The last movie I made was called Mind The Gap. It was about 5 strangers' journeys of forgiveness. One of the characters was Herb, an ancient man who had to walk outrageously slowly because he was just so old. I mean, take a step... stop. Take a step. Stop. Take a step. Stop. His character was inspired by a man I once saw on my block walking that slowly and I was fascinated by him. At his pace it literally must take him three hours to go to the corner store, buy a paper and return home. That was his afternoon.
When I was out of his sight, so I wouldn't insult him, I tried walking that slowly. Now, as you can imagine, I go like the wind, always, well unless it's after dinner and we're strolling, then I saunter but nothing like this guy.
So I did it. Step. Stop. Step. Stop. It was incredible. The world came crashing in on me. I saw things I had never seen before on my block. Trees, birds, trucks, stores, kids. I was forced to slow down. A complete meditation. I highly recommend it to you. So Herb was based on this guy in real life. Allan King played him amazingly and then suddenly died a few months later. He said he had taken the role because it reminded him of his own father. So he played his dad the year he himself died.
In the movie, Herb is making a trek, on foot, five miles north from his apartment in upper Manhattan to a place he used to play as a child in the Bronx. A magical place called Spuyten Duyvel. I've always loved this place. Since I was a little boy when driving up the west side highway, when you'd cross the Riverdale bridge you couldn't help but gasp at the majesty of the triangle below where the Hudson river, the Palisade Cliffs and the East River converged. You imagined it must have seemed the gateway to the free world when first discovered in the 1500s. I vowed one day to live there.
Three years ago I got an apartment in one of the buildings on one of the cliffs there. That's how Herb's story came to be. His pilgrimage was my own. At least to Spuyten Duyvel.
So I use it as an office. It looks out onto the water and the George Washington Bridge and the Palisade cliffs and it's magic. Because of the acoustics you can hear people talking in regular voices on the decks of their sailboats a half a mile away as they float up the river. A revolving boat and train bridge swivels to let the boats through and then closes to the let the trains cross. You could get lost for hours just watching. But I work hard there and though it's an extravagance I can't really afford, I feel it's Mecca for me. When I'm there I feel a God shot like few others in my life. It's a childhood dream come true to be there.
No one knows the address; I don't even have a phone there. No internet. Just me writing.
Yesterday the intercom buzzed. Since no one knows I'm there, it couldn't have been for me. I checked anyway.
"Hello?"
"Fed Ex"
"Who are you looking for?" I knew it couldn't be me.
"Fed Ex."
"Who do you want?"
"Fed Ex."
I'm a New Yorker so I don't buzz anyone in unless I damn well know what they're up to. I'm only on the 4th floor and needed a little break from writing anyway so I figured I'd run down and see what was up.
I locked the door and went downstairs. Standing outside with a package was indeed a Fed Ex guy. I opened the door and asked him what apartment he was looking for.
"4B"
"Yeah, that's me. What name?"
"Sarah Johnson"
"I've been here for a few years and there's no one by that name in 4B. Sorry."
"WHERE'S FLORENCE GOLD?!!!" A loud, angry very Jewish voice rang out. I was confused and trying to focus on helping the Fed Ex guy.
"Is she in another apartment?"
"I don't know. I'll check."
"WHERE'S FLORENCE GOLD?!!" Finally I had to respond to the bellowing question booming at me from somewhere behind the Fed Ex guy, who on his way into my building cleared to reveal an old man leaning against the black iron gate at the front walkway to my building. He was wearing a tan hat and a dark overcoat, a dark blue suit underneath. Not too cheap, not too expensive. A white dress shirt buttoned all the way to the top, no tie. He was 85 if he was a day and peered at me through his cataracts as I got closer.
"Who are you looking for, Sir?"
"Florence Gold" he said again, annoyed he had to tell me a third time and as if I should know her already.
"I don't know her. What apartment does she live in?"
"I don't know! You live here, not me!" He fought back tears but then like a child suddenly seemed fine again a second later. Well, by "fine" I mean just angry, not about to sob.
"Uhhh, let me go look on the directory."
"Please. It's very important that I find her."
I ran back to my building and checked as the old man waited. I could tell if I hadn't run he would have scolded me. The Fed Ex man had solved his mystery.
"She's in 5B not 4B."
"Excellent." I scoured the directory. No Florence Gold.
"Could she have a different last name maybe? A married name?" I yelled.
"NO! FLORENCE GOLD!!" He yelled back, really having no patience anymore for my shenanigans. I returned to him.
"I'm sorry but she doesn't live in my building." His face twisted up again like he was going to cry. He was at his wits end.
"Do you have her phone number?"
"Noooooo!" He whined like a child. "Do you have a phone book?" He asked. A phone book.
"No. But let me run upstairs and grab my phone and we'll call information and see if we can find her address." I didn't want him to fear that I was going to ditch him so I yelled back to him reassuringly as I ran into my building. "Just wait right here, okay?! I'll be right back!" I also obviously thought he might be lost in a much more serious way than he imagined, Florence Gold's location being the least of his problems, and I didn't want him to wander off. But he seemed glued to the iron gate. I don't think he walked very well.
I raced up the stairs, grabbed my phone and came back downstairs. Although it's been bizarrely warm in nyc this November, yesterday it was properly cold. I was in a tee shirt and jeans. I thought this would be resolved quickly so I didn't bring my jacket.
"Did you call?"
"I'm calling now.... Hi, Florence Gold please on Independence Avenue in the Bronx.... Uh-huh..." They didn't have anyone. "What about in the Bronx at all." Nothing. They had an F.Gold in Yonkers which was miles away. I asked the old man, "Could she live in Yonkers?"
"NO! She lives on this street in one of these buildings!"
"No, that's okay. Well, thank you." I hung up with the info operator.
"They don't have anyone like that at all."
"Oh my God!! This is unbelievable! Don't you have a phone book?! This is your neighborhood! Where is she?! You should know?!"
"How did you get here?"
"What does that matter?"
"Do you have a car near by? Where do you live?" I didn't want to be disrespectful to this man. His dignity might be the only thing he felt he had left. I certainly didn't want to take that from him.
"Why are you asking me all these question?! What does that have to do with anything?! Oh God!" He started to cry again but stopped again just as fast when I spoke.
"Let's go to the next building. Have you checked there?"
"I don't know."
"Come on. We'll find her." I started walking toward the next apartment building which was a couple hundred feet up the street. He followed slowly. I waited for him to catch up. I never knew my grandfathers. One died of alcoholism before I was born, the other was struck by lightening on a golf course when I was one. I always wanted one. I looked closely at this old man's face. Had he been in concentration camps? Did he have any grandchildren? Any family at all? Or only Florence Gold. Did Florence Gold even still live here. Did she ever? We approached the building next to mine. I went in first, the old man was only a few feet behind me but it would take him a while still to make it into the lobby. I asked the doorman, "Excuse me I think this man's lost. Does a Florence Gold live here?"
"No. He was just here. I told him no."
"Huh. Does any Florence live here with a different last name maybe?"
"Uhhh, we have a Florence Davis."
"How old is she?"
"Seventies."
"Would you mind trying her please?"
"Sure."
He rang up just as the old man arrived to join us.
"Is she here?"
"He's ringing a Florence, maybe it's her.
"Yes, hi Florence sorry to bother you but do you know a Mr....?" he looked at me. I turned to the old man.
"What's your name?"
"Sydney. Sydney Hirschhorn."
"A Sydney Hirschhorn?"
To be continued...
Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 7:00 AM