Late last year, he chased me into a store to say he’d met me at the coat check of the Black Party and wanted to say hello.
He seemed nice.
A few nights later, he left a message saying it was great to run into me, but he wanted to make a better impression.
Rather than play games, I called right back. Strangely, I got his machine, so I left a message.
He called back two weeks later! “I just got the message. Sorry.”
He muttered something about his assistant.
We ended up going to see a show together.
Everything was fine except that in the course of conversation, he mentioned that a woman in his building had accused him of assaulting her.
I thought this was odd. Maybe even disturbing.
I didn’t call him again, losing interest while getting caught up in other things. He left a message anyway, saying, “Got your message and it was so great to hear your voice.” What message?
A week later, he left another message, sounding irked:
“I’m really not accustomed to you not picking up the phone when I call. I don’t know what that’s all about. No harm, no foul. Just give me a break.”
“Come on! Don’t be so difficult, dude. So passive aggressive. For Gosh sakes! Is it so difficult, really?”
“If you don’t want me to call you back and I did something wrong, please let me know. I’m feeling a little deficient in confidence. My apologies.”
Yikes. This was getting messy. And he called again at 2 A.M.! He left two messages, both pretty loony and delivered with manic energy and chattering teeth.
First message: “I just got off the phone with Tom Brokaw. He told me to call you. You’re the closest relation to the media that I’ve got. I called 911. My father is abusing my mom. They said to call 411 and 311! Dude, I’m pissed! I’m angry! And you’re gonna hear it to the day that my father isn’t allowed back in the house! Michael! Please!
“I got Michael on the line…Bloomberg. I got Tom Brokaw I can call. Sound crazy? Yes, I do! I don’t care. Why do I have to call 411 or 311 to get 911? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?”
Second call: “Come on! I’m friends with…[drops club kids’ names]. Gimme a fucking break. For Christ’s sake, what’s with the 311111111 bullshit? If any of you let the rest of us breathe, maybe it’s an opportunity to live! Should I call [writer] from the Times? He’s a good friend. Throw me a bone. Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?”
Oh, lordy. I feel sorry for this guy–who has a real sweetness (and thankfully doesn’t have a computer)–but this is so over.
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on May 15, 2012