Dawson Berd has lost his AirPods. He spells his name Berd which I will have to correct when I get a chance…He seems a nice enough young man with handsome dreadlocks can’t really say much about them but he’s well-spoken and appreciated by taking his information.
No major names today, though there are a few people sitting around where are I usually have my perch at lunch time. I should have made a reservation, but I did it now. I lit up my mini cigar which either will offend somebody or be ignored by somebody either way is fine by me.
Short young women who probably weighs 90 lb might have been taken aback by the smell of the mini cigar. I just find my name but I don’t care.
So Mike has to come over tomorrow for a phone interview on Thursday which has to be a zoom call so we’ll see how that works out.
Last night I didn’t get to sleep at all no no. That was the name of a single that I had gotten perhaps illicitly in the 1970s by the 5th Dimension. Steven Mahrens might have been given money by his mom, and he spent his money on his friends, buying our friendship, which was for sale. We went to Modell’s, or would later become Two Guys, and I bought that record for some reason, and it’s true, last night I didn’t get to sleep at all no no.
I tossed and turned and did some things twice to no avail. Eventually I did get knocked out only to wake up with lovely Bill hovering over me to say goodbye and I had this look of horror on my face I’m sure like ‘why are you doing this to me I didn’t fall asleep until 3:00 and you just robbed me 10 minutes of sleep’.
He knew not of what he did and that was okay. Why should he know? He did ask if I was going to go to work since I was in such a state but somehow I rallied he made some very strong coffee that was struck enough that one sip did the trick to get me out of the apartment.
And then it was on the train back in the office drinking lots of coffee in the office.
It’s another very nice day with no humidity, bright and sunny blue skies with some clouds in my coffee.
Tonight I definitely hope to sleep better. I don’t know what to do but whatever I have to do I have to figure out what it is to do. I stopped drinking coffee already and the plan is to go to sleep fast but that never works so I guess I’ll find out when I’m lying horizontal on the bed.
That is about all I have for now all I can say all I can do well I can be. How about you?
Both Bill and I thought that the death of Malcolm Jamal Warner was reminiscent of The Sound of Her Wings episode from The Sandman, specifically when the young man dies while swimming and his wife is on the beach and they pull his body out and he’s pleading with death for one more second so he could tell his wife the passcode that was on his phone but death cannot let that happen where he is dead already.
Bevelyn Lampkin was a woman I worked with for a few weeks during the beginning of tail end of the pandemic. It was at AutoMat Kitchen, which was a novel concept but the timing was off. They had no idea, no choice really but to open a restaurant during a pandemic. I was there for a few months before jumping ship.
During those few months, Bevelyn was hired as a cook, with 3 other cooks. She had worked with 2 of those cooks, the Turkish brothers, previously but this time she alienated them and they walked off the job which forced the management to let Bevelyn go.
She had the idea before she hung up her apron to have me dressed the same as the kitchen staff. I balked, and she was visibly surprised. I knew they were having difficulty staying afloat during a pandemic, and this just seemed ludicrous to get matching black slacks and a red shrt to match what the kitchen staff wore. The kitchen staff, whom no one saw because they were in the kitchen away from everything else.
She was released, and I never thought I’d see her again until the other day. Why there she was, on TV with a doctor who was talking about an AIDS medication that only has to be taken once or maybe twice a year. I did not know Bevelyn had AIDS. It was a shock to hear and a shock to see her again…Bevelyn did seem healthy and happy, so that was nice.
I wish her well.
Rewrite as a David Sedaris essay Gemini
July 22nd, 2025. It’s a Tuesday, and I’m back at my usual lunchtime spot, which, I’ve just realized, really should come with a reservation policy. One day, I’ll remember to make one. Today, I simply plonked myself down, uninvited, amidst a scattering of strangers. One of them, I imagine, is currently wondering if a small, perfectly innocent cigar can, in fact, offend the very air around them. Or perhaps they just don’t care. Either way, it suits me.
There’s a young woman, perhaps ninety pounds soaking wet, who might have registered the faint, smoky tang of my mini-cigar with a shudder. I can almost hear her inner monologue: *“Good heavens, is that… secondhand existential dread?”* I know her name now, which I’ve promptly forgotten. Doesn’t matter.
No major names on the docket today. No one famous, or even vaguely infamous, has wandered into my orbit. Just the usual assortment of humanity. Speaking of names, I had an encounter earlier with a young man named **Dawson Berd**. Or, as I must now mentally correct, **Berd** – like the creature that sings, not the large, flightless variety. He seemed perfectly pleasant, with handsome dreadlocks that I know nothing about beyond their general handsomeness. Well-spoken, too. He appreciated me taking his information, which, when you think about it, is a rather low bar for human appreciation.
Tomorrow, the house will be abuzz, or at least mildly humming, with the presence of Mike. He’s got a phone interview, which then morphs into a **Zoom call** on Thursday. How does one prepare for such a technological minefield? Do you iron your shirt from the waist up? Do you strategically place a tasteful houseplant behind you to convey a sense of understated sophistication? These are the modern dilemmas.
—
Last night, though. Ah, last night. I didn’t sleep a wink. **No, No.** Which, coincidentally, was the name of a single by **The 5th Dimension** that I may or may not have acquired… shall we say, *illicitly*, back in the 1970s. My friend, Stephen Mahrens, once, presumably, spent his mother’s hard-earned money to buy our friendship, which, to be fair, was absolutely for sale. We trotted off to Modell’s, or what would later become Two Guys, and for some reason, that’s the record I chose. And it’s true: last night, I didn’t get to sleep at all, no, no.
I tossed. I turned. I performed certain… rituals, twice over, to no avail. Eventually, mercifully, I did get knocked out, only to be roused by the looming presence of **Bill**, hovering over me like a kindly, sleep-depriving specter. He was saying goodbye. I, I’m quite certain, wore a look of utter horror. *“Why are you doing this to me? I just fell asleep at 3 AM! You’ve stolen ten precious minutes of unconsciousness!”* He, of course, was oblivious. And why shouldn’t he be? He did ask if I was actually going to work, given my disheveled state. But somehow, miraculously, I rallied. He made coffee. Strong coffee. So strong that one sip was enough to propel me out of the apartment and onto the train. Then, more coffee, copious amounts, at the office.
It’s another one of those beautiful days, you know? The kind that mocks your sleep deprivation. No humidity, just bright, sunny, blue skies, with a few clouds in my coffee cup, naturally.
Tonight, I am determined to sleep better. What to do? That’s the rub. I’ve already sworn off coffee. The plan is to simply *sleep fast*. Which, historically, has never worked. So I suppose I’ll discover the answer when I’m lying horizontally, staring at the ceiling, once again counting the moments.
That’s about all I have for now. All I can say. All I can do. All I can be. How about you?
—
Bill and I were discussing the untimely demise of **Malcolm Jamal Warner** – not the actor, mind you, but a character, a fictional death. It reminded us both, vividly, of an episode from *The Sandman*, **“The Sound of Her Wings.”** The one where the young man drowns, and his wife is on the beach, and they pull his body out, and he’s pleading with Death, just for one more second, to tell his wife the passcode to his phone. But Death, ever practical, simply cannot allow it. He’s quite dead already. Such a poignant detail, the phone passcode. The little secrets we carry into the great beyond.
—
And then there was **Bevelyn Lampkin**. A name that, until recently, I thought I’d banished from the archives of my memory. I worked with Bevelyn for a few weeks, back in the nascent stages, or perhaps the tail end, of the pandemic. It was at **AutoMat Kitchen**, a concept that, while novel, was spectacularly ill-timed. Opening a restaurant during a global pandemic? A bold choice. A desperate one, perhaps. I lasted a few months before gracefully (or perhaps frantically) jumping ship.
During my tenure, Bevelyn was hired as a cook, joining two other cooks, the **Turkish brothers**, with whom she’d worked previously. This time, however, something went awry. She managed to alienate them so thoroughly that they walked off the job. Which, of course, left management with no choice but to let Bevelyn go.
Before her apron was unceremoniously hung up for the last time, Bevelyn had a brilliant idea: I, too, should dress like the kitchen staff. Matching black slacks. A red shirt. I balked. She was visibly surprised. I mean, the place was struggling. They were hemorrhaging money faster than I could fold a napkin. And here she was, suggesting we invest in a uniform for *me*, a person who worked at the front, while the actual kitchen staff, whom no one ever saw, toiled away in their unseen lair. It seemed, to put it mildly, ludicrous.
She was released. I never thought I’d see her again. And then, the other day, there she was. On television. With a doctor. Talking about an AIDS medication, one that only needed to be taken once, maybe twice, a year. I had no idea Bevelyn had AIDS. It was a shock, seeing her there, hearing that. But she looked healthy. She looked happy. And that, I suppose, was nice.
I wish her well. We all deserve a bit of well-wishing, don’t we? Even the ones who tried to make us wear matching uniforms.