Spygirl (22 page)

That was the last time anybody tied to steal from Wally. Sol bid me adieu, saying, “See ya, Graystein.” And with that he left me in the conference room, joined only by old Zinger wrappers and the lonely remnants of Otis's foot-long egg-salad-and-hot-pastrami hero.

I closed my laptop for the day at 6:45 and breathed in the steamy air. It was eighty-four degrees, and we hadn't even hit the weeklong heat wave that was supposed to slog New York. Hot air was rushing in through the three open front windows looking over Twenty-first Street and swirling through the office, blowing loose documents into lifting helixes. Then I realized it was snowing. I pointed out the window.

“You guys! It's snowing. In July!” There were only a handful of us left in the office. Evan, sitting closest to me, yelled, “What the fuck?” and we all ran to the end of the office. Sure enough, mirroring the swirl of paper near the window, outside there was a torrent of flakes, rising up toward the rooftops of New York buildings, like a fun-house mirror image. “It's snowing upside down!” I said, and we were wide-eyed and delighted when Wendy said, “Wait a minute—I
caught
one.”

There in her sweaty palm, framed by her glistening green-polished nails, was a perfect unmelted crystal. When we looked outside again, the storm had subsided enough to reveal a New York City Sanitation truck, parked on Twenty-first Street about one hundred yards west, from which was soaring like a covey of tiny birds the equivalent of a hundred old pillows’ worth of feathers. When I looked back at Wendy's hand, I saw the feather, still pristine and unchanged. It was almost better than the real thing, I thought to myself.

SEVENTEEN             

Less than a week after my fateless meeting with Cute Subway Boy I was riding to work in the morning, pining for my Starbucks fix. Usually when I got on the train, I tried to position myself standing in front of people I thought would be getting off before me. There were a few I recognized as getting off at Jay Street, the stop after mine, and I'd always position myself to the far side of the door I thought they'd use. That way, when they got up I wouldn't be blocking their way, and I could jump in their seats as soon as they stood. Usually there was an equally ambitious person on their other side who tried to grab the seat, too, but I always won out with my away-from-the-door strategy.

Today I had strategically placed myself in front of a mother and son. Child-parent groups were usually a good bet because most parents in Brooklyn didn't take their kids into midtown for school, so they'd likely be getting off before me. It worked, and I was practically falling asleep when I heard a subway panhandler asking for my attention.

The world of subway hustlers is a microcosmic universe unto itself, with the requisite bottom-feeders and high-rollers. Usually, the panhandlers’ scripts are humdrum: “Ladies and gentlemen, My name is I'm homeless, I don't drink or do drugs, any money you can give me would be appreciated, God bless.” There were a few talented performing-artist regulars: the doo-wop groups, the guys who did old-school breakdancing and a two-man cartwheel down the length of the car, and the balloon artist I'd seen only once, on the R train.

But this guy, this guy was different, and I had seen him before. “My name is John Wilder. I'm a comic-book artist and I used to work at DC comics, where I was a protégé of Stan Lee. He died and I was left custody of his two daughters. I need money to support these girls, so I'm selling off my DC comic-book collection to support them.” The weird thing about this guy was that he was nothing like any other panhandler I'd ever seen on the subway. He was wearing a tweed jacket and matching vest underneath. He looked like someone I'd know, like a grungy Williamsburg boy, a skinny-tie-wearing member of the Strokes meets an 1850s English schoolboy. The familiarity of him tugged at me, and I figured at the very least I could acquire a comic in the process. Several people on the subway held up dollar bills, and Tragic Comic Guy tried my patience by spending eons talking to two giggly teenage girls.

“What do you guys like to read?” he asked.

“I don't know,” they laughed nervously.

“Well, you look like White Lotus types. She's a really cool
character, actually. She's a chick and she's beautiful…. See, look at her—but she also kicks butt. See, in this one, she's in the Supermen of America team.” The girls were exchanging glances and giggling. I kept crumpling my bill and smoothing it out again, undecided if I still felt so sorry for him. He seemed to be getting plenty of money and action without me.

By the time he got to me, he seemed tired and eager to get off our car.

“Sorry.” He looked at me and then looked away. “Did, did you want one? ” Feigned caution, self-effacement: classic manifestation of a well-oiled shyster.

“I dunno.” Now I played disinterested and distracted. “Do you have any White Lotus?”

He checked through his messenger bag. “Actually, I'm out of those. Here—this is Crazy Jane.” I looked down. Crazy Jane wasn't beautiful and ass-kicking like White Lotus. She was a scarred blue-haired girl who, the cover boasted, “has multiple personality disorder after a gene bomb explosion.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I was reading about Crazy Jane's ability to channel sixty-four distinct personalities from Scarlet Harlot to Hangman's Daughter— ugh—when I heard on the subway-car P.A.:

“Ladies and gentlemen, due to an incident at West Fourth Street, this train is being held. Please be patient and we'll be moving shortly.” Boos and sighs echoed across the subway car, and the cartoon guy, seemingly spooked about hanging around, crossed over to another car. We were between East Broadway and Delancey Street.

Stuck underground with nothing to read except for my crappy comic, I tried to read the
Post
off the guy next to me until he caught on and double-folded it. Bastard. At least I figured I'd done a mitzvah, a good deed, as my mother would have said.

“Which one did you get?” I heard coming from above me.

Looking up, I saw Dan standing over me. He was clutching his comic book—from the Tragic Comic Guy, too. Just like that, Mr. Maybe-Right had resurfaced in my life. I was euphoric.

“Where did you come from?” I asked, smiling.

“I was over there”—he pointed to the far opposite side of the train car.

“Wow. This is a nice coincidence.” I blushed.

“A very very lucky one,” he added.

Embarrassed, I asked him, “So, which one did you get?”

“Some shitty piece of crap.”

“Well done.”

“Yeah, well, I only bought it because I was curious about the guy and I was gonna ask him some questions. But I didn't get a chance. When the train stopped, he split.”

“Why? Is Stan Lee alive and well?” I joked.

“Yeah, he is, actually.” Dan, it turned out was more than an amateur comic-book fan. “I knew he was lying, the second he said he worked at DC—Stan Lee is and always was at Marvel. But his spiel was so cogent. You've got to admire that ambitious capitalist spirit. Even if it is misguided and fraudulent.”

“Really? So you think he was really lying? ” I catch people in lies every day. It's my
job.
But the Tragic Comic Guy had put me in a state of cognitive dissonance. I couldn't square his nice White Guy looks with the very desperation and debasedness of his scam. How could someone like him—like me—panhandle in the subway? It made me angry at myself and all the other guilty liberals who saw ourselves in him and wasted a dollar on his crappy comics.

“I just saw a profile of Stan Lee on the E! channel the other day,” Dan added. “I'm pretty sure that, as of last week, he was still kicking it.” We agreed that I would check him out at work that afternoon.

As we pulled away from Fourteenth Street, Dan dug into his pocket and pulled out a small spiral notebook.

“So, can we make it more official this time? Can I have your e-mail or something?”

“Sure,” I said, smiling as I recited the letters like my well-versed commands to the Starbucks counter guy.

I walked into the conference room at lunch, with a roast-beef-on-rye sandwich and a Twinkie for Sol and a copy of the
Post.

Vinny lit into me immediately for my choice of reading material.
“Amy Gway.”
He always called me Amy Gway His accent fell in some lonely place in the voice-continuum where Rain Man meets Elmer Fudd.

“Whadayadoin’ weeding da
Post!
Dat's fascist, wight-wing cwap.” Vinny was a classic man of the people, working-class, labor-union, liberal.

“I know, Vinny. I
like
it because it's crap.”

“Murdoch, Jewriani—day're da wurst! Yeah, dese people, dey don't want gun contwol so dey kin wun awound in dare backyawds and shoot squawels. How can you use a huntin wifle in New Yawk? It's wadiculous!”

Vinny's passion with the cause of old-time labor liberalism was charming. But I wanted him to shut up.

“You know that truism, Vinny—keep your friends close and your enemies closer. That's why I read the
Post.”

Otis laughed. “That's bullshit if I ever heard it, man.”

“Actually, Amy, now that you mention it, maybe I should move over and sit next to you,” Linus said with a chuckle.

“Linus, I'm proud to be the enemy of anybody with your
fashion sense.” Linus was acting a little strange that day. First of all, he was wearing a suit. He normally wore scruffy cords and a T-shirt, and today he was wearing a mildewy herringbone three-piece suit with corduroy patches on the elbows and his usual duct-taped shoes and his hair slicked back. He looked like an erstwhile professor who'd been fired for consorting with his students. I told him as much.

“Yeah, man, you do sort of look like a demented middle manager,” Otis chimed in.

“Okay, everyone, leave Amy alone so I can eat her lunch,” Sol chastised, chomping on somebody's else's hot wings.

“Not this time,” I said, pleased with myself. “I brought you a bone.” I threw the Twinkie in Sol's direction. “Anyway, where's our token Republican to defend me when I need him? I looked at Morgan, who, despite his claims of being an off-the-map Libertarian, was trying to fly under the radar as he perused
The New York Times.
“Help me out here, Morgan,” I pleaded.

“I'm simply an idle aristocrat fallen on hard times,” Morgan scoffed. “My allegiance is to no one.”

“What about when we elect our new president this fall?”

“I'll be out of here before then. Thank God.” A look of repugnance eclipsed his face.

Later at work that day, I got inspired to call DC Comics and check out my Tragic Comic friend. I called the publicity department and spoke to a senior publicity staffer and explained the situation. “I used to work in publishing,” I said, “so I know the truth is sometimes stranger than fiction, and frankly I just had to know if he was for real. Plus, I think you should know about it, too.”

The publicist laughed. “You're not the first person who's called about this. Stan Lee works at Marvel, first of all. As far as I know, he's alive and well. You can call the Marvel people about this, but I know this guy's a total scam artist.”

“Really?”

It was strange to me that the Tragic Comic Guy would go to such elaborate lengths with his scam and still get his facts so clearly wrong, almost as if he wanted to be found out by the right kind of amateur detective.

Back at my desk, I heard the familiar bleep indicating new mail. There was a message from Dan already in my in-box with the subject line “F Train.” It read: “Amy, I can't wait to take the F train again. Maybe we could try to run into each other on purpose sometime? Dan.”

I screamed. “Everything okay, Miz Gray?” Sol said. He was wearing a canny smirk. I bit my hand in embarrassment.

“Sorry about that.” I opened a reply and drafted a response with the subject line “Stan Lee Is Not Dead.” In the message I typed Y-e-s, taking a deep breath and then hitting the
SEND
button.