I Was Just in the Neighborhood
If you happened to catch a cab in New York City and your cab driver speaks English he is a struggling artist, a religious fanatic or a serial killer. That is it. There are no other options. The first two scenarios will lead to an inevitable conversation. The third scenario could allow you to escape a conversation but might lead to your body being found in a Staten Island landfill. Your choice, really.
“42nd Street and 3rd Avenue please,” I pronounce each number loud and clear as if the glass divider in front of me is really a Grand Canyon and the driver is on the other side of it.
The cab driver looks like the husband character from the Family Guy cartoon only with Howard Stern’s hair and sunglasses. He sighs right on cue when I say ‘3rd Avenue.’
“Which way would you like me go?”
“Well… We can try the West Side and cross over if we hit traffic.”
“OK,” he looks in his rearview mirror “for you, no problem. You are gorgeous.”
Gorgeous, maybe, but I am also sick as a dog, jet legged, sleep deprived, hungry, haven’t had coffee yet, and late for work… It’s cold and early. I do not find the state of the world pleasing at this particular moment. I want to stare blankly stare out of the window and think that I am in a sensory deprivation tank. I want to pretend that I am surrounded by a set of bulky secret service agents that will not allow the commoners to approach me or, heaven forbid, talk to me.
Unfortunately, the cab driver ignores my secret service entourage.
“I do not like driving on the East Side,” he says proudly “I like to only drive on the West Side. What do you think of that?”
“I think you have the right to drive wherever you want.” Unfortunately I work on the freaking East Side! “Unfortunately I do work on the East Side.”
“I like you. You are smart. And gorgeous.”
And just like that my fate is sealed - we are having a conversation.
“People who live on the West Side have a certain sensibility about them, they don’t cross over. They like the West Side. I live on 79th and Amsterdam and my office used to be on 51st and 8th Avenue. I used to own a talent agency with my lawyer Elliot. We had a rent controlled office for only $600 a month, what do you think of that?”
I think that it had to be either in the year 600 BC or the office was a roach and mice infested dump the size of kitchen cupboard.
“Wow,” I say “that is really cheap!”
“Yes. And then, believe it or not, we moved to a smaller office in the same building, also rent-controlled, for only $400 a month. It was a great area, you know, right near everything. All the major theaters are there, all the actors… You know what I am talking about. On nice days Elliot, my lawyer, and I would take walks in Central Park. We owned the agency so we were always having lunch with writers, producers and such. We did not go to the East Side.”
“Yep.”
“I am writing a play, you know. What do you think of that?”
Oh boy. I think now I am fucked.
“I think that’s great.”
“I wrote it in 22 days. I came home from work and just sat down and wrote, then I got up made myself some pasta and fed the cats, who are no longer with us, and wrote some more. It was easy - the characters pretty much wrote themselves. I am trying to get it produced right now. I already had several readings…”
“What is your play about?”
“Well… It’s about a 28 year writer named David who is writing a play. You see, it’s a technique called ‘a play within a play.’ Throughout the play we see him write. One day he goes to Staples to buy a pen, he is an old fashioned writer who only writes with a pen and paper. There he meets a beautiful girl, much like yourself only a blonde, who says her name is Julia. She tells him she is a Danish model from Copenhagen. He invites her over for dinner. But what David does not know is that she is not a model or from Copenhagen, she is from Las Vegas and her father is the owner of the Caesar’s Palace. “
“U-huh…”
“Oh, David also has a monologue in the first act from which the audience learns that David’s father passed away four years ago and David’s mother never quite got over the loss. Anyway, David starts dating Julia thinking she is a Danish model. One day Julia’s father comes to town and so Julia decides to invite him over for dinner at David’s apartment. The father knows that Julia has been deceiving David about being from Copenhagen but does not reveal her secret. Anyway, just as they sit down to have dinner David’s mother shows up at the door. You see, the front door to David’s building is never locked because there is an alcoholic who lives on the ground floor who always looses his keys and breaks the lock when he comes home… So David's mother shows up and there is an instant attraction between her and Julia’s father.”
I make a faint attempt to display the look of surprise on my face.
“Anyway… Then there will be Julia’s father monologue from which the audience learns that Julia’s mother passed away four years ago, from cancer, and he never quite got over it. You see, that technique is called a parallel - the audience sees the parallel between David’s mother and Julia’s father. At that point David’s mother mentions that she has not had a vacation in four years and Julia’s father invites her over to Las Vegas, all expenses paid. He tells her that she can stay at his casino free of charge and even the airplane ticket is free. He is the owner of Caesar’s Palace, you see, he can do that. Oh… I forgot to mention, there will also be flashback where the audiences sees Julia’s father as a young man standing on a floor of his casino and spotting a beautiful blonde walking gracefully toward him… That’s Julia’s mother. And we also see David’s mother as a young girl on a Coney Island beach, she is eating an ice cream cone when she spots the most handsome fellow in swimming trunks walking along the shore. That is David’s dead father, of course. You see, it is another parallel…”
“So how does your play end?”
“David’s mother says ‘why don’t I go to Vegas? I haven’t had a vacation in four years.’ So the audience can infer what happens from there… And that is when the deception about Julia not being a model from Copenhagen gets revealed. At first, David is angry. But then he finds out that Julia’s last name is really Goldberg and she is half Jewish. She tells David that she will not deceive him again but she can do a pretty darn nice Russian ballerina. ‘Well,’ David says ‘maybe just one more time.’ And that is how it ends.”
“So what is the name of your play?”
“It’s called ‘I Was Just in the Neighborhood.’ Because that is what David’s mother says ‘I was just in the neighborhood’ when she stops by at David’s apartment, even though David has told her numerous times not to stop by so much and move on with her life. But she says ‘I stop by because you are my favorite person. What can I do about that?”
“That’s sweet.”
“My lawyer Elliot told me I had a gift. What do you think?”
I think I would like to have this guy’s self esteem.
“Like I said, I am trying to get my play produced on Broadway. Once I realized I had the gift I knew I could do it. Writing is natural to me.”
“Oh really?”
“Once I get my play produced I am going to be rich. Do you know what royalties are? You do. All I am going to do is get up in the morning, go to Equinox because I need to loose some weight, then write for about three hours, then have lunch and go to the park. That would be my day. Once I am a rich writer, would you marry me?”
“Nope. Rich writers are a difficult bunch to live with. Besides, I am already married.”
“I am too old for you anyway. What are you, like twelve?”
I wish. Had I really been twelve, there still be a chance for me to figure out how characters write themselves and writing comes easy. Had I figured that out, I might not be fighting my way through traffic in a cab with a chatty driver trying to get my office on the East Side.”
“Maybe I should quit my job and become a writer myself instead?” I ask.
“No. You can’t become a writer. You have to be born one. It’s a gift.”
“Could you please cross 3rd Avenue and just on the corner is fine…” I dig for my wallet. “Good luck with your play.”
“Will you at least come see it?”
“Absolutely. It’s called ‘I Was Just in the Neighborhood’ right?”
“I said you were smart. And gorgeous.”
I close the cab door and step over a pile of dirty snow. I am officially on the East Side. I no longer have certain sensibility. In fact, I have no sensibility whatsoever. I have no lawyer named Elliot and no office near the park. I have an office on the 19th floor overlooking the wall of the next office building and no characters who could easily write themselves.
“42nd Street and 3rd Avenue please,” I pronounce each number loud and clear as if the glass divider in front of me is really a Grand Canyon and the driver is on the other side of it.
The cab driver looks like the husband character from the Family Guy cartoon only with Howard Stern’s hair and sunglasses. He sighs right on cue when I say ‘3rd Avenue.’
“Which way would you like me go?”
“Well… We can try the West Side and cross over if we hit traffic.”
“OK,” he looks in his rearview mirror “for you, no problem. You are gorgeous.”
Gorgeous, maybe, but I am also sick as a dog, jet legged, sleep deprived, hungry, haven’t had coffee yet, and late for work… It’s cold and early. I do not find the state of the world pleasing at this particular moment. I want to stare blankly stare out of the window and think that I am in a sensory deprivation tank. I want to pretend that I am surrounded by a set of bulky secret service agents that will not allow the commoners to approach me or, heaven forbid, talk to me.
Unfortunately, the cab driver ignores my secret service entourage.
“I do not like driving on the East Side,” he says proudly “I like to only drive on the West Side. What do you think of that?”
“I think you have the right to drive wherever you want.” Unfortunately I work on the freaking East Side! “Unfortunately I do work on the East Side.”
“I like you. You are smart. And gorgeous.”
And just like that my fate is sealed - we are having a conversation.
“People who live on the West Side have a certain sensibility about them, they don’t cross over. They like the West Side. I live on 79th and Amsterdam and my office used to be on 51st and 8th Avenue. I used to own a talent agency with my lawyer Elliot. We had a rent controlled office for only $600 a month, what do you think of that?”
I think that it had to be either in the year 600 BC or the office was a roach and mice infested dump the size of kitchen cupboard.
“Wow,” I say “that is really cheap!”
“Yes. And then, believe it or not, we moved to a smaller office in the same building, also rent-controlled, for only $400 a month. It was a great area, you know, right near everything. All the major theaters are there, all the actors… You know what I am talking about. On nice days Elliot, my lawyer, and I would take walks in Central Park. We owned the agency so we were always having lunch with writers, producers and such. We did not go to the East Side.”
“Yep.”
“I am writing a play, you know. What do you think of that?”
Oh boy. I think now I am fucked.
“I think that’s great.”
“I wrote it in 22 days. I came home from work and just sat down and wrote, then I got up made myself some pasta and fed the cats, who are no longer with us, and wrote some more. It was easy - the characters pretty much wrote themselves. I am trying to get it produced right now. I already had several readings…”
“What is your play about?”
“Well… It’s about a 28 year writer named David who is writing a play. You see, it’s a technique called ‘a play within a play.’ Throughout the play we see him write. One day he goes to Staples to buy a pen, he is an old fashioned writer who only writes with a pen and paper. There he meets a beautiful girl, much like yourself only a blonde, who says her name is Julia. She tells him she is a Danish model from Copenhagen. He invites her over for dinner. But what David does not know is that she is not a model or from Copenhagen, she is from Las Vegas and her father is the owner of the Caesar’s Palace. “
“U-huh…”
“Oh, David also has a monologue in the first act from which the audience learns that David’s father passed away four years ago and David’s mother never quite got over the loss. Anyway, David starts dating Julia thinking she is a Danish model. One day Julia’s father comes to town and so Julia decides to invite him over for dinner at David’s apartment. The father knows that Julia has been deceiving David about being from Copenhagen but does not reveal her secret. Anyway, just as they sit down to have dinner David’s mother shows up at the door. You see, the front door to David’s building is never locked because there is an alcoholic who lives on the ground floor who always looses his keys and breaks the lock when he comes home… So David's mother shows up and there is an instant attraction between her and Julia’s father.”
I make a faint attempt to display the look of surprise on my face.
“Anyway… Then there will be Julia’s father monologue from which the audience learns that Julia’s mother passed away four years ago, from cancer, and he never quite got over it. You see, that technique is called a parallel - the audience sees the parallel between David’s mother and Julia’s father. At that point David’s mother mentions that she has not had a vacation in four years and Julia’s father invites her over to Las Vegas, all expenses paid. He tells her that she can stay at his casino free of charge and even the airplane ticket is free. He is the owner of Caesar’s Palace, you see, he can do that. Oh… I forgot to mention, there will also be flashback where the audiences sees Julia’s father as a young man standing on a floor of his casino and spotting a beautiful blonde walking gracefully toward him… That’s Julia’s mother. And we also see David’s mother as a young girl on a Coney Island beach, she is eating an ice cream cone when she spots the most handsome fellow in swimming trunks walking along the shore. That is David’s dead father, of course. You see, it is another parallel…”
“So how does your play end?”
“David’s mother says ‘why don’t I go to Vegas? I haven’t had a vacation in four years.’ So the audience can infer what happens from there… And that is when the deception about Julia not being a model from Copenhagen gets revealed. At first, David is angry. But then he finds out that Julia’s last name is really Goldberg and she is half Jewish. She tells David that she will not deceive him again but she can do a pretty darn nice Russian ballerina. ‘Well,’ David says ‘maybe just one more time.’ And that is how it ends.”
“So what is the name of your play?”
“It’s called ‘I Was Just in the Neighborhood.’ Because that is what David’s mother says ‘I was just in the neighborhood’ when she stops by at David’s apartment, even though David has told her numerous times not to stop by so much and move on with her life. But she says ‘I stop by because you are my favorite person. What can I do about that?”
“That’s sweet.”
“My lawyer Elliot told me I had a gift. What do you think?”
I think I would like to have this guy’s self esteem.
“Like I said, I am trying to get my play produced on Broadway. Once I realized I had the gift I knew I could do it. Writing is natural to me.”
“Oh really?”
“Once I get my play produced I am going to be rich. Do you know what royalties are? You do. All I am going to do is get up in the morning, go to Equinox because I need to loose some weight, then write for about three hours, then have lunch and go to the park. That would be my day. Once I am a rich writer, would you marry me?”
“Nope. Rich writers are a difficult bunch to live with. Besides, I am already married.”
“I am too old for you anyway. What are you, like twelve?”
I wish. Had I really been twelve, there still be a chance for me to figure out how characters write themselves and writing comes easy. Had I figured that out, I might not be fighting my way through traffic in a cab with a chatty driver trying to get my office on the East Side.”
“Maybe I should quit my job and become a writer myself instead?” I ask.
“No. You can’t become a writer. You have to be born one. It’s a gift.”
“Could you please cross 3rd Avenue and just on the corner is fine…” I dig for my wallet. “Good luck with your play.”
“Will you at least come see it?”
“Absolutely. It’s called ‘I Was Just in the Neighborhood’ right?”
“I said you were smart. And gorgeous.”
I close the cab door and step over a pile of dirty snow. I am officially on the East Side. I no longer have certain sensibility. In fact, I have no sensibility whatsoever. I have no lawyer named Elliot and no office near the park. I have an office on the 19th floor overlooking the wall of the next office building and no characters who could easily write themselves.