The Lawyer
Dear kids,
I am still in Philly, and the lawyer’s office is in a goddamn huge building at least 50 stories tall and taking up a whole city block with marble all over the damn place.
Security let me through to his office on the 36th floor so I could drop off one of my books that I had signed for him. And I left it with one of his assistants. He was very a nice young man.
Then on my way back out through security I told them “you know my family provided all the marble for this place.” And they said “really???”. I said “hell no look at the way I'm dressed.”And that got a big laugh, which is all I ever really want.
2. The Liberty Bell
Regarding my trip to Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia this morning:
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I was surprised by the number of tourists at Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell, but then I remembered it is summer vacation time.
Amongst the tourists were lots of Asians, lots of “Boys From Brazil” Europeans and Swiss Miss Europeans. The tall, blonde, steel blue-eyed young men were a bit disconcerting, but the shortèr Asian tourists often had no compunction in pushing past them in line, so maybe they are better judges of character. But mostly everybody visiting was polite and gregarious, which rubbed off on me.
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About the Liberty Bell: they had exhibit after exhibit after exhibit about the bell that the tourists were reading reverently, while a speaker hidden in the display told him what they could already read for themselves. But my thought was, “How the hell much can you read about a bell? Just show me the damn bell.”
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Postscript 1: I like talking to and observing people from all walks and stations and nations. They’re all people. Think about it – that’s a damn amazing achievement from one set of chromosomes.
Postscript 2: Photographic proof that I was there. I look like I am drunk (am not drunk), evil, and spat out by a hurricane, but I’m a proud American, damnit!!
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3. The Bodega Man
One more story from my recent trip to Philly from Oklahoma to settle some family business:
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I love talking to the ordinary Joe on the street. The man at the bodega just outside the high class shopping mall in old town Philly would always talk to me when I stopped for an icy Coke at the end of stomping around on a hot day. He was a nice guy, I think Iranian. Square jaw. He looked like a younger version of the long departed Shah.
He sold lots of lottery tickets, which were displayed in metallic colors all across the back of his bodega, kind of like an American flag but all the color of money. I said have any of your customers ever actually won the lottery, and he assured me that many had and pointed to a photo that might as well have been a Polaroid. I was skeptical. I asked what he would do if he won the lottery and he answered that he would shut that goddamn bodega down in 10 seconds and go live a life of luxury.
I hope he wins. He was hospitable to me and I was a nobody.
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Postscript: it wasn’t a Coca-cola I was buying, it was Camel Blue 99’s. Cigarettes smoked outside under the hotel awning at 5 AM because you can’t sleep are a whole other method of bonding with the people who really have stories to tell.
Even offering a light to someone whose hands are shaking so badly they can’t pair flame to cigarette will get you a pretty good anecdote.
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4. William (abridged)
You know what I like most about that homeless guy I bought lunch for yesterday? I said let’s walk over to this restaurant and get you something to eat, and the closest place was something like cool greens, you know, salad, dreaded “bowls”.
He took one look at the menu and said I’m very sorry but this looks like shit. And I instantly admired him. I looked at the menu I said damn you’re right. So we went to a cheesesteak place down the street and he said that’ll fill me up. And I was very happy for him.
He was a little guy, and he was down on his luck, but not broken. He had a job at a laundry and was saving up for a room to live in. His wife had od’d on fentanyl and it had really messed him up.
Postscript: And yes, we all have to tell our stories, even William, who was just itching for someone to listen to his. I think he was a good man. At some point, we all want to tell the stories of our lives.
5. The Coffee Table Book aka Flying Back to Oklahoma
You will understand the following:
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A young woman sitting on the plane next to me had a large coffee table book of a certain reputable collection of art on her lap. The front looked not unlike the cover of the Eagle’s “The Long Run” and was in a protective sleeve dedicated to itself.
It was very impressive, and we discussed how forbidden it would be for someone to actually ever ever set their coffee cup on top of this coffee table book. She was very proud of it and we talked about it for a while. I would say she was mid 20s of Hispanic and Native American descent - one of the major populations here in Oklahoma – and she was bright and smart and friendly and studying art at college, and we had fun discussing some of the pictures.
We also had fun discussing the mysterious crystals of ice which spat from those little air conditioning vents you can adjust above your head in the plane. She protected the coffee table book from those.
I am not an old lech but liked the conversation and she was rightfully proud of it. To quote my favorite author, John Dos Passos - “When you try to find the people…”
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6. Bonus Short
I have severe arthritis in my right big toe, and there’s a sharp pain with each step I take, and I was going to have to walk in DFW airport from gate B3 to C21 in less than an hour to make my connection, and I thought to myself, damn, I’m getting a ride on one of those electric scooters that they weave so homicidally between people in the concourse. So I put in a request for that.
But when I landed in DFW, there was only a kind of wheelchair waiting for me. and I thought this small woman in a red vest is going to push me out to the waiting electric scooter thing. But no. She grabs hold of the handles and huffing puffing puffing huffing starts pushing me out into the concourse and on and on, and I’m sitting there like a chump and all these people are looking at me like when a strapping man springs out of his car at a handicap spot. So I turned to her and said thank you very much, but I ain’t doing this. So I walked myself to the skylink and got on board with 4000 other people packed in one single pungent rail car and jostled along to my gate just in time for boarding.
That was darn humiliating. I’d rather walk on glass.
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Postscript to my travel stories:
Upon returning to the OKC airport after dark, a Native American guy named Joe drove me around the parking garage in a golf cart when I couldn’t find my car.
I don’t know how he knew I was lost; perhaps it was because he had passed me on two different levels. He spotted my car before I did, and I know I have seen it many more times.
He even hefted my 29 inch suitcase full of retrieved papers and keepsakes into my trunk.
Thanks much, Joe!
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Postscript to the postscript:
And I returned to my house full of life: two dogs, two cats, three kids, and whatever the hell I am. At least my chair is comfortable there, and one of them is always glad to sit in my lap (the pets, not the kids).
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One more postscript:
I think I chose a pretty good lawyer for managing the estate. He sounded more competent and confident than the others. I could picture him trimming his nails as we talked on the phone.
When I went to visit his office in Philly, it was in a building a block wide and 50 stories tall with all marble inside.
I told him over the phone the other day, “When I went to your office, it looked like I was at the corner of Lucre and Mammon.” He chuckled, but I don’t think sincerely. Perhaps he was focusing on trimming his pinky nail. That’s the finger the ring goes on, at lease in the movies Robert DeNiro might be in.
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