Whittled Away Bit by Bit

My dad has early stage Alzheimer’s. Until recently, I had been helping manage his care without doing a whole lot of reflection on what is going on with my father and how it’s affecting him, and by extension the members of his family — my mom, my brother, my wife, our son, and me.

That all began to change when I turned 61 earlier this month. Nothing like a birthday to cause a thinking, feeling person to stop and take stock of their life, of the world around them, of the situations arising in their daily existence, and how things are going for their loved ones.

One of those situations has been dogging my steps longer than I’d have admitted. But before I get into all that, I want to talk a bit about Nash Bridges.

I remember back in the late ‘90s, one of my guilty pleasures was watching Don Johnson’s wish fulfillment project Nash Bridges on CBS. The title character, portrayed by Johnson himself, had it all: cool job (police inspector/later captain of an elite investigative unit), cool car (an exceedingly rare late ’60s yellow Hemi ’Cuda convertible), cool partner/best friend (played by Cheech Marin — I mean, come on), cool girlfriend (portrayed by Yasmine Bleeth of Baywatch fame), cool penthouse apartment on the top floor of a skyscraper in San Francisco, cool ex-wife, cool relationship with his teenage daughter, and cool clothes.

Cool car. Cool clothes. Cool city. Cool life. The stuff of fiction.

Like I said: wish fulfillment. 

On the show one aspect of Nash’s life that was less than ideal was the fact that his father was afflicted with Alzheimer’s, and Nash had just begun to act as his guardian and main caregiver. This is the first time I can recall actively paying attention to a fictional arc about a character with Alzheimer’s. Before this I had seen news pieces about the disease, about dementia, and other aspects of aging that included memory loss, personality changes, mood swings, and confusion.

Nick Bridges was the first fictional character I ever remember watching deal with Alzheimer’s. But his condition was not in any way realistic. If anything, it served as more of a plot convenience than an actual portrayal of the progression of the disease. Nick would seem foggy when it served the plot, then get sharp when that served the plot too. Half the time he just seemed like a crotchety old man with an engaging, salty sense of humor. As portrayed by veteran character actor James Gammon, the character was an awful lot of fun. Kind of like the rest of the show.

So: not just wish fulfillment. Completely delusional wish fulfillment!

I didn’t think much about that at the time. I mean, it was entertainment. Nash Bridges is not a documentary. If you’re looking for clinical accuracy, you’re gonna need to seek it elsewhere. 

And yet for all that, these days I can hardly help but think about it. And that because nowadays I know exactly what the real thing looks like. 

As far back as I can remember, my father had always been the sharpest tack in the room. And by “sharp,” I mean clever. Articulate. Incisive. Precise with his language — and exacting with me on my employment of same.

If I was relating a story, talking about something that had happened to me earlier in the day: a strange interaction with a sales clerk, perhaps, and in the course of so doing, gave a thumbnail of what I said, rather than exactly quoting, my dad would tell me what I ought to have said and how I ought to have said it. He never once stopped to consider that I was giving a thumbnail. It seemed never to occur to him that in all likelihood I had acquitted myself just fine in the moment. He was constantly trying to improve my language, and by extension, me. 

Constantly. 

Exhaustively. 

And exhaustingly.

In a nutshell this is because my father is a textbook narcissist who has always worked hard to keep himself at the center of any conversation. This made for rocky times during my young adult and early adult years.

These days he cannot even really follow a conversation. Most of the time it’s all he can do to muster repeated volleys of the word “What?”, phrased eternally as a question while struggling to keep up.

Ironically, he and I have never gotten along better than we do now.

Unless he happens to be in the grip of a bout of sundowning syndrome. In those instances all bets are usually off.

Without getting too clinical: a person dealing with Alzheimer’s spends their entire day struggling with confusion, disorientation, and memory lapses. They start the morning relatively refreshed after a night’s sleep (good or otherwise). But as the day progresses, the effort of managing their all-encompassing confusion, their endless disorientation, tends to wear on them. They get tired. And when they get tired, the confusion gets worse. And when the confusion gets worse, they get more tired. It’s a vicious cycle. 

So by sundown — or sometime around then — you’ve got someone who has been struggling all day, has reached their limit, and is, for lack of a better term, cranky. They lash out. They can get mean.

In my dad’s case, he can also become pretty incoherent. During one of these episodes, he will invariably key on something, anything someone else says and argue with them about it — in terms that make less and less sense as the dispute progresses. The other invariably finds themself having to defuse the situation. 

My entire family deals with this. And make no mistake: this situation puts significant strain on all of us — my mom, my brother, my wife, our son, and me. I’ll leave it at that, except to say that during this difficult time we have closed ranks, are all pulling together, trying hard to support each other, and to support him.

Sometimes during all of this pulling together, I can’t help but entertain the question of whether my father’s Alzheimer’s is hereditary. I try not to spend too much time dwelling on it — on whether this might be a glimpse of my own potential future. That way lies madness.

What I find myself thinking about far more. What I find myself worrying about. What I find myself sometimes consumed with, is my mother, and the weight she carries daily.

After all, I know that I am struggling with my own emerging impressions of who my father is becoming. But I cannot even imagine what my mom is going through.

I got a glimpse of it the other day. I told her I had broken down crying over what's happening with my dad. She said, "Welcome to my world. I cry every day."

A startling admission coming from my stalwart, stoic mother. No one who knows her would ever think of her as a crier.

Watching the personality of the person she has spent her entire adult life with — sixty-plus years — be whittled away. Be carved down. Be eroded like sandstone by the wind, like granite rock on a headland worn down by the surf and the tide.

All of it a diminishing. A gradual vanishing. My father, and by extension, all of us who love and try to support him, victims of Time.

Babylon Berlin

Okay, now here’s one you can sink your teeth into.  Babylon Berlin, streaming on MHz.

Germany, 1929, the Weimar Republic.  An experiment in social democracy that nobody was ready for, not after the slaughter in the trenches, and the poisonous embarrassments of Versailles.  The great political struggle of the 20^th century is being played out in the streets of proletarian Berlin, as murderous performance art, the reactionaries and revanchists trying to beat back the Bolshevik menace, and in the economic and social exhaustion that comes, the Nazis will step in to pick up the pieces.

This is rich soil to cultivate, and for me, as a political junkie with a side in history, naturally fascinating.  It’s a little Cabaret - without the eye-watering phoniness of Liza Minnelli – and very reminiscent of Philip Kerr’s series of Bernie Gunther novels, but darker and more Gothic than both.  It also happens to be mordantly funny.

The success of the show, I think, is that it’s absolutely convincing in the details; it certainly convinces me.  You land right in the middle of this disturbed environment, a postwar collapse that’s never properly righted itself.  And the sexual license, the drugs, the music (fabulous cameo from Bryan Ferry as a nightclub performer, but who also wrote some of the songs), are all of a piece: the place is crazy wild, and you want your share.  Everybody’s on the make, the mob, the crooked cops, the political outliers and also-rans, the pimps and the whores and the dopers. 

Now, of course, you need somebody to root for, and the show has two engaging leads, as well as a shifting cast of slippery secondaries, some of whom step up to full-frontal villainy, and some who fade.  The violence is abrupt, as are the sudden sexual encounters.  The whole feeling is of fragmentation, that your faith or assumption in a larger social stability, or benefit, is delusional.  (The guys who wrote the show, and exec produce, say one of the things that interests them about it is the fragility of the era.)  Watching the heroine and the hero try to navigate this chaotic house of cards - while they themselves are sometimes trusting of one another, and sometimes suspicious – is what gives the narrative its forward motion.

The show is based on a series of novels by the German writer Volker Kutscher, which I’m now interested in, and are available in English translation.  The series, though, changes the chronology.  So far, the first three seasons take place in 1929, the fourth in 1930-31, and the last – the fifth season, yet to be released - in 1932-33, when the Nazis come to power.  And, as odd and ominous as the first three seasons are, the Nazis haven’t even shown up yet, which gives you an idea just how odd and ominous the series really is.  Things are already bad enough.

The producers have also put a lot of time and effort and money into recreating period Berlin, and as somebody who’s actually spent some time there – and considering how much of the city was flattened, during the war – they’ve done a terrific job.  They do use CGI, but it’s pretty seamless.  The famous Alexanderplatz doesn’t really exist the same way it once did – Berlin Alexanderplatz is a hugely successful 1929 novel by Alfred Döblin, adapted twice to film – but it looks plenty real here, in all its prewar significance.  

This may be an acquired taste, in that not everybody shares my fascination with the place and the time, but I think it repays your attention.  It’s not a history lesson, or a documentary, although they aren’t fudging the facts - it’s more along the lines of a fevered dream, which seems like an entirely accurate representation.  Berlin, then and now, has always been a state of mind, somewhat hallucinatory. 

Just Four More Days Until April 25th!

I offer thanks to my fellow SleuthSayer Bob Mangeot for inspiring this blog post. Ten days ago, on April 11th, he wrote about all the things April 11th is known for. He started with it being The Most Boring Day in History (specifically, April 11, 1954--want to know more? Click here) and ended with Bob Needed a Blog Day.

Hey, I know a good idea when I see one. But I'm going to tweak it. See, I'm not here to talk about April 21st (i.e., today). I am here to talk about what is coming this Saturday, April 25th. (Some of you already know to what I am referring. I can feel your brains buzzing with excitement. But hold on. There is more to April 25th than that.) There is ...

Independent Bookstore Day

Now in its 13th year, this holiday celebrates indie bookstores. Yep, those shops that aren't part of big chains or an online behemoth with the same name as a South American rain forest. These are the stores that hand sell books and give personalized service. When we readers dream of owning a bookstore, it is these types of stores that we fantasize about. So it's only right that there be a day each year to tip our hat to them (and maybe pop into one and buy a book or three). 

World Penguin Day

This is the day to celebrate the beauty, diversity, and intelligence of penguins--not to mention their sense of style (there's a reason why tuxes are called penguin suits).  This is also a day to recognize and fight against climate change, which is threatening penguin habitat and thus their ability to hunt and breed.

Hug A Plumber Day

This pretty much goes without saying: If you've ever needed a plumber, you know that you're probably ready to hug them when they arrive. But since doing so usually would be awkward, it's good to have a day dedicated to it.

National (US) Go Birding Day

Held on the last Saturday each April, this holiday is designed to celebrate birds and bird-watching. It gives you a reason to go outside (with binoculars, if you have 'em) and focus on our feathered friends. And if you can't or don't want to go out, that's okay. You can see birds through windows too. 

(Caveat about binoculars: Remember, you're supposed to use them to look at birds, not your neighbors. Except if you're Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. Then you can. But I wouldn't rely on that if someone calls the cops. It's a pretty narrow exception.)

And finally, the holiday you've all been waiting for ...

Miss Congeniality Day!

Yep, April 25th is Miss Congeniality Day, or as it's described by Miss Rhode Island during the interview portion of the Miss United States pageant in the fab 2000 movie Miss Congeniality, (of course), it's "the Perfect Date." 

Yep, when asked to describe her perfect date, this contestant didn't talk about a romantic dinner or walking with someone she loves on the beach. No sirree. She said her perfect date was April 25th. "Because it's not too hot and not too cold. All you need is a light jacket." What a scrumptiously hilarious response based on a misunderstanding in a moment of stress. Last weekend our own John Floyd talked here about movies with non-starring characters who stole the show. Well, whenever I think of this movie, this is the line I think of. It did indeed steal the show. To whoever wrote it, thank you.

Agatha Awards banquet

For those attending the Malice Domestic mystery convention later this week, April 25th is also the day this year's Agatha Awards will be given out. Malice attendees will be able to vote for the best mystery book published last year in five categories, as well as the best short story. If you haven't read the five short story finalists, it's not too late. Just click here. All the short story titles link to PDFs.

Happy early April 25th! 

 

Together alone.

            It’s received wisdom that writers are the world’s most inveterate introverts.  Who else could spend hours, days, years alone hunched over a keyboard or pad of paper?  It’s so obvious.  Most normal human beings couldn’t stand it.  Which is why most normal human beings don’t become writers, for their own sakes. 

            And yet, most of the mystery and thriller writers I know are more than agreeably sociable.  If you want proof, just hang out at the rambunctious hotel bar during Bouchercon, or any of the regional writers conferences that take place around the country. 

            Thinking about this, I was reminded of my college era playing in a rock and roll band.  We performed constantly throughout the school year.  After a while, some patterns

I'm hoping a guest singer will remember the lyrics

emerged.  Parties contrived to bring dispirit groups together took forever to get rolling, while the close-knit communities, like fraternities and sororities, launched on the first chord.  Thursdays often produced wilder nights than Saturday or Sunday.  I’m not sure why, unless it was anticipation of the coming weekend, or the thrill of rebellion – launching youthful mania while there was still a day of classes in the offing.  

Another high point was the first party after the end of exams.  Our college had a disproportionate number of pre-med and pre-law students, people we rarely saw during the passing months, having sequestered themselves in feverish study.  But after exams, with nothing left to prove, they’d emerge, pasty and unclean, and go completely nuts.  Their undeveloped social skills didn’t help, nor did a deep unfamiliarity with the plentiful intoxicants available at the time. 

So it could be that writers are a lot like college kids who spend their undergraduate years, and their parent’s tuition money, actually studying (I held down the other end of that curve).  Since we’re biologically pack animals, long periods of time isolated from human contact probably creates a pent-up demand.  A chance to re-engage ones vocal cords after hours in monkish silence.  An irresistible need to satisfy the intraspecies fellowship programmed into our DNA.

        That’s probably true, but I think an even greater impetus is mingling with people who do the same thing you do.  As with any reference group, be it police chiefs or philatelists, common experience short-circuits all the meandering, and stilted, searches for common ground that characterize social interaction.  Blessedly, when hanging with writers we don’t have to parry the usual inane questions, like “Have you written anything I heard of?” or “When are they going to make a movie out of your book?”  None of us is really very interested in the other’s childhood inspirations, choice of writing software, or process, whatever the hell that means.  In fact, most of my casual conversations with writers have absolutely nothing to do with writing at all.  Sometimes the travails of promotion come up, or an impending book launch, or a new project/agent/publisher, but usually we just talk about our kids and dogs, and recent vacations, just like everyone else. 

Still, I think common sense dictates that writers lean toward introversion, though there are plenty of exceptions.  Somehow a monstruous, flaming ego like Earnest Hemingway managed to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.  As did Winston Churchill, no one’s idea of a wall flower.  I could easily provide a list of mystery and thriller writers who could have

succeeded as standups or late-night talk show hosts (though Johnny Carson was, in fact, an introvert; deviations litter every argument.)  The most flamboyant of my closest friends started out his career as a freelance journalist.  I imagine someone had to strap him into his chair until the article was finished. 

Introverts do have one clear advantage.  While extroverts are shaking hands, kissing cheeks and angling for attention, introverts are watching the room.  They notice little slights and flirtations, they size up personalities and sniff out phony posturing.  Their nerves tingle from the social dynamic, registering envy, vanity and lust.  All of this gets stored away on mental file cards for future use.

        Most of the writers I know fit this description, yet they have a small contingent of people to whom they are very attached.  They prefer to go deep rather than wide.  I’ll cop to being one of those. 

We can turn it on when we need to, then quietly slip back to the keyboard. 

Spam and Scam • part 1

Spot and Stop • How to Recognize Scams and Cons

Frauds and scams traditionally preyed by using and abusing trust, blinding the ‘mark’ to criminal reality. Today’s fraudsters are armed with powerful new tools like AI voice cloning, deepfake videos, and hyper-personalized messages.

The result? Losses are soaring. North Americans reported over $12.5 billion in fraud losses in 2024, with imposter scams topping the list and investment fraud causing the biggest financial losses. A recent 2026 survey found 40% of adults experienced some form of financial fraud or scam attempt in the past year.

I am one of those targets as are you and you and you. No one is immune, young or old, tech-savvy or not.

Damage extends beyond financial. Scammers don’t merely steal money; they erode confidence, they damage trust. By knowing most common tactics and defenses can keep you and your loved ones safe.

Top Scams Making Headlines

Imposter scams remain the most frequently reported. Fraudsters pose as banks, government agencies (IRS, Social Security), law enforcement, or trusted companies. They create urgency with fake alerts about ‘suspicious activity’ or ‘frozen accounts’, then pressure targets to transfer funds or share login details or withdraw funds to unmask ‘real’ criminals. Losses from these schemes recently reached $3 billion.

AI enhanced scams are exploding. Initially voice cloning hid Indian or North African accents. Now voice technology lets scammers sound like a grandchild or family member in a crisis, demanding immediate wire transfers or gift cards to alleviate a concocted emergency. On the internet, deepfake videos and emails impersonate celebrities pushing fake investments.

Investment and cryptocurrency scams promise ‘guaranteed’ high returns. Romance phishing scams blend emotional manipulation with financial finagling, building online relationships before inventing crises or ‘opportunities’ that require a quick transfer of money. Employment scams flood job boards and social media with fake offers that ask for upfront fees or personal data.

Online shopping and marketplace frauds trick buyers with too-good-to-be-true deals, while recovery scams target past victims, promising to retrieve lost funds– for another fee. (Chances are your state or province tracks unclaimed funds. Google them. In my state, it’s known as Florida Treasure Hunt.)

On a Personal Level

Most of the time, my phone filters spam and scam calls, but once in a while I snatch up the phone whereupon I encounter a scammer. Sometimes I mess with them. Say IRS agent Marty Melrose (badge number 123456) informs me via this courtesy call before my account entered collections. Marty has a soothing Indian accent, a break from obvious computer generated spiels. Frankly, I am mildly surprised how much scammers know about me, but Agent Marty rapidly gets to the gist of the matter, ‘confirming’ my social security number.

I said, “Okay.”

After several seconds of silence, he said, “Sir, I need to confirm your SSN.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m waiting.”

“You have to read it to me,” he said.

“I know what my number is. I need to hear it from you.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“You want me to blab my social in a room full of people? That’s not going to happen.” No one else was nearby, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Listen, by law, you have to give me your number. Evasiveness can result in arrest and criminal charges.”

“Nope. Not gonna happen.”

Marty becomes more abusive and threatening, declaring federal agents will appear on my doorstep within 30 minutes to arrest me. I laugh. I swear I hear his headset smash against his desk before disconnection.

And then…

Several evenings ago, my phone rings, showing my bank’s name on caller ID. The man on the other end purports to be my bank following up on suspicious card activity. He rattles off several large purchases in Texas.

This has happened before, usually from the credit card company, not my little bank. Typically they verify recent purchases, but this time the caller asks for my on-line banking ID.

I’m not suspicious at that point, but I automatically decline to state my logon credentials. He presses on, insisting I reveal my ID.

More curious than concerned, I don’t know what to make of it. My ID isn’t secret information, is it? He says if they can’t resolve this now, my cards and accounts will be blocked and suspended by morning. Nonetheless, I refuse and opt to phone my bank when they reopen.

Sure enough, no alerts, no blocks, no suspicious activity… except that out-of-the-blue phone call. What the hell is going on? He didn’t ask for passwords or identifying information. And then it dawns on me.

I have long been an opponent of so-called ‘security questions,’ queries asking where you went to high school, your mother’s maiden name, and your first pet. I argue these are insecurity questions. In this backwards situation, the scammer knew– or thought he could guess– one or more answers to my security questions to bypass the passphrase and face recognition. All he needed was my user name!

Hint: Never ever place honest answers in those security questions and, if offered, never answer your favorite color.

• Where did you attend high school?
• Sod off.
• What was your high school’s mascot?
• Sod off.
• Who was your high school sweetheart?
• Sod off.
• Who’s your daddy?
• Sod of… huh?

And then…

I previously discussed a friend’s ordeal when money unexpectedly appeared in her Chase account. Not treating it as a gratuitous windfall, she visited the local branch, which shrugged and said someone had given her money. And then I heard about it, a known scam. Chase Bank still contends they’re not at fault, the lying rotters.

More recently, she received a work-at-home job offer from a Swedish company. She was excited to be interviewed, tested, and accepted. They sent her a sizable check to set up a home office.

Sour and dour me? Even after I confirmed the company and the HR VP’s name were real, I remained suspicious. But the check they sent her? Not so real. They would, I suspected, soon instruct her to send part of that money elsewhere. I advised her not to deposit it (which could take weeks to fully resolve), but to ask her bank to verify it (which took mere minutes).

Next Time: Practical Protection

Stealing the Show

Here's a look into my fascinating personal life: There are groups of folks I talk with pretty regularly about things like reading, writing, and movies--and those groups often, but not always, overlap. My point is, the other day our little movie group was chatting about our favorite characters. The discussion soon moved to favorite heroes/heroines, favorite villains, favorite sidekicks, and so on.

Finally one lady said, "Let's simplify it. Which ones are the most memorable?"

I, of course, can't let something like that go to waste. After all, I have a duty to post a SleuthSayers column every first, third, and fifth Saturday, rain or shine, and I know a good subject when I hear one.

So, since movies are a type of fiction and this blog's supposed to be about fiction . . . that's the first of today's two questions: Who do you think are the most memorable movie characters?

Before you answer, here are my own top ten:

Note to my friend Elizabeth Zelvin, who will say "John, these are mostly 'guy movies.'": You're right, Liz--but not ALL of them are . . .

1. Augustus McCrea (Robert Duvall, Lonesome Dove)

2. Al Swearengen (Ian McShane, Deadwood)

3. Ellen Ripley (Sigourney Weaver, Aliens)

4. Snake Plissken (Kurt Russell, Escape from New York)

5. Annie Wilkes (Kathy Bates, Misery)

6. Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem, No Country for Old Men)

7. Popeye Doyle (Gene Hackman, The French Connection)

8. John Coffey (Michael Clarke Duncan, The Green Mile)

9. Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand, Fargo)

10. Hans Gruber (Alan Rickman, Die Hard)

Yes, I admit I cheated and included characters from a mini-series or two, and I also didn't count no-brainers like James Bond, Indiana Jones, Michael Corleone, Hannibal Lecter, Scarlett O'Hara, Rick Blaine, Norman Bates, Superman, Forrest Gump, Nurse Ratched, Darth Vader, Marty McFly, Ferris Bueller, Harry Callahan, Tony Soprano, Rocky Balboa, etc., etc.

Second question--and the real reason for the title of this post: Who do you think are the most memorable movie characters in a minor or incidental role? In other words, not one of the main characters? (Think Ronny Howard in The Music Man or Joe Pesci in Goodfellas.) I think some of these folks not only steal scenes; the steal the show.

Here, for what it's worth, are my choices: 

1. C.W. Moss (Michael J. Pollard, Bonnie and Clyde)

2. Vizzini (Wallace Shawn, The Princess Bride)

3. Private Hudson (Bill Paxton, Aliens)

4. Belle Rosen (Shelley Winters, The Poseidon Adventure)

5. The Wicked Witch (Margaret Hamilton, The Wizard of Oz)

6. Pea Eye Parker (Timothy Scott, Lonesome Dove)

7. Crewman #6 (Sam Rockwell, Galaxy Quest) 

8. Pop Fisher (Wilford Brimley, The Natural)

9. Percy Wetmore (Doug Hutchison, The Green Mile)

10. Lyle (Burton Gilliam, Blazing Saddles)

11. Johnny Henshaw (Stephen Stucker, Airplane!)

12. The Stranger (Sam Elliott, The Big Lebowski)

13. Clifford Worley (Dennis Hopper, True Romance)

14. Customer in diner (Estelle Reiner, When Harry Met Sally)

15. The Governor (Charles Durning, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas)

16. Short Round (Ke Huy Kwan, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom)

17. Old-timer in saloon (Pat Buttram, Back to the Future III)

18. Dusty Davis (Philip Seymour Hoffman, Twister)

19. The Black Knight (John Cleese, Monty Python and the Holy Grail)

20. Captain Koons (Christopher Walken, Pulp Fiction)

21. Cabbie (Ernest Borgnine, Escape from New York) 

22. Diner waitress (Margaret Bowman, Hell or High Water)

23. Dr. Ray Reddy (M. Night Shyamalan, Signs)

24. Oda Mae Brown (Whoopi Goldberg, Ghost)

25. Beatrice (Siobhan Fallon Hogan, Men in Black) 

If you like trivia, and if you're really bored . . . which of the above 25 minor characters said the following? 

"All right, Hobbs, knock the cover off the ball."

"How 'bout some more beans, Mr. Taggart?"

"I'll get you, my pretty--and your little dog too."

"It's coming! It's headed right for us!"

"Ooooo, I love to dance a little sidestep . . ."

"Little man, I give the watch to you."

"Dirt in the fuel line--Just blowed it away."

"Docta Jones! Docta Jones! No more parachutes!"

"You been declared competent, son. Know what that means? It means you gonna ride the lightnin'."

"Hey, Snake--You don't wanta be walkin' around down there."

"It's only a scratch."

"Game over, man. Game over!"

"If you don't go out there, everybody everywhere will say, 'Clint Eastwood is the biggest yellow-belly in the West.'"

"Molly? You in danger, girl."

"Yeah, he asked me for some water. Sugar water."

"I been workin' here 44 years. Ain't nobody ever ordered nothin' but T-bone steak and a baked potato."

"My lord. Old Deets is gone. My lord."

"Don't open my pantry, Father. I found one of them in there and I locked him in."

"Oh, it's a big pretty white plane with red stripes."

"I changed my mind. I wanta go back."

"So you're a Sicilian, huh?"

"You see, Mr. Scott? In the water I'm a very skinny woman."

"The Dude abides."

"Incontheivable!"

"I'll have what she's having."

Before we stop this silliness, here are some runners-up:

Jeff Spicoli (Sean Penn, Fast Times at Ridgemont High)

Dot (Frances McDormand, Raising Arizona)

Santanico Pandemonium (Salma Hayek, From Dusk till Dawn)

Mr. Blonde (Michael Madsen, Reservoir Dogs)

Principal Ed Rooney (Jeffrey Jones, Ferris Bueller's Day Off)

Now, once again--What are your choices for most memorable movie characters, major and minor? Do you agree with me on any of the above? Have you created these kinds of unforgettable characters in your own fiction? 

In my case . . . well, I wish.

 

The Case of the Silent Fan

My young nephew recently landed the job of his dreams after a two-year stint in the NBC Page program. The job seems perfect for him. As long I can remember, he’s been obsessed with movies and screenwriting. Now he’s working in the industry. Hearing his dad talk about his son’s new gig reminded me of one of my first job interviews, which unwittingly touched upon our beloved genre.

Not my nephew.

Cue dream sequence music and SFX.

Doodly-do, doodly-do…

I am fresh out of college, living back at my parents’ home in New Jersey, and scouring want ads in the New York Times.

Oh—here’s one! A major publisher is looking for editorial assistants. This is not a surprise to me. I have a degree in journalism, but I am deeply uninterested in writing for newspapers. (Newflash: this is the 1980s, folks. Newspapers still exist.) In the fields of magazine journalism and book publishing, being someone’s editorial assistant is how one breaks into these two specialized fields. I am prepared to editorially assist the heck out of anyone who will have me.

I phone the number in the newspaper. Somewhere in the Big Town, the phone rings. The person asks a few questions, and instructs me to bring my résumé and my sunny disposition to 175 Fifth Avenue on the appointed day and hour.

Wowza! I have a job interview!

I ride the bus from the Jersey side to the Port Authority bus terminal. I walk 20 blocks south because I know nothing of city buses or subways. It’s summer, so my button-down shirt and blazer are probably soaked by the time I get there. But this is a dream sequence, so I arrive looking pristine. Even my résumé is perspiration-free.

Reasonable facsimile of Joe upon arrival
at job interview.

I am standing in front of the famous Flatiron Building. I may have heard of it in my reading but this is the first time I have ever been there. The human resources person chats me up, asks about my majors in school, and then tells me she would like to introduce me to the book editor who will be needing an editorial assistant very, very shortly.

She mentions the editor’s name, but I am a) nervous/anxious/self-conscious beyond belief, and b) hearing impaired, and wear gigantic hearing aids that I am sure astronauts can spot from space. It is quite possible I did not wear the hearing aids today because, well, see a) above.

The editor’s name goes in one ear and out the other. Vaguely, the name sounds like Jon-Kon, which may have been a character in the Star Wars franchise. The human resources woman and I ride the steam-driven elevator to another floor, while she tells me that this particular editor is quite special.
Because she has her own imprint.

I am a twenty-one-year-old college graduate and I am an idiot, which the remainder of this discussion will fail to disprove. I don’t know from imprints. I don’t know what they are or why I need to know this word.

For 15 of the last 21 years I have been busy doing homework, sleeping, watching TV, and reading. Books, baby, books! That’s me. I don’t know from stinkin’ imprints.

Minutes later, I am sitting in the tiny office of a small woman with short-cropped hair and wide, smiley eyes.

“Editing is the easy part,” she tells me after a bit. “If you were an English major, this will come easy. But contracts? That’s where the young people go wrong. Can you add and subtract?”

Yes, absolutely, I tell her.

“Can you type a sentence word-for-word that is right there in front of you on the desk?”

Yes, of course, I tell her.

“See? That’s all that’s necessary. Now...authors. Most are very nice. Very interesting. But a few are... difficult. Here are some of the books we edit here…”

She went rooting on the shelf behind her. One by one, she passed the books to me. I glanced, I boggled, and I placed them on a stack on the desk in front of me.

Nervously.

Because, you see, they were all, every one of them, mysteries.

As it happened, I read mysteries. Lots. In fact, you might say that sitting on my duff reading mysteries was the only skill I had acquired in my young life.

The editor was glad to make my acquaintance. She wanted me to meet the young person who was leaving her post, so that I could understand what the job entailed. If I got the job, I would be reading slush piles, recommending books I liked to Jon-Kon, dealing with her correspondence, typing up contracts, seeing that packages got from her to literary agents and vice versa.

And once in a while, if I had the aptitude for it and the desire, I might be permitted to acquire the books I liked and carry them from manuscript to finished book. With Jon-Kon’s assistance and supervision, of course.

The outgoing editorial assistant repeated much of what her employer had said. And yes, she said, she had in fact acquired and edited some books on her own. It wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t really her cup of tea.

“Why are you leaving?” I asked.

“Oh—I got another job,” she said. “Across the street. See that bank down there? Right there. It pays better.”

(The editorial assistant salary was $12,000, about $36,000 today.)

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This woman, who was only a few years older than me, was leaving what I imagined was a dream job to work at a bank rather than acquire and edit the work of mystery writers? What the living heck?

I had so much more to learn about the world.

The editorial assistant asked if I had any other questions. I didn’t. I bid her and Jon-Kon goodbye.
That was it. I went downstairs and told the human resources person that this truly seemed like a dream job. I said little more.

She said she would be in touch.

Of course, she was not. Not ever.

What do they tell kids fresh out of college? They have to be persistent. They must be go-getters! Two things no one would ever say of me. And yet, for several days in a row, I phoned their office and tried to persist and go-get as best I could, to no avail. With each call, I must have seemed more desperate. 

Because by then I had glanced at some of the hardcover books in my meager collection and spotted a curious thing printed at the bottom of those spines or else on the back.

A Joan Kahn Book.

Depending on who is relating the history, Ms. Kahn may have been the first editor to have her own imprint. Her name on the cover of the books she edited—by Dick Francis, Tony Hillerman, Patricia Highsmith, and so on—signaled to readers who had never heard of this particular author that they were nevertheless in for a good time.

In her remarkable career, which stretched from 1946 to 1989, Ms. Kahn collected two awards from the Mystery Writers of America, the Ellery Queen Award for editing, and upon retirement a special Edgar to recognize her incredible contribution to the genre. She died in 1994 at age 80.

In my memory, she lives on as the person who asked so brightly on the day of my greatest mistake if I could add and subtract.

What was my mistake, you ask?

Perhaps you have guessed it.

I’ll give you a moment to mull it over. You have all the facts. I have laid them before you as best I could, omitting nothing. A foolish kid walks into a job interview, realizes that this represents his fondest wish—to work in the world of mystery fiction—and what does he say?

To the human resources woman? To the outgoing editorial assistant? To the great Jon-Kon herself?

Does he utter a single thing about his interest, nay, obsession with mysteries? Does he mention his favorite authors? Does he reference his subscriptions to the digest magazines? His growing stack of Armchair Detectives? The beat-up first edition of a Philo Vance hardcover that he found at a flea market that still has an intact oh-so-cool foldout map of the murder scene?

Nope.

Not a peep. Not a word. I entered their offices as a complete zero and exited shortly after without raising that number a whit.

That’s why, strangely, at this time of year, when students are about to collect their parchments in droves and head out into the world to seek their fortunes, my only real advice for them is drawn from a movie I watch every Christmas, The Family Stone.

In it, Luke Wilson consoles his brother’s uptight girlfriend, played by Sarah Jessica Parker. He wishes she would learn to make peace with her quirky self and not try to be so perfect, so appropriate, all the time.

“Here’s the thing, Meredith,” he tells her. “You have a freak flag. You just don’t fly it.”

Even if you’re young, you’ve earned that flag. Most of us have. It’s the thing that makes you you. Flying it is letting the world know who you are.

And yeah, I know that a job interview is probably one of the last places to let one’s fandom leak out. But geez, when a stranger announces to you that their greatest delight in the world is digging into a nice, juicy murder, read the room and unfurl the colors, you sweet, beautiful nerd.

* * * 

See you in three weeks!

Joe

josephdagnese.com

What do NBC Pages actually do? Watch Joe’s nephew and find out.