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Mr. Apology and Other Essays - Hardcover

 
9780618123117: Mr. Apology and Other Essays
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Originally published in The New Yorker, Esquire, and other periodicals, this collection of twenty outstanding essays features the author's profiles of serial killer John Wayne Gacy, the Rolling Stones, and Paul Simon, as well as his fascinating study of a New York artist who invites people to call and leave an apology on his answering machine.

"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.

About the Author:
Alec Wilkinson is the author of A Violent Act, Moonshine Midnights, and Big Sugar. A recipient of a Lyndhurst Prize, a Robert F. Kennedy Book Award, and a Guggenheim fellowship, he is a regular contributor to The New Yorker, Esquire, and other magazines. He lives in New York City.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Cameos

Here comes Hugh in his truck, turning heads. Hugh Cosman in a 1953 Ford
F-100, the special deluxe edition pickup, with the rounded fenders, and the
clamshell hood stamped from one sheet of steel. The horn button on the
steering wheel says 50th anniversary, 1903–1953. You lose that horn button
and good luck finding another one. Other details: the boomerang-shaped
ornaments on either side of the hood. Originally they were chrome, but when
the truck was built the manufacturer wasn"t putting nickel under the chrome,
because nickel was a defense-appropriated material. Korean War. The
chrome wore thin, so Hugh had his boomerangs sandblasted at a shop out in
Roosevelt, Long Island, and then he painted them ivory, to match the tailgate
lettering and the bumpers.
Hugh works at Treitel-Gratz, in Long Island City. Its card says:

CRAFTSMEN IN METAL FABRICATION
PRECISION PARTS
CUSTOM FURNITURE
DESIGN MODELS

Treitel-Gratz also makes sculptures for artists such as Isamu Noguchi,
Barnett Newman, and Walter De Maria. Hugh is thirty-seven, and he went to
Vassar, formerly a women"s college, where they (still) don"t offer courses in
automotive restoration. In the chain of events that delivered the truck into
Hugh"s hands, it is likely that he occupied the role of guy D. Guy A has the
truck parked in his barn or garage or out back on the lawn, and has always
meant to do something about it — slap some putty here, a little paint there,
maybe bang out a dent — but never has. Guy B sees it, or sees an ad, or
knows somebody who knows about the truck, and he buys it, thinking he"ll
put a few hours into it and give it a new coat of paint and have a showcase
piece of rolling stock. He does some slipshod patching of rust with strips of
metal and pop rivets, sees how much more of a commitment is required, and
puts the truck back on the market, turning it over to guy C, who thinks he"ll
devote several evenings and weekends to it, then realizes he"s in over his
head and throws a tarp over the truck and puts a For Sale sign on it, and in
comes guy D. Years may have passed (Hugh"s truck was last on the road in
1979, registered in Pennsylvania) and a lot of bad amateur work may have
been performed on the truck by the time guy D gets hold of it. Hugh paid nine
hundred for the truck, in December 1987. The ad that he answered described
a West Coast rust-free truck. He says that the truck that came into his
hands was "an East Coast rust-eviscerated vehicle."
Hugh began restoring his truck in the yard of his weekend house,
in New Jersey. Then he brought it to the city, piece by piece, and worked on
it at night in a corner of the shop at Treitel-Gratz. Eventually, every part of the
body except the cab had been removed and brought to the city to be sanded
or sandblasted or galvanized or painted. The bed he had rebuilt in poplar by a
cabinetmaker.
Hugh"s association with Treitel-Gratz provided him with garage
space, specialized tools, and access to Frosty — that is, Forrest Myers, an
artist, car restorer, and metalworker, whose support, knowledge, and
philosophical example gave Hugh the kind of head start that most guys (guys
A, B, and C, for example) lack. There is an aspect of friction, though, in
Frosty"s relationship with Hugh. Frosty"s position is that Hugh"s truck is a
classical showpiece, not a beater. Some months ago, after enough
mechanical work had been completed to allow Hugh to register his truck, he
ran an errand in it, using the bed of the truck to carry lumber. Frosty"s
reaction: "He"s making a farm truck out of it. He"s throwing cinder blocks into
the back, and hay bales, and I don"t know what else. The last time I looked,
there was dirt in the bed." Frosty does, however, approve of the care with
which Hugh pursued the restoration. What Hugh really did was not simply
restore his truck — he remanufactured it, duplicating all kinds of rotten sheet-
metal pieces in stainless steel, so they will never rust again.
A few weeks ago, Hugh brought the truck to Oscar"s Auto Body,
on Twenty-First Street in Queens, for painting. Parts of Hugh"s truck have
spent a lot of time at Oscar"s. The fenders alone spent a year. While his
truck was at Oscar"s, the only contact Hugh had with it took place one night
in a dream. Oscar does work for Hugh at a discount, when one of his painters
is free. Normally, Oscar handles Jaguars, Bentleys, and Rolls-Royces. He
doesn"t have much extra time. Whenever Hugh paid a visit to see whether
progress was being made on his truck, Oscar would give him a tour of the
shop and explain why there were delays. He would point to the Jag that
belonged to the orthodontist who drove straight on into a truck with its lift
gate down. Or the Bentley with the door that stopped a bicycle messenger.
Gradually Hugh"s truck was sanded down to the frame and touched up with
primer, until it looked like a person shaved and painted and waiting for
surgery. Oscar used to cushion Hugh"s disappointment at not having his
truck finished by saying, "When you get this truck done, it will be one of
those few."
Of all the new elements of his truck, Hugh takes the greatest
satisfaction in his tailgate. In order to turn heads, the hood and the tailgate
must be in top condition — must be cherry — because those are the two
parts of the truck that people see first. Besides, everyone knows that the
condition of your tailgate says a lot about the kind of person you are. So
Hugh took pains with his tailgate. That meant painting the letters spelling ford
in ivory, then painting over them in vermillion, the color he painted the rest of
the truck, and buffing the letters until the ivory reappeared. The dream that
Hugh had about his truck involved the tailgate and the head of the New York
Public Library. It took place shortly after he finished buffing out the letters. In
the dream, he was standing in the shop at Treitel-Gratz, showing the tailgate
to an acquaintance, who was a sculptor. The man studied the work. He
rubbed his hand over the letters to feel how the enamel had been buffed to a
texture that was almost like glass. He admired the richness of the color. He
was silent for a moment, and then he turned to Hugh and said, "That"s great.
You did yours the same way Vartan Gregorian did his."
(1989)

The young man responsible for the slightly perceptible knot in pedestrian
traffic at the northeast corner of Bleecker Street and Seventh Avenue is Jean-
Pierre Fenyo, The Free Advice Man. He has a sign: J.P."S FREE
OBJECTIVE AND REALISTIC ADVICE ON ALMOST ANY SUBJECT. It also
says, "Make no assumptions, please; not a religion, not a mystic," and "Not
qualified to give medical or legal advice." Occasionally, to attract benefactors
or patrons (he never calls them clients or customers), he has lain down in the
middle of the sidewalk. Typically, though, he sits on a folding chair outside
the Geetanjali Restaurant and waits for people to come to him. Now and then
he will lean forward and say, "Good evening. I"ve got a problem, do you?"
Or "Good evening. Financial, personal, marital, career — try me with one big
problem." Patrons and benefactors used to sit beside him on a second
folding chair. At night, The Free Advice Man would lock the heavier of the
chairs to the No Parking sign on the corner and take the other chair home. A
few weeks ago the heavier chair was stolen. Now he sets up his chair beside
a concrete box concealing a pump outside the laundromat next door to the
restaurant, and patrons and benefactors sit on the box. It is not as private or
intimate. The Free Advice Man has dark hair, dark eyes, and dark skin.
Recently he lived for two years in the Sudan. His face is heart-shaped, his
chin is pointed, and he has an almost flawlessly sculptured nose. He is frail.
If you ask him how old he is, he says, "I have been around the sun twenty-
three times."
Mr. Fenyo has a flyer that reads, "New York"s one and only "Free
Advice" guy may have the answer to your problem(s)." It also says that he
has received media attention from places as far away as Ireland and the
Philippines, and that his advice is based on "infinite realism," and that
interviews and photo sessions are best scheduled for Wednesdays.
Altogether, he has given advice to about six thousand people, only four of
whom were dissatisfied. What happened is they failed to follow his advice.
Despite his success, he says, "I do use disclaimers."
Mr. Fenyo would like to have a column in a
newspaper. "Anything," he says, "to be known internationally as The Free
Advice Man." He wears a whistle on a cord around his neck, for security
reasons. He also carries a map of the city. "I don"t like to spend too much
time giving directions," he says, "but because there"s such a demand, I do
give them. Sometimes. I don"t really consider it advice. It"s directions. I like to
make the distinction."
He also says: "I"m accessible."
"My main tool is simplicity."
"I was born in Washington, D.C., and I lived there three years.
With my parents, I moved every two or three years, all over Europe and Africa
and the U.S. I"ve visited sixty countries and lived in seven, and I speak six
languages. My mother is a retired professor of archeology, and my father is a
professor of history. She dug up the past, and he just talks about it."
"I don"t take anything for granted, except nothingness, and that"s
not much."
A characteristic exchange with a benefactor:
Young Man: "I just got out of school, and I"m staying in
Poughkeepsie for the summer, and I have to go home in the fall. What do I
do? I don"t want to work. I never liked any job I ever had."
The Free Advice Man: "You don"t have to have a job. You can have
a career."
Or this:
T.F.A.M., to young woman standing before him reading his
sign, "Hi, what do you do for a living?"
Young Woman: "Not much."
T.F.A.M.: "But what?"
Y.W.: "Acting."
T.F.A.M.: "Not doing too well?"
Y.W.: "I don"t want advice about that. I already get too much."
T.F.A.M.: "Let me ask you a question. Are you invested in any
stocks and bonds?"
Y.W.: "No."
T.F.A.M: "Good. Stay out of that. Got any land?"
Y.W.: "No."
T.F.A.M.: "Too bad. Get that."
When people tell him that they don"t think they have any
problems, he tells them that he thinks they do. He recommends that they go
recline and reconsider. Something will come up.
The other evening, The Free Advice Man was sitting in his chair
outside the restaurant. He held his sign in front of his chest. People passed
in and out of his view on both sides. Some of them stopped and read his
sign, but no one sat down, and if he spoke the people moved on. A black
woman paused in front of him.
The Free Advice Man said, "Good evening. I"ve got a problem, do
you?"
The woman said, "I"m my own analytical analyst," and walked
away.
A man came by on a motorcycle that was elaborately decorated
with twisted metal and looked like a piece of abstract sculpture on wheels.
The man parked the motorcycle on the far side of Bleecker Street. The Free
Advice Man picked up his chair and moved it across the street, next to the
motorcycle. "This is fantasy, I"m reality," he said to someone admiring the
motorcycle. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing people to walk
around him. He held his sign slightly above his head, and waved it slowly, as
if it were being moved by the breeze. In a moment, a woman walked by with
tears streaming down her face. Unfortunately, The Free Advice Man was
looking in the other direction.
(1987)

Embassy Pictures gave a party at the Tavern-on-the-Green following the
screening of a movie that features the Rolling Stones in concert. Ahmet
Ertegun was there, Bill Graham was there, Mary McFadden was there, and
so was a man who told a nervous woman, "You call me about business. I will
call you to see if you are all right on an emotional basis, but I will never, ever
call you about business." Sam Holdsworth, the editor of the magazine
Musician, was there, and Keith Richards, looking strange and unearthly, the
way he always does, was there with his father and his son Marlon, and so
was a woman who looked at Keith with his son and said, "Keith is so devoted
to Marlon. Until a few years ago, he used to dress up as Santa Claus for him."
Mick Jagger was there, looking ideal. He wore a white shirt with a
wing collar, a black jacket, and a pastel striped four-in-hand, and he worked
the room like a politician at a fund-raiser in his hometown district, bending
now to this ear, now to that, smiling across the room, and huddling at one
table, then another. Some people told him they admired his performance in
the film; others asked for and received autographs; still others found
themselves completely unable to frame the simplest kind of sentence.
A tall black woman too handsome to be a model, wearing a blue
shirt and dark pants and carrying a clipboard, was there attempting to keep
order among a throng of photographers lurking in a small chamber outside
the banquet room. The photographers had been promised a "photo
opportunity" with the four members of the Rolling Stones attending the party.
(As well as Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, Charlie Watts and Ron Wood
were there.) The photo opportunity was chaotic and brief, with as many
pictures taken of the Rolling Stones in, say, three minutes as are taken of
the average person to document his entire life.
During the photo opportunity, the tall black woman strode back
and forth making remarks that were largely ignored: "Everybody take a step
back. . . . Please, you"re too close. . . . Gentlemen, if you can"t behave we"ll
have to stop it. . . . Everybody, five steps. . . . Gentlemen, go somewhere
else to resolve your disputes. I mean it. . . . I"ll get security. . . . Gentlemen,
you"re too close, please! . . . Get off the table. . . . Ralph, would you get
security."
Guests — people associated in one way or another with the
business of popular music — ate Chateaubriand, veal piemontese, pasta
carnevale, assorted cold poultry, fresh vegetables, salad, cheese, and fresh
fruits dipped in chocolate. The Rolling Stones stayed just so long. Then
bodyguards carrying coats appeared and escorted them swiftly to their car. A
young man trailed after them saying, "Keith! Keith! We"re friends?"
(1983)

In anticipation of crossing the Bering Strait in his taxi, Ioan Oprisiu intends to
take a look at the strait this summer, while driving his cab to the Arctic
Ocean. Oprisiu, who is Romanian, plans to visit a fare in Prudhoe Bay,
Alaska. He picked up the man last fall in Manhattan and, after they talked for
a while, the man, who works in the oil industry and has lived in Prudhoe Bay
for twenty-five years, gave Oprisiu his card and invited him and his wife and
two boys to visit. Driving to the Arctic Ocean will be the longest trip of the
sixteen that Oprisiu has made in his taxi. He arrived by himself in New York
nine years ago — his wife and two sons came four years later — and worked
for a while in a restaurant, then got a hot dog vendor"s cart, and then, as he
says, "decided to go for a cab." To learn more about Ameri...

"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.

  • PublisherHoughton Mifflin
  • Publication date2003
  • ISBN 10 0618123113
  • ISBN 13 9780618123117
  • BindingHardcover
  • Edition number1
  • Number of pages352
  • Rating

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