Chapter Twenty

- Edward, The Weird Guy At The Federal Building -

My Ex Manager worked as tour coordinator for some very famous recording artists who toured the world with every new record. Consequently, she had a good relationship with the people in the passport office. I needed a passport in a hurry and I knew there was an interminable wait at the Federal Building, not to mention it could take weeks to process.

“Call my friend Edward,” she told me, “he’ll take care of you. Just tell him I sent you.” I knew I’d be set. She was always good at getting things like this taken care of with the minimum of hassle. I made an appointment with Edward for one o’clock the next afternoon.

“Bring two passport photos and $42.00,” was his only request.

I arrived at the Federal Building in Westwood fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, just in case. Actually, I had no say in the matter. The bus got there when it got there.

The Federal Building was a mob scene. A giant centipede of bored civilians coiled around the expansive office interior. The air conditioning was set at the government energy-efficient temperature of one zillion, Fahrenheit. The smell and din of the room conjured up images of an Iraqi bazaar. I remembered the exact date I met my ex manager and said a private thank you to the forces of the universe that allowed me to bypass this mid-day hell.

With a tinge of guilt the very privileged must feel at least once in their lives, I side stepped the throng and made my way down a quiet corridor to Edward’s office.

The tiny space the Feds allocated Edward held exactly one gray metal desk, an uncomfortable looking chair for him, and two equally rigid guest chairs. There was nothing on his desk. Not a piece of paper, not a family photo, not a calendar, not a lamp. His phone rested on an extension to the side. The lighting came from a pin spot directly above. It doubled as an interrogation room.

“Have a seat,” Edward offered grimly.

Edward was a very thin-lipped, nervous man. Tiny beads of perspiration rimmed his forehead and he spoke in a tense whisper. His eyes never left the top of his desk. I tried to break the iceberg.

“Thank you very much for...” I started.

“Do you have the photo and the check?” Edward interrupted.

“Right here.” I slid them across his desk fully confident I wouldn’t upset the landscape.

“Wait in this room,” Edward ordered, as if I had someplace else to go. And with that, he disappeared out the door, leaving me alone. I took a deep breath and listened to the sound of the flea market down the hall. I tried to find some distinguishing features in Edward’s office, but there were none. No cartoons clipped from the paper, no “Hang in there, baby” poster, nothing hanging on the walls. I felt sorry for Edward. I felt sorry for most of the nasty things I’d ever said about civil servants, if this was what they had to put up with. I did, however, feel so incredibly happy to be on the verge of attaining one of my goals, tears welled in my eyes at the thought of it.

At quarter to eternity Edward reappeared. He defiled the emptiness of his desktop with my new passport and some other documents.

“Please inspect all the information and make sure it is correct.” All business, all the time, he was.

I held my passport gently, so as not to harm it. I admired its rich blue cover and the shiny gold letters that spelled out “United States of America,” just like that. I smiled when I saw the purple ink on the inside in English and French. I carefully read and re-read each and every piece of information about myself, as though I’d never seen these facts before. My full name looks so different in print. The year of issue, exactly thirty years after my year of birth and the year of expiration another ten years after that. It was all so symmetrical, those even numbers. Then it hit me: I’m going to be forty when this thing expires! Forty! I started panicking again.

“Sign here and here if everything is in order,” Edward instructed. I signed proudly. And then a really weird thing happened. Edward, as if transformed by the completion of his task, looked up from his desk and got this weird nervous smile on his face.

“Um, I have to ask you to leave immediately,” he said through his clenched smile. He looked like he was about to burst, like a child about to wet his pants or Andrew McCarthy in virtually every role he’s ever played. He lowered his voice and leaned forward.

“We’re going to make an arrest here in a few minutes.”

“An arrest?”

“Yes. The Federal Marshals have set up a sting operation to apprehend someone and we have to keep this area clear of civilians.” Edward was clearly excited and frightened. He continued to smile nervously at me and began rocking back and forth. I thought about the sequence of events that might transpire here in the next few minutes, with Federal Marshals trying to arrest a felon who probably didn’t want to be arrested. I felt it prudent that I follow Edward’s instructions.

I cleared my throat. “I’ll leave right away. Thank you.”

As I walked across the parking lot, I thought about Edward. Why did he tell me that? Why did he smile like that? He probably had no one in the world to tell his secret to. What good is that kind of secret? He couldn’t wait to get home to tell someone, except there wasn’t anyone there to tell. Only me. Again, I felt sorry for the weird son of a bitch. Then I realized I had no one to tell my secrets to and felt sorry for myself.

And all I could think about the whole bus ride back to the office was that I was going to turn forty in ten years.

•••

I was giddy with anticipation of my upcoming trip. Was I really going to accomplish one of my life’s goals? It didn’t seem possible, but barring some unforeseen disaster, I was leaving the U.S. for the first time -- before I turned thirty! The trip would sneak in less than a month before my birthday, but that counts in my book.

Life was a little better. My skin had calmed down somewhat, going out had a bit of a celebratory luster instead of an escapist pallor, and even though I still hadn’t been sleeping a whole lot, I felt energized. What a forgotten sensation, to have something to look forward to. As the date approached, I picked up a few books on London and took tips from everyone I knew who had been there. This would be an adventure on so many levels. The whole process made me feel better about most everything.

Oddly, I didn’t feel any better about girls. I kept having bad experiences. I forced myself to call a Film Student who approached me in a bar with her number. We went out a couple times. Maybe I was just bad company, but she abruptly dropped off the face of the earth. After a few months of telephone silence she casually resurfaced as if we had been in contact the whole time. It turned out she had a boyfriend and used me for whatever reasons, went back to him, and now had finally broken it off. We went out one more time and then she dropped off the face of the earth.

A friend got married shortly before my trip. It was hard enough going to a wedding at all and I just couldn’t face going alone. I wasn’t up to the task of finding a real date, so I asked 3b’s Conniving Friend from back home, now living in L.A., to escort me. 3b and I were still not seeing each other.

Stupidity, how do I practice thee? Let me count the ways. Conniving Friend looked pretty hot that night and was more touchy-feely than usual. I got sucked into it ever so slightly and dumb thoughts darted in and out of my head early in the evening and more so as Booze played its part. She toyed with the dumb thoughts and just when I was lulled into believing it might turn into something more, she started dropping bombs. She had to make sure I was doing all right, now that 3b and I were really on the outs. That required us going over every excruciating detail of my failed marriage and her passing along more information than I really wanted about 3b and her boyfriend.

“Why don’t you just tell her to suck me?” Wiener pleaded during a welcome pee break. By the time we left the reception, I wanted to hang myself.

The next day, my phone rang.

“So, how was your ‘date’?” 3b snapped.

“Oh, my god. Don’t tell me,” I moaned. I knew I couldn’t trust anyone with a name like Conniving Friend.

“’Oh, he was so attentive and tender, and we talked for hours,’” she quoted.

“Yeah, we talked about you all night,” I said.

“Why don’t you just fuck her and get it over with!” 3b slammed down the phone.

I don’t understand why girls do that to their best friends. Does every girl have to be the prettiest girl? Why are they so cruel about proving they are more desirable than their closest friends? That’s why I didn’t feel any better about girls.

•••

“Oh, no,” I said, “The one with the souped-up Porsche?” It was a guy who worked in development at the company. He was an executive, but a low level one.

“Yeah,” New Girl gushed.

“Don’t... do... it,” I warned.

“It’s too late,” she cooed, “I think I’m in lurve.” She drew out that last word for effect.

“Oh, dear god, say it isn’t so.”

“And you know what else? He’s got a closet full of Armani shirts. I mean, full. It's kind of weird, kind of cool.”

“Wait a second. How does he afford that Porsche and a closet full of Armani? He does not make enough money for that.”

“I don’t know how he does it, but he does,” she said. “He just likes the finer things in life -- like me.”

“Well,” I said, “whatever makes you happy, kiddo. But there’s something wrong with a guy that obsessed with appearances. I’m telling you -- he’s got piles and piles of credit card debt. And that debt doesn’t come free.” I knew first hand what I was talking about.

“It’s too late for that,” New Girl sighed, “This could be the one.”

I paused for a second, contemplating telling her my definition of The One, then thought better of it. She was radiating the way you do when you’re in love and I wasn’t about to take that away from her. I wished her luck and told her I’d bring her a souvenir from London.

<-Go Back

Turn The Page ->