Ed's Ego

Ed Jesperson combed back his steel grey hair, turning this way and that in the mirror, patting down rogue strays that refused to behave, and smiled. In the closet, he looked over his vast collection of ties, rubbing their silk fabric to recall the distant days. He could tell by their width where he had worked and when he had last worn them, like counting the rings on a tree.

           There were the yellow ones—“power ties” in their day—he’d wear with garish suspenders of Rubenesque women. The suspenders had lost their stretch around the time B. Altman’s had gone under. He’d worn those with French blue shirts, the ones sporting – sporting was an appropriate pretension - white collars and cuffs. The blue had faded, the white cuffs yellowed, the collars frayed. A line from his father came to mind: “I wouldn’t wear those to a dog show.” He agreed.

           The search narrowed to one almost in fashion. It was subtle, periwinkle blue, elegant; a good match for the spring weather. He made a knot, thought the narrow part too short, and retied it. He put on his pearl-gray gleneagle plaid suit, patted invisible wrinkles, and flattened a brown bag lunch into his briefcase along with two well overdue novels, yesterday’s copy of the Times, and a manila envelope stuffed with resumes.

           Home was an easy walk to the train, a fact that gave him rare pleasure. It was one smart choice thirty years earlier and a good selling feature today if it came to that. On the platform, he nodded to fellow commuters he knew only by sight.

           Ed aped the behavior of others, looking down the track, glancing at his watch, and contriving an impatient sigh. He pulled out his cell phone for a commuter conversation, louder than necessary, rude or oblivious. Or just pretentious. “I’ll be in by nine fifteen. This can wait until I’m there, but it has to be resolved by noon. If I have to fly to the coast, again, you’ll need to get the driver arranged.”

           His phone wasn’t on. Ed looked around to see if anyone overheard him, and was disappointed to find people engaged in their own affairs.

           He made a similar call on the train, looking apologetically at the people sitting near him mouthing the word “Important,” reaching for a sympathetic response. There was none. Others in the car were reading, napping, doing the daily crossword, working away on laptops, scribbling notes. What do they do? Ed wondered. How did they get their jobs? Keep them? How much do they earn? These questions were the same ones he wondered about the day, week, and month before. The real question was, “What do they think of me?”

           At Grand Central, Ed made a beeline for the Yale Club. He said to the doorman, “Good to see you again.” After allowing two women to pass, he snapped his fingers and added, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

           The doorman nodded holding the door for him. Ed walked to the Roosevelt Hotel, teeming with foreign tourists. He cleared his throat and looked about with a studied air of contempt, bounded through the lobby with purpose, went up to the mezzanine, and took a seat in one of the comfortable chairs outside the drab conference rooms. Inside one, was a meeting of the ’35-year Club of NY Corporate Life Underwriters.’

           Leaving his coat and briefcase on a chair, he went to the reception table, looked at the name-tags and picked at the free pens and notepads. “Can I help?” said a pretty young thing standing behind the table. “Just looking for my name, but I suspect my colleague picked it up.” She offered to make up a new one. “I’ll find him,” smiled Ed. “He’s probably inside saving me a seat…” Then, leaning forward, he whispered, “He’s up for a promotion and is doing his best to impress me.”

           She giggled and handed him a canvas bag with goodies inside. “If you can’t find him, come back.”

           “I most certainly will,” said Ed, looking around. “Looks like a better crowd than last year.”

           “Did they have one last year, I didn’t think they did,” said the young lady.

           “Of course, of course. It was San Francisco event I’m thinking of. At my age I’m lucky to recall what,” - Ed’s mind flashed with recollections he wished he could have - “what the housekeeper made for breakfast. Ah, I think I see my colleague.”

           He picked up two muffins at the breakfast buffet. Looking about to see if anyone witnessed his white-collar crime, Ed sat back in his chair, looked over the rail to the lobby below, and closed his eyes to the murmur of the middle-agent insurance agents behind him and the crowd of foreign voices below.

           There was a gentle tap on his shoulder. “Is everything alright sir?” It was a member of the hotel staff he recognized from prior forays.

           “Fine, fine…” he said. “Taking a bit of a break from…the conference. These meetings can be bloody boring, though don’t say you heard that from me.” The man gave a hospitable laugh and asked if he could get him anything. “I’m fine, fine,” and then, “I’m not speaking until after lunch.” As he was taking his leave, the young man turned back with a look of Déjà vu.

           Ed’s put his hand over his chest, feeling the rapid heartbeat. Perhaps he’d used the Roosevelt as a base too much, too long. There had been other hotels, but his welcome in those had eventually worn out. A manager at the Helmsley once pulled him aside from a luncheon, asking if he was an invited guest, then suggested he could leave on his own accord. Ed smiled, held his head up, and slowly walked out closely trailed by the manager who didn’t even offer the decency of a ‘thank you.’

           He left the Roosevelt, and headed north on Madison Ave. He would miss the Roosevelt Hotel—so quiet, so discrete, so anonymous. And so close to Grand Central.

           Across Madison was Tourneau Jewelers. Ed went right to the Rolex counter, the left side, the good stuff. In a New York minute, a salesman showed up. “Lovely day. Can I answer any questions?”

           Ed gave a taut smile, a deliberate gleam in his eye. “Yes, you can. I just gave my old one to my nephew. We had breakfast at the Yale Club. He’s a freshman, and I’m in the market.”

           “You are generous. May I ask which model?”

           Ed knew exactly which model. It would be the one he saw in old National Geographic ads. The Rolex Edmund Hillary wore when he conquered Everest, not some pretentious jewelry to flash in people’s faces. No, his would be the adventurer’s watch. The real deal. It would be worn by the Ed he always wanted to be.

           “Oh, I had it for years. The Explorer. Bought it here I don’t know when. I’m thinking of the President, in white gold. I must admit, the yellow ones are a tad obvious..”

           “I can look that up sir! We keep records as far back at the pyramids.”

           “Oh, don’t bother!” squealed Ed. “I’m still deciding. Blackface or white. Though the deep blue face, with the diamonds, is rather nice.”

           “Very nice, Sir. Let me look it up for you.” He leaned forward. “We offer 10% discounts to loyal customers. Watch sales are slow these days with smartphones and Fitbits and what have you. The computer is in the back and that 10% takes some of the sting away.”

           “Um, well, yes, fine, sure. Name’s Roosevelt. James P. I bought it around, must’ve been 1972. Yes, 1972.”

           “I’ll be right back, Mr. Roosevelt. You’ll appreciate that discount”

           When the salesman was out of sight, Ed scurried out of Tourneau. He went to the park, heart beating quickly at the pace, heading northwest toward the Museum of Natural History. Near 66^th street, he sat on a bench to catch his breath. Nearby, two women, about his age, were jabbering away. He took out his newspaper and turned to the Crossword puzzle. There, he would jot something before gazing off as if thinking. Periodically, he would slap his thigh, laugh, and say, “Ah hah” or “Oh, bother” and return to the puzzle. 

           He looked at the ladies, engaged in their conversation, until he caught the eye of one, smiled apologetically, and went back to his work. The woman said, “Pardon me for interrupting, but you seem to be having an extra fine day!”

           Ed said it was indeed a fine day. “I indulge myself when the weather is like this. Do the crossword puzzle, dine al fresco. It’s a break from the office.” He lifted the brown sandwich bag to show the ladies. “My secretary was kind enough to offer me her lunch. I sent her and one of the other gals off the 21 Club in exchange.” Leaning in conspiratorially, he said, “I think I got the better end of the deal.”

           “That is so wonderful. What a treat. May I ask what do you do?”

           Ed folded over the paper, hiding the random scribbles he’d inked into the crossword, with a deliberate calmness as he thought of an appropriate answer. “I’m the senior partner at law firm.”

           “Oh, which one? My husband is with Skadden Arps. M and A.”

           “Ah, yes. Skadden. Mine is one you wouldn’t know, or I hope you don’t. We’re a very private firm. Our clients are international, some individuals, families, but mainly governments that need things done quietly. We are very much not in the public eye.”

           “Oooh, that sounds mysterious. You’re not James Bond, are you?” she asked with a laugh.

           “There’s more tedium than mystique. But we do get involved in, ah, negotiations with entities you wouldn’t want at a dinner party. We’ve had a few kidnappings. Hostage exchanges. That sort of thing. And there’s the looted art.”

           “REALLY?” said the other woman, “Anything we would have heard about?”

           “Ideally, no. Emphatically, no. Discretion and secrecy. Both parties prefer it that way. But I’ve said too much, and, in any event, I must hurry along.”

           Ed insisted that the ladies “enjoy this wonderful day” as if it was his to grant and the women nodded their heads in happy acceptance. He headed west, but not before glancing back to see the women watching him. He waved, they waved back, imagining they would talk about him, his hurried exit, speculating on who he was. When out of sight, he tossed the day-old newspaper in a garbage can and ate the tuna sandwich he had made that morning.

           Looking up to the statue of Theodore Roosevelt outside the museum, he brushed crumbs from his mustache and stood a bit taller. He deserved it. Roosevelt. What a grand name. Too obvious? No, understated, too historical to be pretentious. Old money. He wondered if there were any Roosevelts left to enjoy all that, the mere mention of the name, creating a pedigree. He ran the name Jesperson through his circuits for the umpteenth time; there were no Jespersons of note.

           Ed wanted to work at the museum, to work with the dioramas. When he was a child, he’d seen a man in a gray smock with a huge moustache brushing the teeth of the orca. That, he decided, was what he wanted to do. How wonderful it would be to dust off the stuffed animals, children watching thinking he had the greatest job on earth. 

           He sauntered around the exhibits, recalling his father taking him once, though he couldn’t remember much else about his father. “Look at those guys,” he had said, pointing at a diorama. “Just look at those guys.” Little Eddie waved. The man cleaning the orca’s teeth waved back. “Best job in the world working here. I bust my hump and these guys dress up like a dentist doing what? Let’s get out of here.”

           Ed trailed his father, not wanting to leave, waving back at the man in the diorama. “C’mon Eddie. Gotta wet my whistle. Get you a burger or something. Let’s go.”

           Ed never got a diorama job, but he did apply for others, even in the gift shop, and didn’t get those either. He satisfied himself with frequent visits, sitting on benches before the dioramas, seeing himself there, exploring, wondering what went on in the parts of the museum he couldn’t see. Wondering what went on everywhere, offices, hospitals, anyplace people worked.

           He took out his notebook and started sketching, jotting down random thoughts, and then he started to draw the muskox in the display nearest him. A boy on a class trip watched. “Are you drawing that thing?” asked the boy. Ed looked up to see him and some classmates staring at his crude drawing.

           A young teacher was eavesdropping. “Boys, now leave that man to his work.”

           “Is that your work mister?” asked one of the children.

           Ed closed the notebook, crossed his legs, and put a professorial finger on his chin. “Drawing is not my work.” He looked to the teacher with an avuncular grin. “No, I’m thinking about a new diorama and was trying to draw up some ideas.”

           “Wow, a new one!” said a boy.

           “Will it be a bigfoot? Or yeti?” asked another.

           “I like panda bears,” said a little girl.

           “Well I can’t tell you right now. But personally, I like the idea of sasquatch, but don’t tell anybody, okay?”

           “I swear,” said the boy. “I swear it a million times.”

           A chorus of “me too, me too,” followed.

           “Of course we’d have to put it here, in the Hall of North American Mammals. Or maybe the Hall of Primates. What do you think?”

           The kids gathered around Ed, their teacher standing behind, smiling as they yelled out their thoughts about where the Bigfoot exhibit would go. 

           “It would have to be a really tall one, like ten feet!”

           “They’re not ten feet. They’re only eight feet.”

           “Will you have more than one, like a family?”

           “Where did you get it?”

           “I think they’re the same speecee as the abdominal snowman, don’t you?

           “You need to have plants because they’re vegetarians!”

           Ed thanked them for such great ideas and shook each of their little hands. The teacher nuzzled up close and whispered that he’d made their day. Ed smiled and said he looked forward to seeing her again, when the Sasquatch exhibit opened. She squeezed his arm and moved on.

           Ed continued through the museum, standing straighter, walking more deliberately, and found himself at the massive bookstore. A young man with a student volunteer tag asked if he could help find anything. Ed noticed the tag, which read, “Columbia.”

           “Columbia!” he said to the young man. “What are you studying?”

           “Haven’t decided,” said the young man eagerly. “I’m doing this for an internship. Maybe English.”

           “Ah,” said Ed. “Explore and enjoy. I’m sure the school’s changed since my years there but exploration is the key. Take courses that interest you, not just to get a career. Careers can wait. English is a fine major.”

           “When did you graduate?”

           Ed hesitated, “Undergrad or graduate? Either was long before you were born. Anyway, do you have any books on Sasquatch?”

           “I don’t think we have anything on mythical beings,” returned the boy, looking around. “There’s enough real stuff that’s interesting.”

           “For my grandson you know. Good luck at Columbia. Headed up there myself. Trustee meeting. Perhaps I’ll see you there sometime.”    

           He rushed out of the store, a bit stooped, down the front steps towards the statue of Roosevelt, whose horse’s rear end was staring him in the face. Deservedly so, thought Ed. Deservedly so.

           He was watching crowds of people going to places they needed to go, to work, to the museum, to walk their dogs, jobs, to whatever. “Back to the park,” he decided. Perhaps the two ladies he’d entertained earlier would still be on that bench.

           Ed thought about the roles he’d been playing. He didn’t usually think about that. They just came to him. Today, though, with the kids, it bothered him. They were games. When they were over, he was Ed Jesperson again. Ed Jesperson looking to be someone other than Ed Jesperson. “Resolved,” he determined. He’d volunteer at the museum. Why not? A docent. A guide. He’d tell stories to the kids. The role that suited him.

           Stepping into Central Park West, he thinking about his future. He was not thinking about the traffic light that had turned green or the cab that was going too fast with a passenger urging the driver to hurry for a meeting at ABC. When it hit him, he was flung to the curb. He was bleeding, had broken a hip, he was sure; a bad thing at his age.

           A man put his coat under Ed’s head. Camel hair, Ed noted. “We called 911. An ambulance is coming.” Ed looked up, whispering. The man moved closer to hear what Ed was struggling to say.

           What he intended to say at that moment, that moment when he felt his life fading, a life so very different than his dreams, was something to the effect that the man should call the FBI. That he should tell them what happened. That he should relay, and this Ed would emphasize was most important, that he had been right all along, and that they would know what to do.

           He opened his right eye, the sclera crimson from internal bleeding. His left eye was swollen shut. If the man leaning over Ed hadn’t been looking for the flashing lights of an ambulance, he might have seen a glimmer in that right eye.

           “Tell the museum.”

           “What? Tell them what?” asked them man.

           “Bigfoot, the…” Ed was spitting out blood.

           “Bigfoot? You said bigfoot?”

           Ed managed a pained smile. “The abdominal snowman,” he said.

           The man nodded, assuming the man on ground was delirious. Ed’s eyes closed and never opened.