New York
I went to Walker’s with Marge and two friends of hers, a guy named Dan who’s fluent in sign language and a woman named Pat who just got her master’s in dance history. We got to talking and I learned that her dad was a radio celebrity at WABC from the early 1940s until the mid-1970s. The family lived in New Canaan, Connecticut, and every Christmas morning his show was broadcast live from their living room. Pat received cards and letters from listeners and rode to Manhattan in a chauffeured car to watch her father emcee Circus of the Stars. Once, her dad came home from work in a helicopter, and she remembers the young trees bowing in the wind generated by the blades. Pat was, at the time, “horsey,” meaning devoted to horses. She went on to say that her father was an alcoholic and was married six times, her mom being wife number five. The drinking didn’t bother me, but the umpteen marriages and the thought of all those stepsisters definitely tarnished the beautiful picture I had formed in my mind.
September 29, 1992
New York
Patrick’s truck broke down, so he’s applying for welfare. He told me that over the phone today, and then he added that Richie’s murder charge had been dropped. After we hung up, Hugh’s friend Leslie called. She’s a buyer for Barneys and leaves tomorrow for Milan and Paris. One person talks about welfare and the next about the terrible Donna Karan collection.
October 9, 1992
New York
While cleaning this morning, I listened to a radio call-in show hosted by a woman who helps people find things. Not missing objects but merchandise and services. The first person to phone in was looking for denim boots. She said she’s been searching everywhere and wanted some phone numbers so she can call around before coming into the city. “I have a few pairs already, but let me tell you, once they start to fray, there’s not a thing in the world you can do but buy another pair! I’ve got regular denim boots and stonewashed and they’re both on their way out. I swear, if I can find another place that sells them, I’ll buy a hundred pairs.”
October 13, 1992
New York
Hugh is in Boca Raton, Florida, for a job, staying at a Days Inn. I call and ask for his room and am connected with a Vietnamese woman. We exchange a few words, and I phone the front desk again and say that I enjoyed talking to someone from Southeast Asia but that now I am ready to speak to Hugh Hamrick. They then connect me to the room of Lisa Gold, who is doing the job in Boca Raton with Hugh. I call back and tell the operator that it was great talking to Lisa. Though she lives only ten blocks away from me in New York, we rarely see one another, so I appreciated the opportunity to catch up. Now, though, I wouldn’t mind talking to Hugh Hamrick in room 412. Jesus.
October 15, 1992
New York
The new Pakistani cashier at the Grand Union is named Dollop.
October 27, 1992
New York
In Saugerties, we had a waitress who was for Bush. “I’m voting for him because my generation does things like that,” she said. “My ex-husband is a shithead and a bastard with a big government pension and he’ll vote this way or that. But me, my best years were when Republicans were in office. You know what I’m saying?”
October 31, 1992
New York
We went with Ken and Taro to see the Halloween parade. My favorite costume was a very thin, dirty Santa carrying a plastic bag of discarded cans. He was accompanied by a filthy Ronald McDonald.
November 25, 1992
New York
Helen went off this morning on the Korean grocers on the corner of Spring and Thompson. “One day they charge me forty cents for an apple and the next day it’s fifty cents. For an apple, the bastards! The girl behind the counter asked if I was going to cook a turkey for Thanksgiving and I said, ‘What’s it to you?’
“She says, ‘My mother’s not going to make one.’ And I said, ‘Yeah, well, your mother’s a lazy bastard.’”
December 3, 1992
New York
I got a call a few weeks back from a fellow named Don who had read my SantaLand story in the New York Press. He taught a high school equivalency program in the basement of the Fulton projects and asked if I might visit his class. “The kids are bound to love your writing, but reading it in front of the actual author will likely make them nervous,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I’ll tell them you’re a graduate student who’s come to observe my teaching style. Then, when they’re finished, maybe near the end of the session, I’ll reveal your true identity.”
He gave me the address, so this afternoon I showed up and was introduced as James from Columbia University. Copies of the SantaLand story were distributed to the students. Then Don said, “Eddie, would you like to start?”
Eddie, a twenty-two-year-old with razor-nicked eyebrows and letters tattooed on his knuckles, began. “‘I was at a cuff…a cuff…at a…I was at a cuff…’”
“Sound it out,” Don said. “Come on, Eddie, you can do this.”
I had felt uncomfortable around these students. Loud and powerfully built, they had spent their break threatening one another and yelling out the windows at passing girls. They were all so volatile and mean-looking, but faced with the page, they were powerless, like children. Once someone had finished his paragraph, he’d put his head down on the tabletop or walk away to see what was happening outside. Then someone else would be called on. “‘Snowball just…leads elves on, elves and Santas.’”
How odd it was to have my experiences recounted in these voices. What were you doing while I was wandering the maze or having nickels thrown at me? I’d wonder, looking at someone in a hooded Gang Starr sweatshirt. And what was I doing when you got that teardrop tattooed on your cheek?
It took well over an hour to complete the reading. Don congratulated the group on a job well done, then folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “All right,” he said. “So, if you could meet the person who wrote this, what would you ask?”
The guy next to Eddie put up his hand. “I’d ax, Yo, is you a faggot or what?”
December 15, 1992
New York
Ira Glass called to say that Morning Edition would like to broadcast my “SantaLand Diary.” They’ll pay me $500 and give him $200 to produce it. So tomorrow I go to a recording studio.
December 24, 1992