“You want to work tonight?” a gruff voice asked over the phone at 3 AM. I accept the job offer and hang up. I have 10 minutes to shower and suit up. Several hours later, the sunlight brings color to the city as I stood under an archway to view The Statue of Liberty and a river renewing itself under The Summer Wind.
Once upon a time, I saw everything from a crown of liberty on a school trip when I was an idealistic child who carried a torch for the United States of Astronauts. Now my partner and I have the dirty job of protecting the city of the world from vermin that thrives on pollution.
“You guys do great work,” said a man possessed of an angelic face and translucent blue eyes that seemed to have wandered from Men In Black III, a movie being filmed a few blocks away from Wagner Park
“Have a good Fourth,” I said, going back to dragging barrels of garbage pass a sculpture that looks like swirling doggie do frozen in bronze. I brought them to the garbage truck driver who always gets quiet when he works in this area of Blue Angels. His brother was a young cop who passed away in a swimming accident. What can I say to comfort anyone when I feel like the thief who was nailed next to a good Jewish lawyer? I work with a Dirty Dozen of ex-convicts given another chance at life by starting at the bottom of the heap. It’s going against the grain of a cliché, but there are second acts in American lives.
Who am I? I’m not Spider Man breaking his back on Broadway.
Riding on the side of a truck named Isabella, the same as a Spaniard queen that gave an Italian navigator currency to discover a new land, I feel the wind on my face turn me into a sailor venturing into a brave new 21 Century Fox. In a matter of minutes, I’m in China, Italy and at night in the Ukraine in the city of the world. I am the herald of Galactus, the devourer of worlds. I am The Silver Surfer who almost got arrested for not having ID. The traffic cop scanned my face to see if I was on America’s Most Wanted. Then he gave me a 130-dollar ticket for not wearing a seat belt. Wait! When I’m riding on the side of the truck its O.K not to have a safety belt? I jump in and out to pick up trash on the route. I can’t be putting on and off---oh, I get it! The city is broke! Not a problem. Draw on my resources. I only make 50 bucks whenever the truck driver calls me, which is not everyday. Take my food money why don’t you? “Why don’t you give me a 130-dollar ticket for using twine to hold up my pants,” I yelled at the muscle-bound cop in my mind.
Hitting the road, the garbage truck passed by the 50 thousand a month apartment where the former head of the IMF is under house arrest. Upon seeing the crowd of waiting media, I turned my back. My cover as a freelancer of the fourth estate is off the game grid. Still I wished I could have shouted KAHN! You know, like Captain Kirk shouted in The Wrath of KHAN! The former head of the IMF could be a member of S.P.E.C.T.R.E. or S.M.E.R.S.H. or maybe M.I.C.K.E.Y M.O.U.S.E!
Or so the German media will have us believe.
Like The X-Files, trust no one? This guilty before proven innocent in the court of public opinion stinks worse than the garbage we pick up near The Federal Reserve where I hope to find a gold brick in the trash bin only to be returned cause I like being called an idiot by stuck-up New Yorkers with their noses up in the air whenever they see garbage trucks. Think about this: If the city is like a human body than what serves as the anus?
Could it be Weiner?
(Oh, that was just tailor made for Worldwide Pants! Welcome to The Late Show on CBS where there are second acts in American lives!)
In the opinion of some Ivy Leaguers, being a garbage truck assistant who makes 50 bucks a day is one step above the status of crack whore or maybe not! Yeah, well, I consider Bernard Made Off with other peoples’ life savings and his kind one step below a plague of rats that I saw scampering across a cobblestone street in the financial center of New York, New York. Oh, go easy on them, Danny. Give the rat race a little time and they’ll evolve with little cute cell phones, little cute cups of streaming hot Star Bucks latte and big plans of legally stealing the hard-earned cheese of mice and men.)
At The Robert Di Niro Hotel, I slammed an iron trash bin against the back of the garbage truck; inserted heavy steel pins to hold it fast and pulled down the cable of the winch to hook it up. I waved my hand like an X-Man and the heavy bin levitated into the air. Oh, yes, wish I had the power to attract a French looking model that seemed like a supple flesh and blood version of the song La Vie En Rose as moaned in heat by Grace Jones.
She was posing in the middle of a cobblestone street for a photo shoot that blocked our garbage truck. Well, it’s that, honey, or become a hooker for an Ex-State Attorney turned Ex-Governor turned (any moment now) Ex-TV Talk Show Host (It happened like I predicted!) All this tempting female beauty overwhelms me like the ocean waves From Here To Eternity. Manhattan is like Amazon Island to the tunes of 52 Girls by The B-52s, Girls, Girls, Girls by Elvis and Girls On Film by Duran Duran, a band named after a good scientist turned bad in Barbarella, a film first seen in my childhood after Easter services. The first time I saw the radiance of a woman in her birthday suit was the Greek goddess of love rising from the ocean on an oyster. The painting gave birth to a 7 year old Cupid hot for girls like Penny Cartwright from Lost In Space.
Wanting to please the fairer sex to all hip shaking tunes of Tom Jones and faster than Tommy Boy could sing What’s New Pussycat, I cut my hair and pasted it to my chest and made bushy eyebrows. Possessed by a Scottish accent, I strolled and strutted in The South Bronx like Sean Connery is James Bond. Instead, I resembled a mutated troll in Super Man Versus The Mole People. Going from a whore-mongering secret agent to wordmonger, Sir Connery played a shut-in writer in The Bronx who helps an African-American teenager master English. “You write from the heart. You rewrite with the mind,” he coached passionately in Finding Forrester.
What if I lost my mind?
“Then go write for a sit-com like the other washed up whores on How I Met Your Mother,” Forrester said from the movie screen playing in my imagination. “And take your canned laugher with ya!” Back at the depot, the carting company owner who, I believe has a genius IQ, applied for the CIA. According to him, he missed it by that much as Agent 86 used to say in Get Smart. He pitched ideas for movies with a truck driver and a mechanic. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP! Like the myth of Cassandra, I foresee this garbage going straight to DVD. The truck driver didn’t blink when I said Di Niro should do a movie based on Columbo, an NBC TV series on a seemingly dumb detective. Surprise! He’s not stupid! KAHN/ KHAN you’re busted! For the film, I will add to the character a glass eye (a great visual for a subway movie poster that should be pasted right next to the New York Public Service Ad slogan If You See Something Say Something!) Of course, this Columbo is potty-mouthed with gory f-bombs galore, an audience pleaser.
Yeah. That’s it.
Keep your good eye focused on the weapons of mass distraction while the world stage burns from global warming, you cigar-puffing infidel. Yeah, I’m also guilty of contributing Soylent Green and circus to the latter day Romans. I regret I pitched a sit-com called Ragheads To Riches. It’s about a Jewish-American comedian who marries an Arab-American comedian seeking The American Dream of bringing laughter to all in the family. In the first episode, he discovers his wife is wearing a wire for Homeland Security. “Lucy, you have a lot of explaining to do,” her husband scolds her in his broken English as she bursts into tears and a hearty HI HO SILVER AWAY! Oh, Ali! I just wanted to take this nightmare to DreamWorks so we could make money and new friends in Hollywood! I sold out cause I was so tired of us living from hand to mouth! Boohoo! “Oh, Lucy! I love you,” Ali says before being taken away to an undisclosed location for dental care. And don’t get me started on how I turned The Honeymooners into Brooklyn’s version of Breaking Bad. You’re too late. I’m off and running.
Oh, Norton, old friend, old pal of mine! It’s me, the chef of future TV! Let’s get cooking! Let’s make more mess! It’s what you crave!
Today I will make up for crimes against humanity by launching a new TV series called Garbagelogy, The Art Of Going Green. Just sit right back to a fateful synopsis in this 3-minute reading tour. Submitted for your approval, Garbagelogy is about deprogramming people from the cult of mass media. If successfully done, we’ll be cancelled in the first season. Big Ben, a garbage truck driver, handed me a light sword saved from the trash compacter. In the department of I Got A Bad Feeling About This, the sword flashed red. “Can I keep it?” said the inner child using Jedi mind tricks. His face went blank. “Do I care?” said Big Ben who recently brought himself The Force Unleashed video game. Oops! There goes reality! There goes gravity! Waving the sword under evening skies over The South Bronx, I walked the ‘8 Mile’ from the garbage truck garage all the while composing this clap rap in my mind with a few angry choice words escaping into the air of despair. I needed to lose myself to the literary visions of The Hunt’s Point Public Library. A mighty ally! Strong it is with the complete collection of Star Wars DVDs (and books on Star Wars too! Oh yeah.) This was my Fortress of Solitude where illiterate school bullies feared to enter into this war zone of big ideas. YOU SHALL NOT PASS! YOU WILL BE LEFT BEHIND! The geeks will inherit the earth. I spent more time at the library then I ever did at the church next door where I dunked in baptismal waters at the age of four. Then one day, High School Hell appeared in the pleasing form of an Apple. The NYPL made The Internet available for free and it drew people like flies to rotting fruit. In time-lapse reporting set to the madcap tune of The Benny Hill Show, I saw people download and print pornographic images. They MEEBO violent rap from computers while carrying cell phones with ringers set on loud Mambo Mouth EXPLETIVE DELETED. Congratulations on the first 100 years, NYPL!
Many happy returns!
If one complained like a mild-mannered reporter about keeping the noise level down there is a slim possibility of one’s brains being spattered in cold blood against a copy of War And Peace. This reminds me of an ancient Twilight Zone episode where a bookworm (played by the actor known for his role of the aristocratic criminal The Penguin on the campy Batman and Robin TV series) wished the human race dead so he can read in silence. With his desire fulfilled, he gleefully walked down the stairs with an armful of books. All of a sudden, he stumbled and broke his glasses. It’s not fair. I had all the time in the world, he whimpered. That day, I learned the meaning of irony. Danny, can you use the word in a sentence. Yes, I can. It’s ironic he wished the world dead and now he can’t get health care. Thank you, Danny. You may sit down.
I get 15 to 45 minutes a day to work. Not enough time to begin writing the first season of Garbagelogy where every episode opens up on a library computer. Like Tom Cruise typing Job 3:14 in different languages on a laptop in his first Mission: Impossible movie, I stared at the monitor for a few seconds before I fell asleep. “People are calling what I written an act of raw genius. My fear is that it’s going to my head. How did you prevent yourself from acting like an asshole,” I asked Jim Carrey who made a cameo in my strange dream of a crowded restaurant in shadows. Jim had the look of a stone cold killer about to go to work for The Dream Police. He was about to say something when all of a sudden the phone rings. I accept the job offer. I get up to shower and dress in 10 minutes.
I need the 50 bucks to partly pay off the phone bill of 119-dollars.
We’re talking serious comedy on HBO.
