hell is he? What an asshole this guy is .
I rang Courtney, who called me right back after getting in touch with his agent. The agent was equally as baffled, especially since he had confirmed the interview with Dwayne earlier in the morning. Now he couldn’t reach him.
“I’m so sorry, Nick,” said Courtney.
“You and me both. Well, at least Robinson hasn’t lost anything over the years. He’s still a no-show. What a chump.”
After another fifteen minutes, I finally gave up waiting. Dwayne Robinson was officially MIA — just like when he was scheduled to pitch that seventh and deciding game of the World Series and flat-out disappeared.
All of a sudden I felt like the kid who confronted Shoeless Joe Jackson on the steps of the Chicago courthouse during the Black Sox scandal of 1919.
Say it ain’t so, Dwayne .
Say it ain’t so …
But … it was so.
And Robinson wasn’t the chump — that would be me.
Chapter 8
CALL ME LAZY AND SHIFTLESS, but on the heels of being chased by a gang of bloodthirsty, trigger-happy militiamen, leaping from a speeding Jeep, and flying a gazillion miles for a career-making interview that didn’t happen, I decided to play hooky the next day. I didn’t trek into my office at Citizen magazine nor did I plan to work out of my apartment, something I do from time to time with decent results.
Instead I spent the morning in bed relaxing with some coffee (cream, no sugar), the New York Times (Sports section first, then Arts, then News in Review), and one of my favorite Elvis Costello albums ( My Aim Is True ).
And by records I mean, literally, the record. Nothing against CDs and MP3s, but I’ve yet to hear anything that quite captures the pure sound of a needle against vinyl. So yeah, I’m afraid I’m one of those people , a purist who still swears by his LP collection.
Anyway, at a little past noon I finally ventured out to my go-to neighborhood eatery, the Sunrise Diner, a few blocks south of my apartment. I was just being served my lunch (cheese omelet, sausage, black coffee) when Courtney called.
“Where are you?” she asked in a near panic.
“About to bite into a delish-looking omelet at the Sunrise.”
“Don’t!” she said. “Step away from those eggs!”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re already late.”
For what?
I had no idea what she was talking about. Then it suddenly clicked without her saying another word. “You’re kidding me,” I said.
“No, I’m not. I just got a call from his agent. Dwayne Robinson is sitting inside Lombardo’s at this very moment waiting for you.”
“He thought our lunch was today? ”
“I don’t know. I didn’t exactly hang around for the excuse,” said Courtney. At least I thought that’s what she said. I was already clicking off the phone.
“Check, please!”
“Is anything wrong with the omelet, Nick? I’ll get you another one, honey.”
“No, no, it looks great, Rosa. I just have to run. Sorry.”
Luckily I had my shoulder bag with me — the same beat-up brown leather bag I’ve had since I graduated from Northwestern. Tucked inside as always was the one thing I absolutely needed to conduct the interview: my tape recorder. It’s actually a “digital voice recorder,” but thanks to that purist streak in me I’ve yet to get comfortable calling it that. Probably never will.
Bolting out of the Sunrise, I snagged a cab heading south and offered the driver five dollars for every red light he ignored. Eight minutes and twenty-five dollars later, we were screeching to a halt in front of Lombardo’s.
For the second day in a row, I was walking into the same bustling steakhouse for lunch. As my favorite Yankee catcher, Yogi Berra, said, “It’s déjà vu all over again.”
Fittingly, the same hostess — “Tiffany, right?” — was there to greet me. She took the leather jacket I was wearing and led me to the same quiet table in the back.
And there he was, in the flesh. Dwayne Robinson.
I rang Courtney, who called me right back after getting in touch with his agent. The agent was equally as baffled, especially since he had confirmed the interview with Dwayne earlier in the morning. Now he couldn’t reach him.
“I’m so sorry, Nick,” said Courtney.
“You and me both. Well, at least Robinson hasn’t lost anything over the years. He’s still a no-show. What a chump.”
After another fifteen minutes, I finally gave up waiting. Dwayne Robinson was officially MIA — just like when he was scheduled to pitch that seventh and deciding game of the World Series and flat-out disappeared.
All of a sudden I felt like the kid who confronted Shoeless Joe Jackson on the steps of the Chicago courthouse during the Black Sox scandal of 1919.
Say it ain’t so, Dwayne .
Say it ain’t so …
But … it was so.
And Robinson wasn’t the chump — that would be me.
Chapter 8
CALL ME LAZY AND SHIFTLESS, but on the heels of being chased by a gang of bloodthirsty, trigger-happy militiamen, leaping from a speeding Jeep, and flying a gazillion miles for a career-making interview that didn’t happen, I decided to play hooky the next day. I didn’t trek into my office at Citizen magazine nor did I plan to work out of my apartment, something I do from time to time with decent results.
Instead I spent the morning in bed relaxing with some coffee (cream, no sugar), the New York Times (Sports section first, then Arts, then News in Review), and one of my favorite Elvis Costello albums ( My Aim Is True ).
And by records I mean, literally, the record. Nothing against CDs and MP3s, but I’ve yet to hear anything that quite captures the pure sound of a needle against vinyl. So yeah, I’m afraid I’m one of those people , a purist who still swears by his LP collection.
Anyway, at a little past noon I finally ventured out to my go-to neighborhood eatery, the Sunrise Diner, a few blocks south of my apartment. I was just being served my lunch (cheese omelet, sausage, black coffee) when Courtney called.
“Where are you?” she asked in a near panic.
“About to bite into a delish-looking omelet at the Sunrise.”
“Don’t!” she said. “Step away from those eggs!”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re already late.”
For what?
I had no idea what she was talking about. Then it suddenly clicked without her saying another word. “You’re kidding me,” I said.
“No, I’m not. I just got a call from his agent. Dwayne Robinson is sitting inside Lombardo’s at this very moment waiting for you.”
“He thought our lunch was today? ”
“I don’t know. I didn’t exactly hang around for the excuse,” said Courtney. At least I thought that’s what she said. I was already clicking off the phone.
“Check, please!”
“Is anything wrong with the omelet, Nick? I’ll get you another one, honey.”
“No, no, it looks great, Rosa. I just have to run. Sorry.”
Luckily I had my shoulder bag with me — the same beat-up brown leather bag I’ve had since I graduated from Northwestern. Tucked inside as always was the one thing I absolutely needed to conduct the interview: my tape recorder. It’s actually a “digital voice recorder,” but thanks to that purist streak in me I’ve yet to get comfortable calling it that. Probably never will.
Bolting out of the Sunrise, I snagged a cab heading south and offered the driver five dollars for every red light he ignored. Eight minutes and twenty-five dollars later, we were screeching to a halt in front of Lombardo’s.
For the second day in a row, I was walking into the same bustling steakhouse for lunch. As my favorite Yankee catcher, Yogi Berra, said, “It’s déjà vu all over again.”
Fittingly, the same hostess — “Tiffany, right?” — was there to greet me. She took the leather jacket I was wearing and led me to the same quiet table in the back.
And there he was, in the flesh. Dwayne Robinson.
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