Another Journey: Day 18

DAY EIGHTEEN--Tuesday, May 27, 2008

With two radio interviews to do today, I rouse Mule and we risk the hand-to-hand combat that constitutes driving in Manhattan. Johanna has found a Firestone dealer that has an arrangement with Hertz. So in order to get MAINTENANCE REQUIRED to stop yelling at me from the dashboard, all I have to do is get Mule to this place, go on to my radio stuff and come back afterward and pick her up, all paid for by Hertz.

Or at least that's the way it's supposed to go.

The drive, through a lengthy tunnel and up the Westside Highway to Tenth Ave. and up from there to 26th Street, is surprisingly easy. The rest is more complicated.

The place is squeezed into the northwest corner of Tenth Ave. and 26th St., surprisingly small and, shall we say, not the image of "the Firestone Dealer" Mr. Firestone probably broadcasts on TV. The few feet of lot in front of the service bays is crammed with trucks, cars, trailers and machinery. Leaving Mule illegally parked on the corner, I walk up to a guy and say I'm here with a Hertz car to get an oil change.

"Next door," he yells over the sound of a screaming car alarm while jerking his thumb toward the next bay.

At the next bay I tell my story again, this time over the clatter of a pneumatic lug wrench, and again am given the thumb toward yet another bay westward, with the advice, "Ask for Eric!"

In the third bay, a guy with a nasty expression is sitting, his feet stretched out comfortably, talking to one of the workers.

"Hi, I'm looking for Eric."

"Yeah?"

Yeah, I thought that was fairly clear. "Are you Eric?"

"Whaddya want?"

I had a flashback to the days when I was serving process. Either somebody's looking for this guy or he's just an unpleasant putz. "I have a Hertz car that needs an oil change. They said you folks can do it."

"Yeah, OK. Where is it?"

"Over there, at the curb."

"Bring it in."

"Well, the curb was about as close as I could get, but I guess I can go around the block." I figured I could make the loop and see if they can make room for it if I approach the place from 26th, which is a one-way street heading east, which prevented me from turning into it.

"Yeah."

With that encouragement I head back to the car, but as I climb in another guy comes over and tells me to go back, he'll bring it around. So I walk back over to Mr. Sunshine and he tells me they'll have it done in twenty minutes to a half hour and I can wait.

"I thought I'd leave it," I said, "and pick it up later. I have something to do uptown."

"Can't leave it. We got not room for it."

"Well, I'm afraid I can't wait, so what do you suggest we do?"

"When it's done I'll put it in the lot next door. Cost you twenty bucks."

"That seems a bit steep."

"How long'll you be?"

The interview was supposed to start at 12:30 and take twenty minutes, so I said, "I can be back by 1:00, maybe 1:30."

"OK."

"Thanks," I said. "The information you'll need to contact Hertz is in the glove compartment."

"Yeah, yeah," and he turned away.

Refreshed by this pleasant exchange, I hailed a cab and was dropped outside the 44th Street studio for Good Morning America Radio. This was, I thought, to be one of the interviews that primarily focused on my friend John O'Donohue's book, To Bless the Space Between Us. John, a wonderful man--a former Catholic priest who had gone on to become a renowned poet and philosopher, an Irishman with a booming laugh, a great big heart and a silver-tongued brogue that could charm the birds from the trees--had died suddenly in January at the age of fifty-two. A stunning, heartbreaking loss to all of us who knew and loved him, his death came just as his new book was to be released, leaving this beautiful work orphaned, without this lovely man to introduce it to the world. So I and other friends agreed to try to help get the word out about it.

Beth Grossman, the book's publicist, had arranged a number of things for me to do in John's place, often generously trying to see to it that my own book was mentioned, though I assured her that wasn't necessary. And this was one of them. Or it was supposed to be. Meeting me outside, Beth told me that the host of the show had read my book and wanted to focus primarily on it, but would bring John and his book into the discussion.

That really wasn't comfortable for me given our understanding, but Beth insisted that she was happy with the agreement they had come to and urged me to go ahead with it. So I did. And it actually turned out very well. The host was smart, interesting, interested and very generous, not only about my book, but in the way she introduced John and his book into the conversation, weaving in our relationship and allowing me the chance to not only promote his book but to explain what a powerful influence he had become in my life. Among other things, I was able to cite what he called his "unfinished poem,"

I would love to live
like a river flows,
carried by the surprise
of its own unfolding.

Ah, what a man. What a great loss. But I think we did him proud. And Beth was very pleased with the way it all went.

I took the subway down to 23rd Street and walked over to pick up Mule. She was done, parked on the street, and as I went to get the keys, Eric said, "That'll be forty bucks cash, no tax, no problem."

"That's to be taken care of by Hertz."

"Who says?"

"Well, I do, for one. That's what we talked about when I left the car."

"We didn't talk about nothin'. It's forty bucks."

"Look, pal." I said, feeling the heat rise. "Maybe you misunderstood me awhile ago, but you got a call this morning explaining the situation and it was made clear that this is a Hertz car, that you folks have an agreement with Hertz, and that they'll pay for the oil change."

"I didn't get no call, so don't say I did nothin'. It's forty bucks."

Now I was getting steamed. "Maybe we should get Hertz on the phone."

He didn't like that. "You got a problem, talk to the man in there," he said, jerking his thumb toward yet another door into yet another bay.

I stepped through and found a little guy with a big belly on the phone. After a few minutes, he looked up at me and said, "Yeah?"

I explained the situation--rather calmly, I thought.

"It's tough to get Hertz to pay, takes a long time."

"I'm sorry to hear that. But an agreement was made."

"You'll have to wait a few minutes, then, cause right now I'm dealing with people who pay," and he went back to the phone.

I stood there, trying to think of what to do. I had considered simply paying the money and arguing it out with Hertz at the end of the trip, but I couldn't let these creeps get away with this. I thought about going back to Eric and grabbing the keys, walking out and taking the car--and, of course, dealing with whatever response that might prompt on his part. As I'm going through the various possibilities in my mind, this guy took yet another call. Standing there with the anger building, I couldn't help hearing what he was saying, which turned out to be about something he was using to deal with a health problem. It wasn't working for him and it had to do with sleeping. As I picked up more words from his side of the conversation it began to sound like he was having trouble with a device he had to wear at night to treat sleep apnea, a condition a friend of mine suffers with. It's apparently very tough to deal with.

Hearing this, I'm thinking that maybe there's a better way to handle things. Maybe I can say something that'll put the two of us on a more human level and find a way to resolve this without turning it into a brawl. There's the chance, of course, that he'll object to my having overheard his private concern and tell me to go fuck myself, but it's worth a thought, at least.

Just listening to him talk to the person on the other end of the phone helps me lighten up a bit. He's clearly appreciative of the sympathetic hearing he's getting and gradually seems to be easier, less tough and abrasive.

Finally he hangs up, takes a deep breath and looks up at me.

"Sorry," I say. "I couldn't help but overhear. Sounds like sleep apnea?"

He nods.

"Friend of mine has had a hell of a time with it. I guess it's a bitch."

He gets up from the desk and comes around, saying he has to wear this device and he can't keep it on when asleep. "You stop breathing," he says, "until your brain wakes you up and tells you you gotta breathe. It's makin' me nuts."

"I'm sorry. That's got to be tough. But they're going to help?"

"Yeah, I think so." He pauses. "So where's your car?"

We go out, passing Eric, and I point to Mule.

"Has it been done yet?" he asks.

"I think so. They said it was."

We walk back in and he asks Eric, "Is it done?"

"Yeah."

He takes the key and we walk back out. He starts writing down the license number and other identifying information. I get him the rental agreement and we head back to his desk, again passing Eric, who says nothing.

As he sits back down and starts on the necessary papers, one of the workmen walks in behind me and says, "Hey, you Trapper John?"

"Nope. BJ."

"Hey, yeah, BJ! I love that show."

The guy at the desk now looks up and says, "You know, I thought you looked familiar. I watch that show every night."

"Yeah," the other guy says. "Where's Alan Alda?"

"He's out on Long Island, I think."

The guy at the desk says, "Farrell. Sure. Hell, I shoulda known. I thought you looked familiar!" Then he hands me the rental agreement and says, "Here. There's no reason to keep you here. I can take care of this."

"Are you sure? I don't want it to be a problem for you."

"Nah, no problem." He sticks out his hand. "Nice to meet you."

I shake his hand, thank him, shake the other guy's hand and walk out past Eric. I consider saying something to him, but then think, "Nah."

Driving away with Mule, MAINTENANCE no longer REQUIRED, heading for an interview with my old friend David Bender on Air America, I found myself thinking that even though the message was a bit mixed--the big change coming with the realization that I became "somebody" in his mind--there was something happening even before that. I think I learned an important lesson back there.

Air America with David was a hoot. It was great to see him and be able to tear into America's bad guys a bit on the air. And when we were done I did a short thing on tape for the Center for Constitutional Rights about what President Obama should do in his first 100 days: close Guantanamo, end torture, end electronic spying--and lying, end the war in Iraq, join the International Criminal Court, open relations with Iran, end the embargo against Cuba, etc., etc. Then I also did a 90-second rant against the death penalty on tape for Laura Flanders' new Dish TV and online show.

A rather productive afternoon.

In the evening, the Nation magazine and the Center for Constitutional Rights cosponsored an event at the Strand Bookstore in the Village, featuring yours truly and the wonderful writer Walter Mosley, talking about writing and politics and the future of this country.

Walter is a very bright guy with a skeptic's eye and a sardonic wit. He's always ready with a challenge and is in serious danger of becoming a friend.

The discussion was moderated by an articulate woman named Annette Dickerson, an officer of the CCR, who had stepped in because Michael Ratner, who heads the organization and was scheduled to handle it, had been called away. Annette told me that she had read and loved my book, which was nice to hear. But then she made a point of telling me again, which was even nicer. Coming back to the subject later, she said, "I cried when I read it. I cried when I read about 'The House.' I wish there were places like that for everyone."

I wish there were as well.

Some old friends were in the audience. Al Ruben, a highly regarded veteran who wrote the script for Incident at Dark River, a clumsily titled (not our choice) movie my partner and I produced, surprised me by showing up. And in the front row was a pal, the always-sassy Alysse Minkoff, who, having survived serious challenges in life, is making sure she misses nothing. Years ago, after reading of my adventures in Bosnia, Alysse decided she had to go there and do what she could to help--and did. And here she was again, not only showing up and being supportive, but accompanied by two lovely friends who paid close attention and seemed to enjoy themselves as well.

Perfectly in character, Alysse is now taking New York by storm--but that's another story.

To read other entries in Mike Farrell's book tour diary click here.