He didn’t do much in terms of defending himself, and I got the idea that dinner would be one long tirade. It’s pretty rare to go from a fight to a pleasant meal. Maybe he could have said, “You know something, you’re right. I apologize. That was thoughtless and I’ll never do it again.”
I followed them for blocks, hoping he might take this approach, but he never did. It irritated me, the way she kept snapping her fingers to make a point. I wondered what he was doing with her, but by the time we hit Broome Street, I wondered what she was doing with him.
October 23, 1997
New York
I think it’s strange that neither of Hugh’s parents bought the People magazine he’s in. His father says, “I’m not wasting three dollars. Just tell me what the article says.” His mother leafed through an issue at Target, then phoned to say, “I’ve got better pictures of you at home.”
Any other parent would have bought a dozen copies. It’s not like getting a set of encyclopedias. I mean, really.
November 20, 1997
New York
Paul called from Raleigh and told me he had two black eyes. Apparently he started a fight with a guy in a bar, a guy who was much taller than him, and stocky.
Me: And when did he stop beating you?
Paul: When he was done.
November 26, 1997
New York
Walking back from the movie theater, I cut through that little pedestrian area between 3rd and 4th Streets. There, a white man, a guy around my age, was sitting on a bench and screaming, “Are you fucking deaf? I asked you what time it is.”
He was yelling at a group of three young women, one of them Japanese. When none of them answered, he got up off his bench and followed them. “Hey, you. That’s right, Jap, I asked you a fucking question.”
One of the women turned around then. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were talking to us.”
“Don’t fucking apologize!” the man screamed. “Just give me the fucking time.”
This happened a few hours ago, yet I can’t stop thinking about it and hating myself for being such a coward. The correct answer to the man’s question was “It’s time for you to learn some fucking manners.” He wasn’t a lunatic, but you could tell he’d spent some time in prison. I wonder what he’ll be doing for Thanksgiving, then I wonder where he learned how to ask people questions.
November 29, 1997
New York
I went to have my hair cut and sat in the chair beside a man who’d just gotten out of jail. The barber asked what he’d been in for and he answered, “Aggravated assault. I had to beat up some Italian woman because she didn’t know how to keep her mouth shut.”
I thought the barber, who was Italian, might slit the guy’s throat, but instead he just turned the TV up.
December 20, 1997
New York
I bought a half dozen books this week on horrible diseases, some for me and some to give to Gretchen for Christmas. My favorite picture is of a woman with horrible arthritis. Her fingers are twisted and tapered, almost like carrots, yet her nails are beautifully manicured and painted. She’s working with what she has. The same is true of the gum diseases viewed through lipsticked mouths.
December 26, 1997
New York
Continuing our tradition of seeing movies about black people on Christmas Day, after opening presents, Dad, Lisa, Paul, Amy, and I went to see Jackie Brown. Last year I think it was The Preacher’s Wife, and the year before that Waiting to Exhale. We really wanted to see Soul Food this year, but the only screening was at nine a.m.
Afterward, over dinner, Dad mentioned a woman we used to know from church. “I saw her not long ago, and golly, she looked just like a man,” he said. “She’s got a beard and everything, like a bristled hog.”
When Gretchen scolded him, he said that he hadn’t meant that as an insult. “The hairs of a bristled hog are used to craft some of the finest brushes there are, both for painting and shaving! I used to have one, as a matter of fact.”
1998
January 1, 1998
New York
I went to Helen’s to deliver the tangerines she’d asked for, and she answered her door looking like an old Mafia capo, in big dark sunglasses. “I fell and broke the regular ones,” she told me. We hung out for a while in her kitchen, and before I left she gave me a nutmeg-colored pantsuit she thought Amy might wear. “All my friends have fat asses, so I don’t have nobody else it would fit. Tell her to wash it in Woolite or, what the fuck, tell her she can wash it in any old shit.”
January 2, 1998
New York
A young woman called, saying, “Who is this?” I asked who she was calling for and she said, “What number is this?” After I told her she said, “You don’t have to yell at me.” Then she said she’d call back in a few minutes and hung up.
Several hours later a man called and asked if I was David Sedaris. “Me and a bunch of friends bought you a present and want to come over and give it to you.”
I said it wasn’t a good time and suggested he call me back tomorrow. How dumb is that?
January 7, 1998
New York
I went to deliver Helen her chicken cutlets and she sang “I Got You, Babe” in honor of Sonny Bono, who died two days ago in a skiing accident. “I like that Chastity,” she said. “And her father was very understanding when she tolt him she was lesbian.” I stayed for an hour and she recounted the various fights she’s had this week. “I’m not a troublemaker. I just stay out of it now.” Before I left, she gave me another pantsuit to give to Amy, one with a studded top. It’s hard to imagine Helen in it, but she swears she used to wear it to church. “The monsignor said, ‘Hey, hotshot, where’s your horse?’ I tolt him it was in the garage. Ha! You laugh, but that’s what I tolt him.”
January 20, 1998
New York
The woman below us, Franny, died last night, a few months shy of her 106th birthday. Helen told me about it and said, “My mother died when she was forty-six! I remember asking her, ‘Hey, Ma, what are you going to give me for my birthday?’ She said, ‘I’ll give you something you’ll never forget.’ And she did. She died.”
That Helen. Everything has to be about her.
January 21, 1998
New York
I called my agent Don to discuss the Little, Brown situation and he began by talking about Mary Todd Lincoln. Then he moved to Abe Lincoln and then to FDR. The mention of Bill Clinton heartened me, as we were finally moving into the present decade, but then he went back to Collier’s magazine before finally saying it’s best to just sit tight and let Little, Brown make the next move.
January 24, 1998
New York
I listened to a lot of talk radio today. The president is caught up in a sex scandal that could ruin him if it’s proven he encouraged the young woman to lie to the grand jury or whoever it was who needed to be lied to. One station offered a prize to whoever could give the scandal the best name. I’m sick of attaching the suffix -gate to everything, though it’s hard to sneeze at either Fornigate or Tailgate, the top two contenders. Who knows what will come of it.
January 26, 1998