An Open Letter to Paul Giamatti
Dear Mr. Giamatti,
It seems there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, and I would very much like you to know that that thing in the diner the morning of February 17, 2013, had nothing at all to do with you.
See, on the way over, there were these kids behind us, and they were making those last two blocks more endless than the unrelenting cold. They were loud and young, and we were tired and feeling old. For the past 24 hours, we’d been marveling at how everyone in our vicinity was significantly under 30. I know that’s what you get anywhere south of 14th Street these days, but I didn’t think the phenomenon would follow us back to Brooklyn.
And I didn’t think the kids would follow us into Clark’s Restaurant, but they did, and too close behind. No regard for personal space. That’s a pet peeve of mine, you know (except that you wouldn’t know that). If I’d stopped walking, they’d have stepped on my heels and not apologized—another pet peeve. I could feel hot breath in my hair, and it was not cool.
The place was crowded with pancakes and clanking dishes and speeding waiters. The host asked us how many. We were two. The kids were five. A minute later: “Five!” the man yelled, motioning to them. “Five!” he yelled again, because they weren’t paying attention, rankling me further. They eked by one at a time, passing us in slow motion, which is my default perception when it’s barely 11 after I’ve been up till 4, with my caffeine consumption at a cruel zero. My friend wondered aloud why they got seated before we did, since we were creakier and therefore more deserving, of course knowing it was a simple matter of luck and availability. We wouldn’t be waiting long, certainly. The man showed us his index finger to prove it.
And I said to my friend, “I know,” to validate her dismay. Then, attempting humor or lame logic, I added, “We just had to get the annoying kids out of the way first.”
Please know that I am a fan of your work. I drink fucking Merlot and smile at the memory of your Technicolor freak-out. You were a perfect Harvey Pekar. I meant to see Barney’s Version. We are neighbors, and I enjoy knowing that.
It’s true I don’t like young people much. I told my parents in the kitchen when I was 14 that I wasn’t having children, and they are respectfully disappointed in my stick-to-it-iveness. But I’m not an openly rude person, although if I think what I have to say is worth hearing, I don’t whisper. At the bar just the night before, for instance, I told Eddie—who’d been drunkenly hovering over me at the table and who later introduced himself apologetically—that if he needed me to stand up to let him out, all he had to do was ask. It worked out fine. He made it to the bathroom in time. We even wished each other a nice night. So I would never do what you think I did.
Your back was to me, so I didn’t know it was you, although I did notice that initial sideways glance (sorry, but that’s exactly what it was). Maybe you thought that when you stood up and glared at me, and I said “oh” in recognition, I’d have immediately sputtered an apology. But I don’t think you’re a “Don’t you know who I am?” kind of guy. It took me a couple of beats to figure out what happened as you and your son zipped up your jackets and walked out into the windchill. When you got to the door, held it open for the boy, turned around, and shot eye daggers at me over the heads of other waiting patrons, my suspicions were confirmed. The bright-white bulbs of the marquee in my head blinked “Death by Embarrassment” and, as if to add a little color, my cheeks flooded with the rosy repercussions.
Because I realized: You must’ve thought I said, “We just have to get the annoying kid out of the way first.”
You probably think I’m a total asshole. I get it. And I feel lousy about that, but please trust me when I tell you there was indeed an “s” tacked onto the end of that noun. Your son was so well behaved, I’d barely registered his existence. I applaud your terrific parenting.
I’m glad we cleared this up. So, I guess I’ll see you around. But if I do, I’ll probably look down.
Sincerely,
Leah Zibulsky
Dear Mr. Giamatti,
It seems there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, and I would very much like you to know that that thing in the diner the morning of February 17, 2013, had nothing at all to do with you.
See, on the way over, there were these kids behind us, and they were making those last two blocks more endless than the unrelenting cold. They were loud and young, and we were tired and feeling old. For the past 24 hours, we’d been marveling at how everyone in our vicinity was significantly under 30. I know that’s what you get anywhere south of 14th Street these days, but I didn’t think the phenomenon would follow us back to Brooklyn.
And I didn’t think the kids would follow us into Clark’s Restaurant, but they did, and too close behind. No regard for personal space. That’s a pet peeve of mine, you know (except that you wouldn’t know that). If I’d stopped walking, they’d have stepped on my heels and not apologized—another pet peeve. I could feel hot breath in my hair, and it was not cool.
The place was crowded with pancakes and clanking dishes and speeding waiters. The host asked us how many. We were two. The kids were five. A minute later: “Five!” the man yelled, motioning to them. “Five!” he yelled again, because they weren’t paying attention, rankling me further. They eked by one at a time, passing us in slow motion, which is my default perception when it’s barely 11 after I’ve been up till 4, with my caffeine consumption at a cruel zero. My friend wondered aloud why they got seated before we did, since we were creakier and therefore more deserving, of course knowing it was a simple matter of luck and availability. We wouldn’t be waiting long, certainly. The man showed us his index finger to prove it.
And I said to my friend, “I know,” to validate her dismay. Then, attempting humor or lame logic, I added, “We just had to get the annoying kids out of the way first.”
Please know that I am a fan of your work. I drink fucking Merlot and smile at the memory of your Technicolor freak-out. You were a perfect Harvey Pekar. I meant to see Barney’s Version. We are neighbors, and I enjoy knowing that.
It’s true I don’t like young people much. I told my parents in the kitchen when I was 14 that I wasn’t having children, and they are respectfully disappointed in my stick-to-it-iveness. But I’m not an openly rude person, although if I think what I have to say is worth hearing, I don’t whisper. At the bar just the night before, for instance, I told Eddie—who’d been drunkenly hovering over me at the table and who later introduced himself apologetically—that if he needed me to stand up to let him out, all he had to do was ask. It worked out fine. He made it to the bathroom in time. We even wished each other a nice night. So I would never do what you think I did.
Your back was to me, so I didn’t know it was you, although I did notice that initial sideways glance (sorry, but that’s exactly what it was). Maybe you thought that when you stood up and glared at me, and I said “oh” in recognition, I’d have immediately sputtered an apology. But I don’t think you’re a “Don’t you know who I am?” kind of guy. It took me a couple of beats to figure out what happened as you and your son zipped up your jackets and walked out into the windchill. When you got to the door, held it open for the boy, turned around, and shot eye daggers at me over the heads of other waiting patrons, my suspicions were confirmed. The bright-white bulbs of the marquee in my head blinked “Death by Embarrassment” and, as if to add a little color, my cheeks flooded with the rosy repercussions.
Because I realized: You must’ve thought I said, “We just have to get the annoying kid out of the way first.”
You probably think I’m a total asshole. I get it. And I feel lousy about that, but please trust me when I tell you there was indeed an “s” tacked onto the end of that noun. Your son was so well behaved, I’d barely registered his existence. I applaud your terrific parenting.
I’m glad we cleared this up. So, I guess I’ll see you around. But if I do, I’ll probably look down.
Sincerely,
Leah Zibulsky
