2008 had a very strange feeling about it, and its two perpendicular infinity symbols made me doubt whether it could actually end. But of course it had to, and toward the celebration of that event I went to visit my friend Andrew in Santa Cruz. I brought my copy of Jean-Paul Sartre’s autobiography The Words and my notebook in which I had my various strands of notes on Seinfeld. I brought the book because I was interested in re-reading it and analyzing my adolescent decision to become a writer, a decision heavily influenced by Sartre’s discussion and justification of the profession. I got through the first few pages on the bus from Salinas to Watsonville but decided I would rather listen to the radio and look at the fields as we passed by them and the sunset beyond. Andrew wasn’t finished with work until eight, so I sojourned in Watsonville a little, where I’d never really spent any time, before getting on my connecting bus to Santa Cruz. I walked around the downtown a little and got a pair of pants at the Goodwill, as my first preparation for the new year, and then got on my bus.
The route took me inland to places I had never seen before, further distracting me from The Words and the bus arrived downtown an hour after its departure, which I found extraordinary considering the trip would have taken ten minutes on the highway. I later learned to seek out the “Express” bus for the trip back to bypass rural Santa Cruz County. The radio signal went in and out the whole time, necessitating a very proactive finger on the dial, and an incredibly varied listening experience. Arriving in South Santa Cruz a radio program finally came in clear. Its theme was the passing of the year. It told some lame jokes and then put on a condescending skit in which a know-it-all explains to Caesar why our modern calendar is needed to accommodate the 365 and one-quarter days it takes for the Earth to rotate around the sun. Eventually I realized it wasn’t a bad show, it was simply intended for children.
Upon arriving downtown I went through the back of the bookstore to use the bathroom. The atmosphere of heavy anticipation met me when I came out the front. The sidewalks of the downtown street were filled with people and there were murmurs of a parade, which made sense considering it was far too early to celebrate the passing of midnight. I walked the length of the strip, received a complimentary Bad Boys Bail Bonds shirt from an impromptu promotion next to a large black van, bought a coffee at the other end to wait for the parade to come by, and watched the lively, homemade procession. It suddenly seemed that, in spite of the simulation of my entire life in a third-world country in a four month priod, my entrance into the adult world, the ten year anniversary of the end of Seinfeld and my ineffable task of writing a self-referential study of it, it being a leap-year, the election of a black president, insane gas prices, global economic collapse, the replacement of Fidel Castro as Cuba’s president, the continued existence of George Bush’s never-ending presidency, and those perpendicular infinity symbols, maybe 2008 could end just like all of the others. It should be noted, however, that a leap second was to extend the year, though not significantly.
In this spirit of renewal I walked toward Andrew’s house to meet him. I stopped along the way and bought a bottle of whiskey, and, by the time I got to his house decided to walk around a little more, as I still had almost an hour before he’d be home. I passed by a grocery store, decided to buy beer, then realized I didn’t want to walk around with it, and continued on, deferring the undertaking. Thirty minutes later I went back at the store, but was denied entrance as they were closing early due to the nature of the evening. I walked back down the hill to the Chevron station, disappointed that I was prevented from supporting the mom and pop store by the mom and pop store. I was further disappointed by the terrible selection and inflated prices, and somewhat relieved when I wasn’t allowed to buy the beer, due to a store policy that would not accept American passports, although international ones were OK. I went back another three blocks to where I bought the whiskey, where mom and pop literally were working, along with their three children, and then walked back up the hill to Andrew’s house. It was there I learned that he was kept late because the store was so busy, and that he was going to a party at his girlfriend’s house at the other side of town. It was decided that I would walk in that direction and he would meet me part way. So, after leaving my new pants and my Walkman, I walked again past the Chevron and the mom and pop liquor store with my bag full of The Words, whiskey, beer, Seinfeld notes and my Bail Bonds shirt.
My last remembrance of the bag was placing it down next to the sofa of the house and taking out its liquid contents. Whether I left it there when we all left to another party at around 11:30, or I took it with me and left it at that party, or lost it somewhere along the way, is impossible to say. Neither house could locate it the next day and I could think of no other explanation for where it went. I went back to Salinas on January 2nd wearing my new pants, with my old ones in a plastic bag with my Walkman. I decided that I should not question my decision to be a writer and just let it be.
A few days later “The Watch” came on TV in which George is in the process of negotiating a better deal with NBC, because the offer is such an insult compared to the salary that the network gives Ted Danson. It ends with him weasling his way into Russell-the-executive’s apartment and begging him to pick the show, ultimately accepting less money than he initially refused. He shows up at Jerry’s apartment where Jerry and his parents are very excited to hear that George and the network reached an agreement, especially as it implied that George got a better offer:
Jerry: “So what'd we get?”
George: “Eight thousand dollars.”
Jerry: “Beautiful!”
George, ashamed: “That's for the two of us.”
Helen: “Four thousand apiece?”
Jerry: “Let me see if I understand this. In other words, you held out
for—less money.
”
George: “I was wrong, you were right.”
Jerry: “You know, the basic idea of negotiation, as I understand it, is
to get your price to go up.”
George: “You're smart, I'm dumb.”
Jerry: “You know, this is how they negotiate in the bizarro world.”
I couldn’t help but consider my project with a certain irony, and was glad that I didn’t have to answer to any collaborator, nor to his parents.
You know, last winter at some point someone left a brown corduroy backpack in our basement after a party. Reading the notebook inside I found out they were a student at PCC. There was a book of Sarte's essays, a book about Sarte and commmunism, and a Thoreau reader, which seemed like quintessential college-kid books. Nobody ever came and got the bag and I looted the books. You could have one, to make up for your loss, and to balance the universe a little bit.
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