While sitting on a bench in a tiny slip of a park that marks the west end of 113th street on the upper west side of Manhattan, waiting to ascend to apartment 3F in a nearby building, I noticed Mandy Patinkin ambling past. Of course I said nothing. I have never been one to shout out “Hey Mandy! Loved you in Sunday In The Park” or anything of the sort, or to even hint at the fact that I recognized him. I let him pass in peace, and with a faux sense of his anonymity, something I personally cherish and would hate to lose. I did however remark internally as to how old he looked. He has gray hair, and tight, bunched shoulders, and walks with a gait that shows signs of stiffness in the hips. And then, after he had passed, I took stock in the fact that I too had aged. I first became aware of him at least 20 years ago when he was certainly younger than I am now. I reluctantly admitted that this is what 20 years will do. I then surveyed a nasty bathroom retiling job, hopped on my bike and rode home. It is nearing time to cease tiling and to (somehow) create earth shattering threats to my anonymity lest I stiffen like Mandy, unseen.

The Fox has landed

Thursday morning I boarded the subway with a saws-all in my right hand and a suit bag containing jacket and tie in my left. And so begins again my absurd journey as carpenter/actor. The saws-all was employed to demolish a pocket door leading to the world’s smallest bathroom on 89th street. The suit was employed to disguise me as a guy who you could trust to advise you about insurance plans.

I have landed back into my life, as schizophrenic as it is, and I have had some sublime New York experiences in just this short time.



I rode my bike to work two days last week. It’s a beautiful half an hour ride from 170th street, down the Hudson to 89th street, and almost the entire ride, save a few blocks, is on a bike path that hugs the shore of the great river. Granted, it would be much more pleasant if it were not August, with its heat and humidity, but I use it as a substitute for the gym. The city is working pretty steadily to connect and improve a bike path that will circumnavigate this ole quaint isle of ours. But it must be said that certainly in Cleveland, and even in Seattle and Chicago and San Diego and other reasonable, fair cities, this generous, convenient bike path, with impressive vistas, AND useful for commuting, not just recreation, is among the best.

Another remarkable re-entry phenom has been the recognition by locals, after two years, of your return. The first was the guy at the hardware store. (any surprise there?) It’s a family run operation. Nunez Hardware (I’m missing the appropriate squiggle over the ‘e’. I’m much more familiar with the German umlaute’s) Anyway, the son, who’s early thirties maybe, was serving in Iraq in the early 2000’s, and the counter had his picture front and center, in uniform during that time. The Marines. He returned from duty in ’04 or so and began working behind the counter. His English is pitch perfect and my Spanish is non-existent, so we would communicate whenever I was there buying oh so many things for the apartment or jobs locally. I walk in. I need draino and a dust pan of all things. He looks. “Hey, where you been?!”

This happened again a few days later when I visited the local deli. A counter guy who I always thought of as a bit surly, who has very little English, who’s a heavy set fast order cook—there for coffee, sandwiches and grill items, saw me walk in. I nodded to him as I was walking past. He nodded back, but then a big smile broke across his default scowl and, “hey, long time” greeted my ears. He peeled off his sanitary glove and shook my hand as I filled him in on my two-year absence in a sentence or two.

A night later the doorbell rang. “who is it?” I squawked into the box. “UPS” was the brisk answer. A half a minute later a knock on the door and I open it to the familiar face of the UPS guy who’s had Haven Ave on his route for at least 5 years if not more. He’s about five foot seven at most but ripped like nobody’s business. Good looking in a Latin way. If he can act (maybe he can) LA would find something for him to do in a heartbeat. He looks at me, double takes, and again, “Hey, where you been?”

The next day I rode down Haven Ave on my bike on the way home from work, and I passed the brown UPS truck double-parked, with the tail gait open and my man chatting up some good looking girl. (surprise, surprise) He saw me coasting by and we exchanged a smile and a wave.

It is a mistake to imagine that Grovers Corners, or Peterborough, or Cedar Rapids has a corner on the market of ‘Americana’ or homeliness, or human decency. New York has its version too. And because it is so hard won, in the face of much adversity, it is that much sweeter.

Home sweet F$%#ing home.