Bentley Votes (from The Let Go Diary)
While wrapping up my time at Macmillan, I went out to Oklahoma to visit my family, and learned that one of my mother’s dogs, a lovable but highly irritable little whitehaired time bomb of a Maltese named Bentley was quite expressive when it came to his political opinions.
That afternoon, I learned Bentley had added something new to his portfolio of batty behavior. He was never a fan of commercials, sometimes leaping off the couch and bounding across the room to put his feet on the TV shelf and bark at the person selling cars or legal services or liposuction. But what really sparked his outrage now was one particular candidate for Congress, a lumpy 40ish buzzcut fellow who was desperately trying to position himself to the right of one of the most conservative incumbents in the House. This while, apparently, not actually living in the state of Oklahoma at all, much less in the district, it being revealed that the legal address on his tax forms was in Texas, in a home he clearly still occupied.
As soon as that candidate’s commercial came on Bentley went airborne and in a bound was pounding the TV with his little front paws, barkgrowling as if the man himself had planned to burst from the screen into the apartment, but now of course, knew better than to risk it.
As if it were something that could be explained and then again couldn’t, mom said, ”He really hates that guy.”
A Counter Seat on the Wild Side (from the essay, “The NYPL Story”)
This story revolves around one of my most cherised possessions — a New York Public Library card.
One of the first concerts I attended after moving to New York was Lou Reed at The Ritz on 11th Street. You can find that show on YouTube. I found out years later that years before I met him, my fellow bandsman, Matt, was at that same show (“That was you? I thought I recognized you.”) And I had a firsthand encounter with him a couple of years later. Lou, I mean. I’ve had lots of firsthand encounters with Matt.
There used to be a small restaurant on Greenwich Avenue between Seventh Avenue and Bank Street called Chez Brigitte. Small. There was a counter with maybe eight stools and maybe six tables (the size of the place varies every time I think about it.) A guidebook might have called it French comfort food. It offered a different special each day and only a few other options besides that. On this particular day, the special was beef stew, and as I was beginning to get into mine, the person sitting at the other end of the counter, asked me, in I swear, an instantly recognizable Lou Reed-like monotone drone, “Can you pass me the pepper?” I did, and looked at him as long as I dared.
“Sure.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
Many years later I wrote a song about moving to New York with a verse about this encounter (it’s at 2:19, if you just have to skip ahead). What better moment to include, to mark the transition from visitor to newcomer to habitue? Because I passed him the pepper and did nothing more and let each of us get on with lunch. No stupid attempts to strike up a conversation {“Golly, Mr. Reed, Velvet Underground is my all-time favorite band other than, you know, The Beatles.”) And no knowing conspiratorial looks (“Don’t worry, man. I’m cool. Won’t blow your cover.”) I’d initially planned to sing the whole song, or at least that verse, in an instantly recognizable Lou Reed-like monotone drone. But I thought better of it. Once we’d settled into the song and were getting ready to record it, meaning once the other members of the band were curious enough to regard the lyrics, one of them said to me, “Really, tell us the truth, now. Did this actually happen? Was Lou really up and about in the daytime? Wasn’t he a vegetarian?”
My response remains consistent and unequivocal.
I honestly believe, to my bones, that person was Lou Reed.
Don’t Speak (from the essay, “The Hal Story”)
The story is about a co-worker’s encounter with a well-known criminal defense attorney whose office was in the same building, off the same elevator bank, as ours.
It simply was not possible to be in New York in the early 90s, and be a sentient human being, and not know who Bruce Cutler was. For those of you weren’t either or only one and not the other, he was the lawyer for the alleged organized crime figure, John Gotti. I don’t think I have to say “alleged” because he was indeed convicted of some things. But I’d rather not take any chances.
As I’d learned soon after I started at 41 Madison, Mr. Cutler’s office was one of a couple of legal practices one floor below ours, on 34. I thought that was convenient because there were offices for the New York State Court of Appeals on the floors above ours. I’d seen the occasional celebrity with an attorney, riding up to or down from the offices on 34. I’d also ridden up or down in that elevator, with lawyer-client pairs that looked every bit like they were involved in one of Mr. Cutler’s Gotti-type cases, large men confined in newly bought suits and colorful ties, with attorneys small enough to appear to be sidekicks. Ridden with them pressed into the corner, projecting — hopefully — an air of oblivious indifference. Seeing nothing, hearing nothing. La la la la.
One time going up, that ride’s version of the larger man leaned over to that ride’s version of the attorney and said, “Yeah, if they could get it down to six months, that would be beautiful.” The attorney just nodded and said, “Hmm,” which I took to be his in-elevator, not-alone way of reminding his client that he’d been told to keep his mouth shut.