I stepped out of the pizza place holding my second slice on a paper plate and chewing the crust from my first. Immediately a dude approached and said, "Sorry to bother you. I know you're probably having a bad day. But could you give me a quarter? I need to make a phone call."
He was late 40s, jeans and a t-shirt, not homeless-looking or anything. Still, I didn't buy it.
"I don't buy it," I said. I walked away.
A few questions came to mind as I bit into slice number two. Was he telling the truth? Perhaps he was. Perhaps he truly needed to make a phone call, but he didn't have a cell phone. There were a number of plausible scenarios that could have driven him to ask me for two bits.
Maybe he dropped his phone on the subway tracks and instead of jumping down and trying to retrieve it before the next train came, he wisely decided it was safer to tell the attendant at the booth that he dropped it. Except when he got there, the booth was empty. No problem, he thought, I'll just go above ground and call the MTA from a pay phone. But when this responsible citizen reached the nearest pay phone bank, he fished through his pockets only to find that he was twenty-five cents short. He only had a dime! Undeterred, our intrepid commuter decided to take a page from Blanche DuBois's book; he would depend on the kindness of strangers. This probably hurt his pride a little, but he knew this was no time for emotions to get the better of him. Of course he would be polite. He would put others' feelings ahead of his own and not assume that his misfortunes were worse than whatever they were going through. For all he knew, the next person he asked for a quarter was on the way to a funeral, or had just been fired and didn't know how he would provide for his family now. And he wouldn't judge people if they didn't believe his need was genuine. I probably wouldn't believe it either, he likely told himself as I strolled away, happy with a pocket full of quarters.
Or maybe he had a phone in his pocket, but he had a pre-paid plan and he was only three minutes away from exceeding it. Any minute now he was expecting a phone call from his son-in-law, telling him that the delivery had gone swimmingly and he was a grandfather! He knew that that phone call would eat up his minutes, so he would be unable to call his drinking buddy, Amos, and tell him the good news. Well, good for him. Bad for Amos, because Amos had picked next week as the baby's due date in the office pool, and that meant he would lose upwards of fifty bucks. Oh, to hear the regret in Amos's voice. What satisfaction! He'd finally get Amos back for the time he lost that Superbowl bet. But how could he hear it if he couldn't call Amos? Hence the quarter.
Then again, the quarter might not have had anything to do with telecommunication. Maybe, like me, he had just eaten a slice or two of pizza. The blind date he was meeting in five minutes around the corner at the bar (just drinks, casual) wouldn't like it too much if he spent two hours breathing garlic breath at her. He found the answer, of course, at a deli two doors down: a gumball machine! Only problem was he only had credit cards on him, no cash at all (why hadn't he gone to the ATM?). He couldn't ask the clerk to change a bill he didn't have. He'd have to beg for money. But he couldn't tell the truth - that would seem weird. He decided a little white lie couldn't hurt. Enter pizza-munching Steve, a man who surely could spare a quarter. Here was a way to turn an evening of garlic words into a night of passion-fruit flavored passion. Except I kept walking.
But probably he wanted money because he was just 25 cents away from a cool fifth of Mad Dog 20/20.
Showing posts with label esoteric literary references. Show all posts
Showing posts with label esoteric literary references. Show all posts
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
The Mouse and the Alphabet
Recently I was a finalist for the 2010 Disney/ABC Television Writing Fellowship. This was awesome. I didn’t get it. This was less awesome. But as the poet said:
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
By the same logic, it’s better for me to have been a finalist and not received the fellowship than never to have been a finalist at all. So here are a few good things to come out of the experience, my favorite failure to date:
Reconnecting. The semi-final round required me to list references. Between that and contacting a few friends to ask for advice, I necessarily renewed some relationships. And since I had to go to L.A. for the final round interviews and it was too cold to sleep in my rental car, I got to take advantage of a friend’s air mattress. If I hadn’t gone out to L.A., who knows if I’d have ever connected with that air mattress?
Confidence. Like many writers I know, I oscillate constantly between feeling like I’m the best (!) writer (!) ever (!) and the stupidest idiot ever to stupid idiot. Fortunately neither feeling is correct. But achieving a modicum of success helps validate my passion for this Sisyphean quest I’ve dubbed a career. Especially for my supporters. And detractors. (I’m not naming names, but you know who you are. Bill. Gates.)
In N Out. The best burgers anywhere are at this privately owned regional chain. No restaurants farther away from their meat processing plant than it takes for a supply truck to drive in a day. I’ve been to L.A. three times, but I sort of pretend like I’m an In N Out expert. I was shown that this is not the case when I tried to order what the guy in front of me ordered. They were fries with stuff on them. I assumed what they were and said, “Chili fries, please.” The girl said, “What?” And I said, “Those things.” “You mean Animal Fries.” “Yes. Of course that’s what I meant.” Then, to prove I was not some uninitiated rube, I ordered an “Animal Coke”, which does not exist and was therefore not served to me. But I’m pretty sure she figured I was a regular.
A complete rainbow. It was raining when I landed in sunny Los Angeles, but by the time I had rented my car and driven for a while, the clouds began to part. Usually I see only one side of a rainbow, but here was a full arc, rising amid short buildings and plunging down toward the bottom of some Hollywood foothills. Later I was told this wasn’t light refracting through vapor producing a full color spectrum, but that it was actually an experimental hyper-real trailer for James Cameron’s follow-up to Avatar, apparently designed specifically to blow no one else’s mind but mine. (Plot’s being kept under wraps.)
Introspection. The fellowship staff members who interviewed me really pushed me to talk about how I’m unique and how that uniqueness translates into my writing. Like delicious snowflakes, each of us is unique. But I think writers sometimes have a tendency to downplay our specific points of view in our work, which can’t be good. Which character is more memorable: Indiana Jones, who was based upon George Lucas’s adventuring archaeologist uncle*; or Jar-Jar Binks, who was completely fabricated during a bar bet by George Lucas’s drunk adventuring archaeologist uncle**?
Don’t have to spend this year away from Lindsay. I didn’t mention that part before. Yep, fellows have to live in L.A. Which I would have done, of course, but Lindsay’s job wouldn’t allow her to move there with me. It would have been hard. Sort of like college, when we lived five hours apart. But worse, because it would be on the other side of the country, not the other side of Illinois (Purdue to Iowa - essentially a drive through the Land of Lincoln). Also we’re married, not dating. That's different. We've become accustomed to a life together. If we suddenly had to live alone, there'd be some challenges. Who would remind me to shave? Who would reach things on high shelves for Lindsay? How long would it take her to go through our family-sized tube of toothpaste all by herself? (Buy in bulk, the salesman told me. It will pay off in the long run, the salesman told me. What's the worst that can happen? he asked. If only he knew how close we came to a crusty-capped toothpaste surplus!)
Reminded me that I’m not in control. When I have any type of success I find it all too easy to ascribe the credit solely to my effort. After all, I wrote a script that got me to the final round. I did the work, right? Maybe. But I couldn’t have done the work unless I had the ability to do the work. And I didn’t give myself that ability. In case I forgot that, the waiting time after the interviews and before I found out the results reminded me. I had no control over what happened at that point. It was completely out of my hands. Was it God's way of saying, "Not so fast, genius. You're not calling the shots here"? I'm not sure. But it worked.
So it seems I’m supposed to stay in New York*** for now. Which has a few upsides of its own...
* Untrue.
** Patently untrue.
*** Close enough.
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
By the same logic, it’s better for me to have been a finalist and not received the fellowship than never to have been a finalist at all. So here are a few good things to come out of the experience, my favorite failure to date:
Reconnecting. The semi-final round required me to list references. Between that and contacting a few friends to ask for advice, I necessarily renewed some relationships. And since I had to go to L.A. for the final round interviews and it was too cold to sleep in my rental car, I got to take advantage of a friend’s air mattress. If I hadn’t gone out to L.A., who knows if I’d have ever connected with that air mattress?
Confidence. Like many writers I know, I oscillate constantly between feeling like I’m the best (!) writer (!) ever (!) and the stupidest idiot ever to stupid idiot. Fortunately neither feeling is correct. But achieving a modicum of success helps validate my passion for this Sisyphean quest I’ve dubbed a career. Especially for my supporters. And detractors. (I’m not naming names, but you know who you are. Bill. Gates.)
In N Out. The best burgers anywhere are at this privately owned regional chain. No restaurants farther away from their meat processing plant than it takes for a supply truck to drive in a day. I’ve been to L.A. three times, but I sort of pretend like I’m an In N Out expert. I was shown that this is not the case when I tried to order what the guy in front of me ordered. They were fries with stuff on them. I assumed what they were and said, “Chili fries, please.” The girl said, “What?” And I said, “Those things.” “You mean Animal Fries.” “Yes. Of course that’s what I meant.” Then, to prove I was not some uninitiated rube, I ordered an “Animal Coke”, which does not exist and was therefore not served to me. But I’m pretty sure she figured I was a regular.
A complete rainbow. It was raining when I landed in sunny Los Angeles, but by the time I had rented my car and driven for a while, the clouds began to part. Usually I see only one side of a rainbow, but here was a full arc, rising amid short buildings and plunging down toward the bottom of some Hollywood foothills. Later I was told this wasn’t light refracting through vapor producing a full color spectrum, but that it was actually an experimental hyper-real trailer for James Cameron’s follow-up to Avatar, apparently designed specifically to blow no one else’s mind but mine. (Plot’s being kept under wraps.)
Introspection. The fellowship staff members who interviewed me really pushed me to talk about how I’m unique and how that uniqueness translates into my writing. Like delicious snowflakes, each of us is unique. But I think writers sometimes have a tendency to downplay our specific points of view in our work, which can’t be good. Which character is more memorable: Indiana Jones, who was based upon George Lucas’s adventuring archaeologist uncle*; or Jar-Jar Binks, who was completely fabricated during a bar bet by George Lucas’s drunk adventuring archaeologist uncle**?
Don’t have to spend this year away from Lindsay. I didn’t mention that part before. Yep, fellows have to live in L.A. Which I would have done, of course, but Lindsay’s job wouldn’t allow her to move there with me. It would have been hard. Sort of like college, when we lived five hours apart. But worse, because it would be on the other side of the country, not the other side of Illinois (Purdue to Iowa - essentially a drive through the Land of Lincoln). Also we’re married, not dating. That's different. We've become accustomed to a life together. If we suddenly had to live alone, there'd be some challenges. Who would remind me to shave? Who would reach things on high shelves for Lindsay? How long would it take her to go through our family-sized tube of toothpaste all by herself? (Buy in bulk, the salesman told me. It will pay off in the long run, the salesman told me. What's the worst that can happen? he asked. If only he knew how close we came to a crusty-capped toothpaste surplus!)
Reminded me that I’m not in control. When I have any type of success I find it all too easy to ascribe the credit solely to my effort. After all, I wrote a script that got me to the final round. I did the work, right? Maybe. But I couldn’t have done the work unless I had the ability to do the work. And I didn’t give myself that ability. In case I forgot that, the waiting time after the interviews and before I found out the results reminded me. I had no control over what happened at that point. It was completely out of my hands. Was it God's way of saying, "Not so fast, genius. You're not calling the shots here"? I'm not sure. But it worked.
So it seems I’m supposed to stay in New York*** for now. Which has a few upsides of its own...
* Untrue.
** Patently untrue.
*** Close enough.
Monday, November 23, 2009
ELR Fan Mail #2
Today’s letter comes from the Society for Haiku Preservation in the English Language, a prestigious yet apparently misguided poetry group. Read on:
Dear Esoteric Literary Reference,
Congratulations! We at the Society for Haiku Preservation in the English Language (SHPEL) have discovered your wonderful haiku weblog and want to extend to you an offer for membership in our group.
The aim of the Society is to keep the oft-maligned art of haiku in the forefront of Anglophone Letters. In today’s world of instant messages and electronic or “e” mail, language in general and poetry specifically have been relegated to a largely utilitarian function. Gone are the glory days when words were words for words’ sake. Ask a child of today what a poem is and he’s less likely to know the answer than to tilt his head like a confused dog...provided he could tear his attention away from his Video-Game Box.
Your weblog exemplifies our goals. It seems to be devoted entirely to haiku. True, our committee has noted that on occasion you post a prose entry or two, but by and large you limit your posts to haiku. It’s practically all you post. It is because of your dedication to post only haiku that we would love to count the name Steve Theiss among our members’ ranks.
Awaiting your favorable response,
The Society for Haiku Preservation in the English Language
Dear SHPEL,
Look, it’s nice of you to offer me membership in your club or whatever, but I think you got the wrong idea. We at Esoteric Literary Reference (and by “we” I do mean “I”) don’t try to post only haikus. We try to post other stuff. Like this letter, for instance.
In fact, we mostly like haikus because they’re shorter than most other things. Haiku Wednesdays would be Screenplay Wednesdays if screenplays were only three lines long.
So thanks for the offer, but Esoteric Literary Reference has to politely decline. We’re sure you’re a nice club and maybe you even have fun parties. Yeah. A bunch of nerdy poets standing around drinking deliberately obscure drinks (“Actually, Alan, this sidecar would have been better if they'd mixed it with Grand Marnier instead of Cointreau...”) and talking about how it's "genius" that Keats isn’t pronounced like Yeats. I bet that’s a blast.
Happy nerding,
Esoteric Literary Reference Letter Reply Dept.
(Steve)
Dear Esoteric Literary Reference,
Congratulations! We at the Society for Haiku Preservation in the English Language (SHPEL) have discovered your wonderful haiku weblog and want to extend to you an offer for membership in our group.
The aim of the Society is to keep the oft-maligned art of haiku in the forefront of Anglophone Letters. In today’s world of instant messages and electronic or “e” mail, language in general and poetry specifically have been relegated to a largely utilitarian function. Gone are the glory days when words were words for words’ sake. Ask a child of today what a poem is and he’s less likely to know the answer than to tilt his head like a confused dog...provided he could tear his attention away from his Video-Game Box.
Your weblog exemplifies our goals. It seems to be devoted entirely to haiku. True, our committee has noted that on occasion you post a prose entry or two, but by and large you limit your posts to haiku. It’s practically all you post. It is because of your dedication to post only haiku that we would love to count the name Steve Theiss among our members’ ranks.
Awaiting your favorable response,
The Society for Haiku Preservation in the English Language
Dear SHPEL,
Look, it’s nice of you to offer me membership in your club or whatever, but I think you got the wrong idea. We at Esoteric Literary Reference (and by “we” I do mean “I”) don’t try to post only haikus. We try to post other stuff. Like this letter, for instance.
In fact, we mostly like haikus because they’re shorter than most other things. Haiku Wednesdays would be Screenplay Wednesdays if screenplays were only three lines long.
So thanks for the offer, but Esoteric Literary Reference has to politely decline. We’re sure you’re a nice club and maybe you even have fun parties. Yeah. A bunch of nerdy poets standing around drinking deliberately obscure drinks (“Actually, Alan, this sidecar would have been better if they'd mixed it with Grand Marnier instead of Cointreau...”) and talking about how it's "genius" that Keats isn’t pronounced like Yeats. I bet that’s a blast.
Happy nerding,
Esoteric Literary Reference Letter Reply Dept.
(Steve)
Monday, November 2, 2009
Seriously, Tina Fey, I (Really, Truly, Without Caveat) Think You’re Funny
The other night I called our apartment to tell Lindsay I would be home later than expected. She didn’t pick up, so I left a message. When I got home, I played it back, intending to delete it. And that’s when I heard that frightening sound. Some dork blabbering on in what could generously be called a high tenor (and less generously called a warbling alto), saying in a hundred words what should have taken seven (“I will be home late. Love you.”)
If you're playing along at home, you'll realize that dork was me.
You’d think I’d be used to the sound of my own voice by now. It’s not like every waking moment of my life has been recorded (like the kids these days - how great would it be to have a million hours of video of yourself growing up? Don’t scoff; you, dear reader, are just as latently narcissistic as the rest of us), but the succession of audio/visual representation of me has been regular enough to become commonplace if not ubiquitous. Still every time I ask, “Do I really sound like that?”
This weekend I had to ask that question in another context; reading my own voice. And yes, I certainly said that stuff. Only it didn’t sound that way in my head. It sounded smart (one), poignant (two), and insightful (aaaand strike three).
When I read it now, it looks like I think Tina Fey is unworthy as an acting role model. This is not what I think. She's great. What my stupid warbling alto voice was trying to say was that I don't have acting role models because I'm a writer. Why would a writer have an acting role model? Do lawyers have doctors as role models? Do disc jockeys pattern their careers after airline pilots'? (Actually, that would explain why yesterday the host on NPR instructed me not to get out of my seat until the fasten seatbelt sign had been turned off. But I digress.)
Maybe you don’t ever get used to hearing your words quoted back to you, whether electronically or through the filter of another person’s mind. To quote the poet Robbie Burns:
And that's probably not how it sounded in his head, either.
If you're playing along at home, you'll realize that dork was me.
You’d think I’d be used to the sound of my own voice by now. It’s not like every waking moment of my life has been recorded (like the kids these days - how great would it be to have a million hours of video of yourself growing up? Don’t scoff; you, dear reader, are just as latently narcissistic as the rest of us), but the succession of audio/visual representation of me has been regular enough to become commonplace if not ubiquitous. Still every time I ask, “Do I really sound like that?”
This weekend I had to ask that question in another context; reading my own voice. And yes, I certainly said that stuff. Only it didn’t sound that way in my head. It sounded smart (one), poignant (two), and insightful (aaaand strike three).
When I read it now, it looks like I think Tina Fey is unworthy as an acting role model. This is not what I think. She's great. What my stupid warbling alto voice was trying to say was that I don't have acting role models because I'm a writer. Why would a writer have an acting role model? Do lawyers have doctors as role models? Do disc jockeys pattern their careers after airline pilots'? (Actually, that would explain why yesterday the host on NPR instructed me not to get out of my seat until the fasten seatbelt sign had been turned off. But I digress.)
Maybe you don’t ever get used to hearing your words quoted back to you, whether electronically or through the filter of another person’s mind. To quote the poet Robbie Burns:
O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
And that's probably not how it sounded in his head, either.
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