New York
Christmas afternoon, Dad pulled out his film projector and a half dozen Super 8 movies from the late ’60s and early ’70s. I recall him standing in front of us with the camera back then, but, like the photos he takes of us on the stairs every year, I never knew what became of them. Two friends of Lisa’s had dropped by, and though nothing could be duller than watching someone else’s home movies, none of us cared. The moment we saw Mom, we forgot about our guests. They mumbled something on their way out—“Merry Christmas,” or maybe “Your kitchen is on fire,” whatever.
I never knew my mother had been captured on film, moving. The first reel was from St. John in 1972. Mom, Dad, Aunt Joyce, and Uncle Dick. We see the island. Boats. More island. More boats, and then there’s Mom, who waves good-bye before ducking into a thatched hut. Then the camera is handed to someone else, and we see Dad pull her out. He is young and handsome—he is always handsome. When he points at the camera, Mom buries her head in his chest. Then he lifts her chin and they kiss.
Watching this, Dad stomped his foot on the floor, the way you might if you just missed the bus and knew that another wasn’t coming for a long while. He rewound the film and replayed it a second time, then a third.
“Again,” we called. “Play it again.” To see them both on an island, so young and happy. I couldn’t believe our luck: to have this on film!
1995
January 9, 1995
New York
I cleaned for Judith today. Her full-time housekeeper, Faith, showed up half an hour late so I waited outside and was joined by Mary, the young woman who comes once a month to trim the cat’s toenails. She used to work at an animal hospital and has, she said, “a houseful of critters.” First, there’s a ferret whose goal in life was to escape his cage and murder the guinea pigs, which he did. She loves birds but only if they can fly freely through her apartment. She also loves cats and found a way to make everyone happy by adopting a blind one. That way it can hear the birds but not catch them.
Mary told me it’s illegal to have a monkey in New York City because they carry human diseases. That said, she’s treated two of them. “These were people who won the lottery,” she said. “They got the money and the first thing they did was buy their son the two capuchins he wanted.” The monkeys went from living in the son’s room to living in the garage, and eventually they wound up in a shed far from the house. They were bloodthirsty, apparently, and before they were banished, the son was regularly treated for injuries.
January 11, 1995
New York
I followed two men on the street. One was telling the other that he hates it when Danielle holds his hand. “’Cause there might be some other piece I want to talk to. You know what I’m saying?”
January 24, 1995
New York
The review (of One Woman Shoe) came out in Newsday and it’s good. The guy said that after a while he didn’t know what the hell was going on but didn’t care, he was laughing so hard. He said it was stronger and more satisfying than the “woefully erratic Stitches,” which is funny. Last year they wrote a love letter to it, and now it’s erratic. The Times review comes out on Thursday.
January 26, 1995
New York
We got a wonderful review in the Times. Rakoff called late last night to read it to me and I thought he was kidding. It changes things, a review. First off, it kills the element of surprise and leaves the audience with a “prove it” stance. It fucks with the cast as well. Everyone was off tonight. One moment bumped into another, and the show felt way too long. We were excited by the great review, but by the end of the night we were depressed.
July 7, 1995
New York
Someone stopped Mitch on the street last night and said, “I need another seventy-five cents so I can buy a cheeseburger. How about helping me?”
Mitch said, “Get it without the cheese,” and continued walking.
September 18, 1995
New York
A woman phoned at eleven o’clock last night and asked if she could speak to Rich.
I said there wasn’t a Rich here.
“OK,” she said. “Is this the game we’re going to play?”
“Game? Listen—” I said.
“Rich is having his roommate cover for him, is that it?”
“There is no roommate. Listen, this is David Sedaris and Hugh Hamrick—”
“Rich? Is that you, you shithead?”
“There is no Rich,” I repeated. “You have the wrong number.”
“You think you can fuck with me, Rich? You have no idea who you’re fucking with.”
“That’s just it,” I said. “I don’t have any idea. None whatsoever. This is wasted on me.”
She hung up then, hard.
1996
January 1, 1996
New York
Amy’s New Year’s resolution is to make more Asian friends. She hopes to find them at community meetings and small restaurants. I think that’s great, to have a goal.
Hugh’s friend Sue, who’s from Georgia, had a New Year’s Day luncheon and served ham, collard greens, and black-eyed peas, traditional Southern food meant to bring good luck and prosperity. She cooked the collards with a penny. I told Amy about it and now we’re trying to think of other recipes that call for change.
January 24, 1996
New York
It really is torture to sit around the house and write all day. I’m thinking it might motivate me to finish the book faster, the thought that after it’s finished I can return to housecleaning. The problem is that I haven’t even started the book yet. Today I wrote a letter to Karen Dobragosz, a girl I went to high school with. She sent me a Christmas card over a year ago, so I responded to it. Check. Then I read a thirty-five-page story written by a guy in Colorado named Robert. He sent it to me weeks ago and called last night asking why he hadn’t heard from me.
His story was not easy to read. All the characters said things like “Whattya doin’?” and “Nuthin’.”
Then I wrote two letters of recommendation. It doesn’t sound like much in terms of progress, but I sat at my desk from noon until six thirty. Practically.
January 30, 1996
New York
Helen called me over to give me a chicken quiche but really to complain about the excessive heat. The landlord suggested she keep her windows open, but she says that if she does, it’ll let all the air-conditioning out. It makes no sense to have that running in the winter, but she does, along with the heat and three fans.
February 8, 1996
New York
In the paper there’s a story about a fifty-five-year-old cancer patient who paid her twenty-year-old neighbor to kill her. The kid went with strangulation, but she revived and then tracked him down, claiming that because she was still alive, he had to give her the money back. They argued, and he beat her to death with a power drill.
February 12, 1996