Navel Gazing On A Cloudy Sunday Morning

When Howard Cossell was at his peak, he'd do this bit where he'd go into a false diatribe when encountering a couple wherein he'd pay a backdoor compliment to them. He'd start off with something like, "You, sir, are most unworthy of this gorgeous creature on your arm..." and on he went in that patented Cossell announcer's voice as if he were doing play-by-play and it came off really funny. Only thing was, as he got older and more bitter, the funny part wore off and the false diatribe turned into a true diatribe. He still portrayed it as a joke but the disguise was gone.

I find myself falling into that same trap. Beating myself up all the time hasn't given me the morality I hoped for - just the opposite. I find myself wanting to be angry just to be angry. I know I'm not alone in this but that doesn't mean that's the way it has to be, either.

***

I went to a movie Friday at the Angelika (Exit Through The Gift Shop, highly recommend it) but as the trailers started to play I noticed something was wrong with the sound. It sounded like it was being channeled through a tin can at the front of the theater and the longer I sat there the more annoyed I became. Finally I decided that no way was I going to watch an entire film straining to hear so I got up and headed towards the concession stand where luckily I found a manager and told him about the sound.

As we headed back into the theater he started telling me how it was documentary so maybe the sound wouldn't be like a regular film. Now, the whole time I was doing this I was seething because I hate doing anything that requires someone else to rely on my word alone - especially if I'm right. And my secret fear was the manager wouldn't walk fully into the theater and up into the seats where the poor sound was readily apparent. Sure enough he stopped as soon as he saw the screen - but at least he saw it was trailers still running and not the film.

Street art from the film

I went back to my seat sure I was defeated or that as usual I had been labeled a malcontent and troublemaker. Unless the manager had an acute sense of hearing he would have had a hard time hearing what I was talking about from where he'd stood. But then suddenly a few minutes later full sound was restored in the theater and the difference was night and day. The manager did do a check, found something was wrong and fixed it.

But I wasn't sitting in satisfaction. The incident had triggered all sorts of latent resentment in me and I imagined the film operator and manager cursing me. I wasn't ungracious in my complaining but nor was I gracious either as I was squarely on the hot seat and not enjoying a minute of it. I just don't trust anyone anymore - not at all. Everyone just fucking wants to be lied to even if the truth is in their best interests - or more importantly, in the bests interests of all.

***

Walking through the parking lot afterwards a Mexican standing beside his car held out his hand with a slip of paper in it pleading for me to come over. I was furious as I figured it was another "give me a few bucks for gas" ploy and started to storm off. Only his reaction of utter dejection halted me in my tracks and I realized I had read him wrong. So I came over and read what was in his hand: a lawyer's card at an address on Central Expressway, the main highway about half a block from where we were.

I had a very difficult time talking to him since he didn't speak English and my Spanish is very rusty. I tried to explain it was probably a tall building since the suite number was in the 600s (the lawyers had Hispanic surnames I noticed). I told him Central Expressway was called "75" since that's how it's marked on the intersections and told him to drive along at look at building numbers until he found 6060. The "75" part seemed to make sense to him but for the rest, not so sure.


I wished him good luck but felt I had not done enough. I keep MAPSCOs in my car and found out sure enough he was very close to where he should be. He pointed to a large blue building during our conversation and I had blindly said, "Yes, that could be it." I was worried I had given him a bum steer but I had not. I suspected he was close or he would not have stopped at this exit but still, I didn't really know. I got in my car feeling I hadn't tried hard enough to communicate and with all the scrapes I'd been through in my hard times I know the importance of lending a helping hand.

It wasn't formal but I wished a silent wish he would find where he needed to go even if it was to lawyers who might be ripping him off. But then, from the looks of his car, he didn't have much to take. I just knew I recognized myself seeing him lost in his plight.

So once again, on my puzzled drive home, I asked myself, "Who am I?"

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