Bluff

Bluff

I cycled twenty to thirty miles a day that summer in Manhattan. I was a bicycle messenger. It was 1997 and I was 27.  I started my day at 112th and Central Park West and made my way down town to Greenwich Village and the financial district where most of my pick ups and drops off's were. I scaled the World Trade Center many times as a messenger. A bike messenger spends a great deal of time off the bike as well- in elevators, ringing buzzers, waiting for a response, walking around the block in search of the right address, all the while hoping someone doesn't steal your bike. The bicycle black market in New York City entire thrives.    

At the end of the day back up at 112th and Central Park West I showered and washed the car exhaust from my hair and pores. It looked like black ink pouring down my body to my feet and into the drain. A bike messenger wasn't a lucrative job despite it's serious lack of health benefits. I cycled Paris for a year so I was well qualified.  The problem with being a messenger was replenishing one's precious bodily fluids. Thirst could become very costly. Manhattan in summer is one of the hottest places on the planet with all that black tar and pavement sizzling and steam.  I loved it when it rained and cooled off. Nobody wanted to work when it rained because of the danger of crashing increased tenfold. I made a lot of dough when it rained and I needed the money. I didn't realise the danger of cycling in the rain at first. The danger is manholes. They are very slick and when wet the bike comes right out from under you, especially if you break over one. I learned this lesson the hard way and a scar on my arm to prove it. The other danger is car doors. Be prepared for them to open and ready to break or swerve without being run down by a yellow cab. I jumped over a car door one day as it opened unexpectedly. I was thinking bout James Dean walking the same village streets and if he ever happened to walk by or bump into Jack Kerouac or Edgar Varese. Bam! The bike went smack into the open door and I leaped over it head first. Luckily it was summer and the window was down. I had a sore shoulder for a couple of days. The bike and door were fine. 

I started writing a script that summer. I cycled during the day drumming up ideas and I wrote them down in my notebook back at the apartment at night. It was called Nomad. It took me a couple of weeks to write and think it was finished. I then ran an ad in the theatre trade newspaper Backstage for actors to audition. There were descriptions for all the characters. 

Joe: forty, rugged, ex baseball player. 

Cassie: 18, brunette, pregnant, 

Earl: 65, narcoleptic, sleeps on the bench in the local park

Etc. 

I was very excited reading the advertisement in Backstage. It was now official. But where were the responses? I hurriedly cycled back to the apartment from the village to a practically empty mailbox. There were a couple of actor's head-shots but very disappointing indeed. Each day- the same, just a couple again. Then Friday came and there was a note from the post office that I had a package waiting for me for pick up. The post office was wedged between some brownstones on the upper west side. I walked in and handed the friendly black man behind the counter the ticket. 

He looked it over and said, 'oh, it's you. You have a lot of mail, my friend. I mean a lot of mail.' 

'How much?' I asked. 

'Well, do you have a truck or big car?' 

'I have a big car,' I said. 

'Well, you are going to need it.' 

I had a car in Trenton stashed in my sister Cindy's garage. It was an old rusted 1977 Oldsmobile Delta 88, the last car my dear old grandfather bought. I also needed to pick up some things from Cindy's so I took the train down to Trenton and drove the Oldsmobile back into the city and straight to the post office before it closed. The Oldsmobile was completely filled with actor’s head-shots and reels (trunk, back seat, front seat). There were also reels from directors of photography, sound engineers, 2nd assistant cameramen, etc. I could see nothing to the side or behind me as I navigated the upper west side toward the apartment. I lugged it all up to the top floor apartment. The entire front room of the apartment was filled with all this Nomad stuff. They said in those days that there are at least twenty thousand actors in New York. I'd say I had the headshots of five thousand. I began to sift through them and match them to the characters. I put a stack in the toilet for reading material. It was then that it dawned on me that the apartment was big enough to hold an audition. So a date was set, and I began to call all the pretty girls to play Cassie, and rugged guys to play Joe, and guys that could possibly be downtrodden enough to play Earl. 

The very first thing I noticed as the actors filtered into the apartment was they often looked nothing like their head-shots. The gloss was gone and who they really were was in front of you.  The actors climbed the four flights to the top floor and waited in the kitchen, which served as the waiting room. '

Help yourself to some coffee' the sign said. 

They practised their lines in the kitchen before they were summoned into the main room where they did a monologue, and then read the script of Nomad. It was interesting to be on the other side of the table and see people's nerves work for or against them.  

The problem with the whole project was that there was no money. The bluff could only go so far. Eventually the summer ended and the sublet and my time as a bike messenger. 

I moved down to Cindy's to live. I got a job in Princeton driving a limousine. I drove mostly to the airports- Philadelphia, Newark, John F. Kennedy. It was an okay job but I was too far away from Manhattan to keep the bluff going and the script started gathering dust.