Some People Are More Interesting Than Others

Some People Are More Interesting Than Others

"Unless," the woman continued, "you bring in some of your own."

"But he only had two CDs," the boy protested. "One of those was just children’s songs."

"Still," his mother went on, letting everyone know how understanding, yet firm, she could be, "I just want to know what you’re listening to–I want us to listen to things together. And even if I don’t like it, but it’s something you feel you’d really, really like to hear, well, it’ll probably–probably be no big deal. That’s fine. I’d–I’d just like to know." She sounded too nervous, like she was just getting the hang of it. Maybe she was taking a parenting class at the local Y or something.

"I didn’t bring in any of my CDs today."

"Y’know," the mother went on, "back before you were born–back when Mommy worked in the music industry, that was before they had those ‘Parental Warning’ stickers on the CDs about the bad language. And we fought against it. In the industry. But now I’d just feel better if I knew what you were listening to."

Christ, lady, make up your mind, I thought.

"He had the Backstreet Boys."

"The Backstreet Boys are nothing–they’re mush–that’s not what I’m worried about. But if he had some songs by Eminem, and you heard them and weren’t sure what he was talking about–I’d–I’d like to be able to listen to it together so I could talk to you about it."

"He doesn’t have any Eminem. He has a combination record, though, with–"

"Compilation. It’s called compilation."

"Yeah, combination."

"No–it’s pronounced com-pi-la-tion."

"Com-pi-la-tion."

"Right–it’s sort of a combination, but they call it a compilation."

"He has a bunch of old songs on it. There’s this one called ‘Hey, Mickey.’"

"I think I know that song. That’s real old. It’s by Toni–Toni...Toni Basil, that’s it, I think. Toni Basil. I remember that from way back."

"Hey Mickey you’re so fine, you’re so fine, hey Mickey–" the boy began reciting.

"She was a choreographer, I think. And then she recorded that album."

Across from me, a young office worker in her 20s was telling a friend, "I just can’t stand drinking anything cold out of porcelain. It just drives me nuts. Styrofoam too. It’s just wrong. Roger–I can’t believe this–he drinks water out of a coffee cup. It just drives me nuts. I can’t stand the thought of drinking cold things out of porcelain. It’s just not right."

Her friend agreed with her wholeheartedly.

"–Hey Mickey, you’re so fine you’re so fine–"

"Yeah, that’s it–she was a choreographer first."

Before the mother could start explaining the role of A&R and marketing to her boy, the train reached our station.

It had been an evil day, and that ride hadn’t helped me feel any better. I stopped at the bodega and picked up a sixer. I had beer waiting at home, but not nearly enough.

Half a block later, still a block away from the apartment, I heard somebody yell something. I ignored it, until he yelled again.

"Are you a rock musician?" He was a big, bearded fellow, wearing a lemon yellow rain slicker and pushing a shopping cart down the middle of the street. I stopped.

"Nope," I yelled back.

"What are you, then?"

"I’m not much of anything, really," I answered honestly. I sure as hell wasn’t feeling like much of anything right then. And I was looking forward to feeling like even less.

"Ha ha!" The man left his shopping cart in the middle of the street and walked over to me.

"I was teacher," he said, in a heavy Polish accent. "Then a cab driver. Now I am bum."

"I was a bum," I told him, "and now I’m a ‘journalist.’ But I guess they’re pretty much the same thing."

"So, you must lie for a living?"

"I try not to."

"But you must lie some. Not as much as lawyers, though. Lawyers do nothing but lie." He gestured at the shopping cart, which was only minimally sprinkled with cans and bottles. "I’ve been out here just 16 days now. I get thrown out of apartment and lose job. Been out here little bit, but not too much longer. I am getting check soon because of arrest. My brother says maybe I can have job starting Monday. Maybe next Monday."

"Yeah, I know what that’s like."

"There are two German filmmakers," he said, apparently apropos of nothing, "–Herzog and Fassbinder–one of them is dead. You know of them?"

Why did I know he was going to say something like that? We hadn’t even introduced ourselves yet, and already he’s into the New German Cinema.

"Fassbinder’s dead." I told him. "I know Mr. Herzog–he’s still alive, lives in San Francisco, has a couple new movies coming out."

"When one of them was asked why his movies are always so sad–you know?–always about people on streets who have never been anything and will never be anything, he said, ‘That is how it must be.’ I always liked that. But this is no way to be." He gestured at the cart again. He flipped the hood of his slicker back off his head, then flipped it back up again. "I was in three, four fights, pull out knives, pull out gun. It’s what you must do out here. I won’t pull a gun on you, though."

"I’m glad to hear that."

He was youthful–maybe in his early 40s–a little drunk, but remarkably clean and well-groomed for a bum. He said his name was George, that he grew up in Krakow, but had been in the States for several years. Things had been going just fine until recently, when the drinking cost him his driver’s license.

"My hands are okay." He flexed them. "I was fair musician. Piano and violin. My mother was professor at musical academy. Penderecki was her dean. You know him?"

"I’ve heard his music."

"It never moved me the way it should, I guess. Always with the big requiems."

"Yeah, I always thought I should like it more than I do. He was in town here not too long ago, as I remember."

The conversation rambled, very quickly, across music, religion, philosophy, his family, Krakow in the early 60s, the various migratory habits of Americans and the history of World War II. He never stopped moving as he spoke, waving his arms, removing and replacing his hood, weaving from foot to foot. Part of it might’ve been the excitement of being able to talk to somebody. The other part, I figure, was the fact that he was drunk.

"Hitler, you know, was from Austria, not Germany. He was not a true German."

"I know."

"And they say–I don’t know if this is true–that either his mother’s mother or his father’s mother–was Jewish."

"I’d heard that."

"But I never took time to see if it was true."

"Nope, me either."

"You British?’

"No, uh-uh."

"Then why is it do you say aye-ther instead of ee-ther?"

"I...I don’t know–I guess I must’ve picked it up somewhere."

"And that other one, the propaganda man–Goebbels–he said that if you say a lie enough times over and over, it becomes truth."

"Kind of like journalism, I guess."

"I am great bullshitter," he announced with pride. I was having less trouble than I might have expected following his train of thought. "I once take philosophy course, and professor, he say to me, ‘You are great bullshitter. I give you highest grade. Do not bother to read another book.’"

"Uh-huh?"

"That man–who you call–Socrates. He was great bullshitter, too."

He went on and on, roving from topic to topic, pressing for my opinions on astrology, palmistry, Christianity and the like.

"Jesus, I think, was a good man. He carried his own cross up the hill, two bad guys on either side. He fed the poor the fish, he told people to be kind to one another. St. Paul was a good one, too. But when it comes to walking on water? That I don’t know about."

"Maybe it was very shallow water," I offered.

"Ha! You know that woman singer, the Edie Brickell? She sang a song once, about shallow water."

Finally, the beer in my sack getting heavier and warmer. I said, "Look, George, I really gotta go." It had been a beast of a day, and I needed a beer bad. I wasn’t sure if he was going to hit me up for something, money or beer, and wasn’t sure if I should offer, so I didn’t.

"One more thing," he said. "Your hair. How do you get it like that?"

"What, long?"

"Yeah."

"I, um...I don’t get it cut?"

"Ha!" he barked again. "Before you go–" he seemed to be using the lamppost to hold himself up at this point. "Do me favor."

"Yeah?"

"You are in business of lies. Promise that you won’t lie–or if you must, lie as little as possible. Lie only little bit. Stay honest to yourself."

"I always try, George. I really do try to do my best."

"Good. You lie too much, it just stinks."

I shook his hand and started off down the damp sidewalk. "You are a cool-cat," he said after me.

I paused and turned one last time. "Yeah, George–you are, too."