Back to Work (again)
I’ve spent so much time editing other people’s work, lately, that I’ve written very little of my own. This morning, I finally got around to adding to one of my works-in-progress (Meetings with Remarkable Men ...and a Few Others). The book has been gathering virtual cobwebs on my laptop’s hard drive for virtual ages. The book is a kind of memoir (and, like most memoirs, primarily in the form of serial name-dropping). While not all of these names are attached to famous people, some of the most influential unknowns deserve more recognition.
(You may recall being introduced to this project in this previous substack post).
In a rare moment of revelation, it occurred to me that—by titling each entry with the person’s name—I was telegraphing the entry’s potential punch. As of now, the book is mostly just an outline, with forty-odd future entries listed by name. Retitling each completed entry, and changing the headings as they are filled in, should make it easier for me to track the book’s progress.
Or lack thereof.
Saved by the Bell
I’ve always considered myself to be a patient and peaceful person. I was in a few fights, as a preadolescent (and got the beatings I deserved), but I’ve managed to control those urges for over six decades. Which is not to say that I don’t get angry.
For five years, I lived in NYC, and—during that time—I learned that, sometimes, one needs to assert oneself. There were just so many people, and not all of them were kind, generous, or self-effacing.
Once, while idling at the end of a block, waiting for a parking spot to open (alternate-side-of-street parking meant that every morning there was scramble as every parked car had to move to a new spot—and, since most of the streets are one-way—drivers had to go around the block to be headed in the right direction. I was patiently waiting for some driver to leave his spot. After perhaps a twenty-minute wait, I saw—way up the block, almost in front of my building—a big car easing away from the curb.
A perfect spot!
Just as I put the car in gear, another car shot by me —and the bastard stole the spot that was rightfully—no, divinely ordained to be—mine. I pulled up behind him, got out of my car, swelled my six-foot-three body to its maximum threatening size, and screamed my dissatisfaction at the offending spot thief.
The little old man was terrified. With shaky hands, he slid the gearshift out of “park,” and drove away as quickly as he could. I got my parking spot, but was ashamed by what I had allowed myself to do to the poor guy.
A week or two later, I was in a grocery store in upstate New York. It was crowded and there were long lines at every check-out counter. That didn’t bother me—I was now a New Yorker; I was used to standing on line for things.
There are unspoken rules, a social contract of sorts, that apply to queues. When we abide by them, everyone gets along (nobody likes waiting on line, but respecting the rules means everyone is at least inconvenienced equally). So, when a woman in line ahead of me waved to a friend, inviting him to join her online—jumping ahead of me—things got tense. If I had hackles, they would have risen. As it was, I could feel the muscles in my shoulders harden up. Adrenaline was preparing my body for fight-or-flight but, as a newly-aggressive New Yorker, flight was not even considered.
I separated my feet into a more stable position and leaned into an offensive stance. But, just as things were about to become physical, I felt a hand on my shoulder. My first instinct, was to turn and confront the person who so rudely interrupted me, possibly throw a punch.
I spun around only to be face-to-face with a black man as big as me, but much more solidly-built. Worse, the fist that had so recently rested on my shoulder was huge.
The man’s face, however, was not at all threatening. Its zen-like calmness suggested that there was nothing here that merited any tension. Indeed, all tension drained out of my body as I realized I had come close to throwing a punch at Floyd Patterson.
Paid subscribers to these substack pages get access to a complete edition of my novella: Noirvella is a modern story of revenge, told in the style of film noir. They can also read the first part of Unbelievable, a kind of rom-com that forms around a pompous guy who is conceited, misinformed, and undeservedly successful. Both books are sold by Amazon, but paid subscribers get them for free!
Also, substack pages (older than eight months) automatically slip behind a paywall—so only paid subscribers can read them. If you’re interested in reading any of them, you can subscribe, or buy them in book form (I’ve released two volumes of Substack Lightnin’ on Amazon).
Meanwhile, it is easy to become a paying subscriber (just like supporting your favorite NPR station). It’s entirely optional, and—even if you choose not to do so—you’ll continue to get my regular substack posts—and I’ll still be happy to have you as a reader.