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Back in New York last week, I thought I wouldn’t have a problem finding literary inspiration. I went to the Catskills to look for excitement, adventure, and column topics. No surprise though, there wasn’t any there there—not even a piece of borderline artwork to recognize the condition. 

The village of Fleischmann’s was greener than in March when I last visited, but the weather was still iffy and the food had not improved so I headed down south in search of sun, something less Kosher, and a story. At my parents’ house on the Jersey shore it continued to rain. I took a swim, but the water was freezing. I returned to New York to visit with my friend Amy, but where I can usually count on hearing half a dozen amusing anecdotes, I found a shabby-chic, overpriced West Village flat, and a pile of dirty laundry. I called on friends in Westchester County and they invited me to join them for an evening in Yonkers at a pro-wrestling match sponsored by the New York State Wrestling Federation. I thought this might be my ticket to a Pulitzer Prize-winning article, or at least a 675-word, semi-interesting essay. 

Among the competitors (Vegas Nick, Sadam Insane, Fan Man, and Simply Luscious), one would think I could find a journalistic hook, but everything about this Greek-like tragedy made me nauseous and so I returned to Amy’s apartment on Carmine Street to help finish her laundry. Taking a break, we sat on the nearby steps of Our Lady of Pompeii Church. The people who passed by were in better shape and seemed higher on the evolutionary scale than anyone in Yonkers. I decided to stay in Manhattan.  

Amy, a public defender, was working night court at the Bronx Defenders. At 4 p.m. we walked to Union Square to catch an uptown train. As we crossed 14th Street I saw a woman I knew. The corner was crowded so I reached out and grabbed her, a faux pas in New York City, and a way to get myself into a lot of trouble. A reporter for In Touch Weekly, she was striding westward in Prada at a rapid pace. Her boyfriend was following on his skateboard, and when he saw me reach for her, he put himself between us. She quickly diffused the situation.  

“I’m on assignment,” she said, “so I can’t talk right now.”  

“I’m on assignment too,” I semi-lied.  

“Who are you following?” she asked  

“Following?”  

“Yes,” she said, “Who are you trying to scoop?”  

I hesitated. “I don’t quite…”  

“I’m looking for Brad and Angelina,” she interrupted. “They’re around here somewhere, and if I find them, I have to call the In Touch photo guys ASAP. Have you seen them?”  

“Brad and Angelina or the photo guys?” I asked.  

“Come on,” she said. “Don’t waste my time. I’m getting paid to spot them separately or together… it doesn’t really matter, though together would be awesome and together with her kid would be even more awesome.”  

“Haven’t seen them,” I confessed.  

“Gotta go,” she said hastily. “Great running into you, but journalism calls.”  

“I understand,” I said, though I’m not quite sure if I did. 

“Let me give you my number,” I shouted after her. “If you run into Ethan Hawke on the way to catching the uber-couple, will you call me?”  

“You got it,” she said. 

As she and her boyfriend disappeared into the crowd, I turned to Amy for advice. “Do you think I have a story now?” I asked.  

“No,” she said. “But listen, I’ve got to get going. I’ve been assigned an attempted murder case. A mother stabbed a daughter, or a daughter stabbed a mother, I can’t remember which. Either way, Angelina and Brad aren’t of any interest to me.” 

She paused and looked at me with an intensity that was disconcerting. 

“Think about it for just a minute,” she said. “Maybe there’s a story in that.”Ó