A new friend who looks like he could be my brother helps me move something heavy and I learn about my garbage man’s troubled past.

It was one of those Saturdays where I didn’t want to get out of bed — or at least dressed. I’d been auditioning all week and I had to drag myself to a Starbucks to do some web design. I slapped on some deodorant, threw some clothes and sunscreen on and headed out my front door to the noisy street below me. Every morning without fail several old men in the neighborhood bring their lawn chairs down to the sidewalk to see what trouble they can start. Bullshit is swapped, fights are avoided, skin cancer is acquired — it’s really a fantastic way to spend your retirement. I walked toward Central Park where I could catch the C train downtown. But one block from the Subway I found something I simply couldn’t pass by. There on the sidewalk was a Wurlitzer organ — complete with rhythms, several synthesizer voices and an emblem indicating that it had once been used in a roller rink to make things more exciting for children of the 1950s and 60s as they zoomed around in circles. Here it was, a mere three blocks from my house.

I thought for a moment, I’d sold all of my belongings and one thing I really missed was a keyboard that my friend Dave gave me. He’d kill me if he knew I sold it. It was his own keyboard but under his ownership it had been collecting dust. I could have easily returned it to him. But that didn’t occur to me until after I’d sold it. At least I got plenty of use out of it while I had it. Oh well, take note, give something to me that I can’t fit in a suitcase and someday I might just sell it. In any case, I had to get this organ to my house. I called everyone I knew in Manhattan and my new friend Garrett agreed to help me hoof the thing to my apartment.

Garrett and I became friends after a weekend of pretending to be each other’s brother. We felt it gave us a competitive edge when competing against everyday pickup lines. He works in the financial sector and he must have thought I was crazy moving this gigantic relic into my apartment. If he ever wanted an organ he could simply buy one on ebay and have it delivered. On second thought, even that sounds complicated. After moving the organ (five feet at a time) back to my apartment, it occurred to me that I lived in a walkup with a very narrow staircase. It seemed all hope was lost. Just then my garbage man showed up to collect the garbage. “Who plays?” he said in a thick accent. “I do,” I said. “I used to be professor music,” he said. “I speak little English. Am from Yugoslavia. I exiled politic.” He pronounced the word “pole-it-ic.” “All the professors, exiled politic.” Then he formed a gun with his hand. “My mother, (he made a shooting gesture) by politic. My brother, (again he shot). All politic. I am music professor, now garbage.” Read the rest of this entry »