Chasing Freddy Around NYC
“I saw a man eat so much meat, he blew up!”
“Like in Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life?”
“Better. His guts wrapped around an arm of the chandelier, and his head crashed through the window onto the street and rolled under the wheel of an oncoming truck.”
Freddy is having one of his infantile fits and my wife isn’t having any of it. Not at dinner.
“You don’t believe me?!”
“No”
“I’m a grown man, with a gray beard to prove it. So when a person I thought I respected tells me she doesn’t believe me, it insults my intelligence.”
He gets up and storms out of the apartment.
“Thank you,” I say to my wife, “for ruining my evening. Now I have to go catch his ass and bring it back!”
“You don’t have to,” she said, chewing on a chicken leg.
“Yes, I do, and you know it. He’s MFA, MLIS, IBS, OCD, and ADHD. He gets in trouble and it’s me who’s got to clean up the mess!”
“Thank God for no Ph.D, or you woulda been fucked.” She grins.
“Ha-ha. You want a repeat of last February?”
“I thought you handled it pretty well. Considering.”
Now it’s my turn to bail. I grab my Ricoh GR 3 on the way out. There’s always something to photograph when looking for a petulant moron.
Bensonhurst. Sheepshead Bay. Coney Island. The B train. The F train. The B39 Bus.
Manhattan’s Lower East Side. That’s where I finally catch up with him. He’s changing into someone else’s shirt, pretending not to see me.
Freddy's a real piece of work, and folks keep telling me to chill out about him. But keeping my cool? Not exactly my superpower. The jerk knows he's stuck with me till the end of my days and he milks it for all it's worth.
“I’m not going home till you take me to Smith & Wollensky”, he says.
“What?! You know their prices?!”
“That’s your problem. Today is my day. And I’ve never been there.”
“I can make you a steak at home.”
“You really want to chase me for the rest of the night, don’t you?”
Fighting him is useless. Going home without him is impossible. Both of my credit cards are maxed. . So I’ll have to pay for the meal with my department chair’s credit card, which she gave me to buy new office furniture. Hopefully, she’ll understand.
Three hundred and seventy-five dollars, a porterhouse for two, and a dozen oysters later, we’re on the train home. Freddy is tired, his head resting on my shoulder. As we approach our stop, he suddenly looks at me with a mischievous grin.
"You know, you really outdid yourself this time.”
"What do you mean?"
"This whole chase. The expensive dinner. Using your chair's credit card. Priceless!"
I feel a chill run down my spine as something shifts in Freddy's eyes.
"Think about it. When was the last time anyone else saw us together?"
The train screeches to a halt. As the doors open, Freddy steps out, but his reflection doesn't appear in the window. I'm left alone, holding the Smith & Wollensky receipt and my Ricoh 3G. The wife is already waiting for me outside, a concerned look on her face. "You okay? You've been gone for hours."
I open my mouth to explain, but Freddy appears behind me suddenly. "Sorry, ma'am," he says, his voice low and gravely. He’s now wearing a fedora and a trench coat. "We had to debrief him thoroughly after the incident."
My wife blinks, confused. "Debrief? Incident?”
Freddy pulls out a shiny badge. "Agent Fryberg. FBI. Your husband has been instrumental in preventing a major international crisis tonight."
I stare at Freddy, dumbfounded. "The steak dinner? Cover for a meeting with a foreign diplomat. The chase around the city? Throwing off potential tails. He can't confirm or deny, of course. National security and all that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a report to file.” And just like that, he’s gone.
I open my mouth to explain, but the wife cuts me off.
“Dr. Shpringenbed called. You missed your appointment this morning.”
“Who?”
“Shpringenbed. Your shrink. Have you been taking your meds?”
I honestly don’t remember. But I don’t tell her that.
She takes my hand and leads me to our building. And just before we reach our apartment, I get a text from Freddy.
“You’re welcome! I expect an executive producer credit when you turn this into a screenplay.”
Living with Freddy is a pain in the ass, but it ain’t never boring.
Thanks for reading and being a subscriber.
’til next time.
ak
Interesting Alex! And I love that photograph of the orange shirt.
Fantastic! You'll need to save up, thgh, for next time...