, dear."

While I put my messenger bag down by the counter the kid makes a circuit of the store His parents also look over the offerings, pulling things out to show him.

"What about this, honey?"

"No..."

Then the boy spies a poster for a mid-‘60s beach movie, something with Jackie DeShannon in the cast. He grabs it.

"This! I want this!"

His mom's incredulous.

"You want this poster?"

"Yes. I want to put it on the wall in my room."

"You sure, honey?"

It also strikes me odd. Why does a 9 or 10 year-old want a 1960s movie poster? So I ask.

"What is it you like about that poster?"

The kid turns serious.

"Bikinis."

His parents laugh.

"Okay. Good reason."

His mother takes the poster from him, carts it over to me. It's priced at $59.

"I can do better than that. Take ten dollars off."

She fishes a $50 out and I return a dollar, then hand the poster to the boy.

"Enjoy your poster."

It'll be my only sale. After they leave I try to make my iPad Mini play nice with Sharon's sound dock but have no luck. I decide I’ll listen to vinyl on the Philips record player we set up, so I go up to the loft to find an LP. Instead, I stumble on a box full of 45s and start looking through them. I find a bunch worthy of closer examination on the counter. There are several Beatles picture sleeves, a few other oddities (most of the 45 stash is '80s New Wave dreck) and two South African releases from the '60s. On the counter I winnow the pile down to eleven 45s I'd like for myself, trying them out on the Philips. They’re all in good shape, even the Beatles records – though the unprotected picture sleeves are a bit rough. The South African singles are interesting and I think of an old WFMU friend who'd love them. We haven't talked in years, probably since the 2020 WFMU Holiday Party, but I call him, ask if he's still in Hoboken. He is. He sounds terrible, though.

"Did I wake you up or something?"

No.

"Are you sick?"

"I'm having trouble with my ribs."

That must be why he sounds so out of breath, like he has no wind.

"Oh. Sorry to hear. I just wanted to let you know about these records."

He thanks me and I say goodbye. I go back to checking values on the unpriced singles, using Discogs, eBay and WorthPoint. This is not my area of expertise but I muddle through until it's almost time to close. It's almost 6 PM when the old WFMU friend and his wife walk in, taking me by surprise.

"Hey! I didn't think you were gonna make it. Thanks for coming in."

He looks much older than I remember. So does she. There's also something off about his affect. He’s subdued, taciturn. I usher him over to the 45s, show him the record player.

"Feel free to listen if you want."

He plays the 45s but says nothing. His wife asks if he wants the records and he shrugs.

“How much are they?”

"I don't know. I couldn't find any info on them. How's five bucks each?"

She asks again.

“Do you want these?”

He does. She pulls out a $10 and he gathers up the records. I make small talk but its awkward.

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you hurt your ribs?"

His wife shoots me a quizzical look.

“Ribs? There's nothing wrong with his ribs. It's depression.”

How did I hear “ribs”? What did he actually say?

I try to make light.

"If you're not depressed, you're not paying attention."

She explains he's been through it before, that he has "episodes".

“Is it clinical depression?”

“Yes.”

“Are you taking any medication?"

“Yes.”

“He also does therapy,”

"Same here. Every week for decades now. Depression runs in the family. My mom, definitely.”

“How did she treat it?”

“With Smirnoff.”

She laughs. He cracks a smile. We chat a bit more and they go. I close up and get myself home but can't shake the disturbance of seeing an old friend in such a diminished state. Or am I upset because I thought I was depressed until encountering someone who actually is? These times. Pandemic. Ukraine. Inflation. Polarization. Inequality. Road rage. Shootings. I'm about ready to crawl off somewhere and utterly withdraw. Like the Circle Jerks sang, "I've got the world up my ass."

Sweet T.'s Spring break has begun, so we party with abandon. What else can we do?

SATURDAY

I'm feeling last night's red wine but manage to get myself into the garage to begin clearing it out. Every single item requires multiple decisions. Keep or toss? Put in a box or on a shelf? Move it into the house or find a spot out here? It's slow going because I have to work around all the large items that didn’t sell at the garage sale. Then a yellow Weehawken DPW pickup truck heads up our block and I flag it down thinking it might be Joe, the guy who bought the resonator guitar. It's some dude I've never seen.

"Hey! I've got some stuff I'm throwing out. Would you mind?"

"No problem."

He pulls over, hops out. Into the bed of the pickup we put that rusty metal cabinet, a tool-board, a broken side table, a crap folding table, etc. When we're done I'm left with just the vintage metal office chair I've been trying to sell for more than a year. It gets rolled around the corner to the Volunteer Ambulance Corps on the theory they can always use a decent chair. There's no one inside, so I leave the chair by the door in hopes someone comes back before it becomes a diversion for teenagers to roll in down the sidewalk and into traffic. Hey, even if they do, they’ll be right by the Ambulance Corps.

While moving a set of small Sony speakers to a shelf, one of them slips out of my hand and hits me in the jaw hard. I’m Chris Rock and the speaker’s Will Smith. My stuff is finally turning on me. Five hours later I hit the wall, stopping far short of my goal: emptying the 14-foot cafeteria table so I can fold it up. But I've made significant progress and an endgame is in sight. After dinner we try to watch the Oscar-winning film Coda but it's so formulaic it's making our teeth hurt. Before bailing utterly I check the reviews on my phone. Most outlets agree about the formula but say it's formula done right. Yes, you know everything that's coming but it's still a satisfying ride. It's not enough to keep us onboard but kudos to the producers for sneaking in a cameo and onscreen mention of The Shaggs. I can safely say this is the only Oscar-winner to do so. We pivot to the new Ken Burns Ben Franklin documentary until SNL. After Sweet T.'s departure upstairs I stay up and try to watch Tokyo Vice. When I wake up it's after 2 AM and I trundle off to bed.

SUNDAY

Another late morning. It's 10 AM and I yawn through breakfast, still feeling it where the Sony speaker hit my jaw. I'd love to do more work in the garage but My Darling Clementine is staying in Weehawken by the ferry terminal and Michael messages me about going to Sixth Street Vintage at Noon. I'm picking them up at 11:30, so I shower, shave, get dressed. They're standing outside the hotel entrance when I arrive. Michael takes the passenger seat and Lou and Mabel climb in back.

"How did it go in Bethlehem? Sorry I couldn't make it."

Michael waits a beat to answer.

"Oh, it was fine. The turnout was a bit less than we thought it'd be. Even with an article in the local paper."

"I think people are still concerned about covid. And there was flooding all over the area.”

I don’t know what else to say.

Between Lou and Mable there’s a paper shopping bag with items I'm gifting the band: two vintage penny-whistles, a strange old reed instrument in the form of a child's clarinet, and a pair of vintage dresses.

"That's for you."

Lou and Mabel are too fascinated by the skyline to look. When we pass through the Lincoln Harbor area and come upon the Burr-Hamilton statue I ask if I should stop.

"Will you? That would be GREAT!"

Lou and Mabel clamber out and up to the statues, taking selfies. Michael stays behind.

"So is this the dueling grounds?"

"No. This is what I call ‘Weehawken's Tribute to Gun Violence’. I can take you by the dueling grounds on our way back from Hoboken."

Lou and Mabel rejoin us and we get to Sixth Street Vintage where Sharon's in attendance. I introduce her to our UK visitors and we chat while they look over the store. Lou puts together a bundle of items from my table and I cut her a deal for everything.

"How's thirty dollars?"

"That's fine."

They've got a show today in Green Brook, a Cozy Cabin Concert, and need to get back to the hotel. On the way, we stop by the bust of Hamilton and plaques concerning the dual.

"Seems it wasn't the only famous duel. Commodore Perry dueled here."

The family is gobsmacked by the view and asks about "that bridge" (the Verrazano) and various buildings. I tell them as much as I know.

"And right here is where Sully landed the plane."

"Oh wow! That's right. It happened right here."

"I saw the survivors being brought in on the ferry. I missed that damn plane landing by that much. If I hadn't been filling in for someone on Outlaw Country I would've been on my usual 3 pm boat. But I took pictures. And when I got back to Weehawken I came to Alexander Hamilton park and saw the plane floating down to Jersey City. They finally pulled it in before it made it to open sea."

"I can't imagine living here. I don't think I would ever leave."

Lou's given me an idea. We'd like to travel once Sweet T. retires: maybe My Darling Clementine will house-sit for us? First, I'll run the idea by my wife. Now I need to get them to their hotel so they can make the soundcheck. Once they're dropped off I drive home and grab two cans of Guinness and two of a lager, plus glasses, for our own Green Brook experience. The traffic moves down the turnpike but in the middle lane just south of the tolls I hit a pothole almost as wide as the car.

"Shit. Motherfucker. How come Waze didn't tell me about that one?"

A mile or two later I hear a thunk and see something go flying off to the right. Then I realize it's the recently-replaced side marker. The one I just bought on Facebook Marketplace for $50.

"Fuck. The pothole must've loosened that thing. Goddamn it. I just bought that."

Of course there's no time to turn around and look for it. It might've flown off to the shoulder intact. But what are the odds it wasn't crushed by another vehicle or smashed to bits? Looks like I'm tracking down another one. We get to Green Brook and pull into Ken and Linda Bolton's driveway. They've been doing concerts in their house and on their deck for eleven years but this is our first visit. They greet us warmly as we ascend the steps to the deck and find a double Adirondack chair to settle in. It's chilly and raw, threatening rain. I'm again glad I own long-johns. Over the next ten or twenty minutes the deck fills up with an assortment of older folks. I lean over to Sweet T.

"I think we might be the youngest people here..."

She laughs.

The show can't commence until everyone arrives. Linda sells thirty tickets, that's all, and twenty-five of us are here. When the last ticket-holders are seated she goes and gets the band. Again, I'm impressed by their professionalism. It's a small, appreciative crowd but that won't keep their fingers warm. They run through their set, engage in their stage banter, bring Mabel out to join them and wrap it up in an hour. Michael thanks me for the Guinness I brought him mid-set and sits by the merch table hawking CDs and LPs. When the other guests leave we join the band around a table for a homemade meal. Eggplant Parm – which we have to explain to the band – and Chicken Marsala. The eggplant is excellent and the six of us (Kenny, who I met at the Crossroads gig Wednesday night is also here) have a lovely conversation over the meal. The sun’s about to go down when it's time to leave. I'm hoping the band will come by our place in Weehawken and Michael asks if they can walk from the hotel. He sees on his map we're not far.

"But it's all uphill."

"Aren't there stairs?"

"Yes. A lot of stairs. If you want to park the car in the hotel I can swing by and get you. Just let me know."

"Oh, that'd be great."

That's what we do. But it's just Lou and Michael waiting outside the hotel. Mabel's staying in the room. I'm sure she's thrilled to have a few hours away from her parents and their thrilled to have an adult beverage with adults. This visit is an exercise in seeing your situation through the eyes of others and it extends to our house.

"This is a lovely place you have here."

"And we took your advice, Lou. We didn't clean."

She laughs. She'd pointed out earlier over dinner that it makes her nervous when she goes to someone's home and it's spotless. Ours is not spotless. Lou and Michael are also impressed by Janet's artwork on the walls.

"You did all of these?!"

She did.

Somehow I find myself making Moscow Mules while we ponder if they can still be called that. Our ice-maker is broken so I make do with one large ice cube crushed. When I serve the drinks in copper mugs Lou and Michael are impressed. They take several sips before I realize I've left out an ingredient.

"Damn. Did I forget the ginger beer?!"

The English. Too polite to say anything. Lou fesses up.

"I thought it was a bit strong."

We spend a few hours socializing, giving them a tour – including showing them the spot on the kitchen floor where Sweet T. broke her leg – and say goodbye by 10 PM as the fatigue of a long day sets in. I deposit them back at their hotel and let them know I'm around the next few days if they need a tour guide.

"Maybe. This hotel's expensive but it's not full-service."

"No concierge, eh?"

No.

It's late when I get back home but we stay up anyway. No work tomorrow...

MONDAY

I've got a doctor's appointment at 12:30 PM and arrive around 12:15, killing time in search of superglue at a nearby NAPA Auto Parts store. There's a HELP WANTED sign in the window and I inquire.

"Stock help and counter help."

I don’t ask how much they're paying. It can't be much more than $15 an hour. I do the math in my head. If I work eight hours a day, five days a week, I can pull in roughly $500 after taxes. Two grand a month. It's not nothing. Leaving with my glue and dielectric grease I contemplate it. Me, working in an auto parts store. Is this what it's come to?

I wait at my doctor's office for a half hour before I decide I can't take the woman with the “productive" cough any longer. Or the guy heavy-breathing. They're both wearing masks but it's freaking me out. The nail in the coffin is the woman they bring in moaning and crying in pain. As I get up to tell them I'm leaving I see the moaning/crying woman on her side on an examination table. It doesn't look good, an impression furthered by the entrance of a Lyndhurst police officer as I'm going out the front door. For some reason I think "Domestic abuse”.

In the corner luncheonette over a tuna sandwich I go on Facebook Marketplace and locate a pair of OEM W124 side markers for my car in Kearny. I message the seller, ask if I can pick them up (yes, after 5 PM), pay $25 for the pair via Venmo, then make arrangements to swing by around 6:30, after dinner. I drive the same route we went Sunday to Green Brook, so I decide to look for my other side marker. There's the pothole. It was in the next mile or two the damn thing flew off the car. I slow down, get on the shoulder, put on my 4-way flashers. Then I spot it. I've driven past it, so I stop, get out with my flashlight (to wave at oncoming motorists) and make my way back to it. It turns out to be a soda bottle. Fuck. This is pointless and I don't want to get flattened for a $50 part that's likely in bits. I climb back in the car and get to Kearny, where Emmanuel and I have a nice conversation about old Mercedes and he sells me a front bumper strip for $40. I’ve needed one since fucking up my bumper during the snowstorm when I went for medication. I'm back home quickly with the parts. When I mount this side marker I’m anchoring it internally with a wire tie. I don’t want to be buying them every few weeks. I’m tired of the duel.