almost okay

Dear Lyzako,

As the time approaches for your move to the Left Coast my days have sprouted wings, soaring past, snores to sighs to snores in an endless cycle of restless sleep and meaningless toil. The sudden demand for my services has kept my schedule busy with travel. (More on that at a later date.) I've spent more time in airports in the past month than I have my entire life prior, it seems. Combine that with your exhausting preparations for the move and the time left for collaboration with our good friend Del has dwindled to nearly nothing at all. I miss him.

Last night's productive meeting was just what the doctor ordered for me: a kick in my ass to get things back on track, clean my office and wash those filthy two-week old dishes that are growing mold in my kitchen sink. I even got my evil laptop up and running with Louis' help, sent and fetched an email or two as tests through my primitive 56K dial-up connection. It took three hours to update the virus software. “Marty, you really need to upgrade this to high speed,” said Louis. “I can't believe you can live like this!”

Believe it. I'd live without any connection at all if I could manage it. And no fucking soul-sucking computers.

The coffee is good this morning, strong, even stronger than it was yesterday when I made it from freshly ground beans, five scoops to nine cups of water. There's something about the microwave process that kicks the joe hard again. I can't explain it. I need it this morning after last night's 'meetings'... six of those hard limeades and the last of the Patron during ours... six cans of Blue while Louis fiddled with the computer and I asked stupid questions.

While something or other was downloading or updating (I forget which) Louis asked me for a DVD to put in to make sure the drive was working properly. I enthusiastically ran down to the basement and retrieved my deluxe edition of 'Jackie Brown'. “I was just in L.A.,” I told him, “and when I went through the Spirit terminal on my way to get my bags, I got this electric feeling of deja vu. One wall was covered with bands of different colored tiles, vertical strips. It was like, one a.m. Detroit time and I was out of it, but I just knew I'd seen it somewhere before.” Louis was busy pulling out the disc, half listening. I blathered on: “I'm positive it was the same place Tarantino filmed the opening sequence for this movie and Pam Grier was going down the very same hallway as the camera rolled along on a dolly.”

Louis popped the disc in the drive. “Is the green light blinking?” he asked me.

“Nope,” I said.

“Hmmm. How about now?”

“Nothing.”

“That's no good.”

“Wait it's blinking now,” I said with anticipation.

“How many times did it blink?” asked Louis.

“You're shitting me,” I said. “You mean it matters how many times...”

“Ha hah!” said Louis. He got me.

The movie started, the blue-haloed Miramax logo fading up from black. 'Across 110th Street' came on and Bobby Womack crooned soulfully as Pam slid down the very same corridor that I'd passed through just a few days before, not walking, but pulled along as though she were on a moving walkway, looking positively regal in profile. My queen. “I thought I remembered it like that,” I said. “That was what was so confusing. There's no moving walk there.”

“Could there have been one that they took out?” asked Louis, always trying to find a complicated explanation to things no matter how illogical it seems.

“No way,” I said. “They just put her on a cart and pulled her along at the same time as the camera.”

Long story short, my friend, with some help I tackled the new laptop that had sat unopened on the kitchen floor for two weeks and now have an empty cardboard box for recycling. Progress. I know it's a minute step in the history of Marty Sherman and Mankind, but it's something. Lately I've been near paralyzed with exhaustion, hangovers and fear of failure, a far cry from the thunder-farting, lightning-crapping, chest-thumping Sherman of old. I feel like some of it's coming back.

It seems almost a sure thing now that I'll survive, get by with the help of my friends (thank you). And, oddly enough, I took great comfort in the fact that Pam and I had spent time in the exact same place for the briefest of moments, even if it was nearly a decade apart.

I'd almost forgotten what comfort felt like.

Guess what... even the odd kind still feels good.

Regards,
Marty Sherman