3/23/2005
My Day Out
This morning, as I settled onto the couch for my Regis fix, Jean walked in and scowled at me.
"Dan Irvin Rather, Jr.!" she said. "You've done nothing for two weeks but sit around in your Fruit of the Looms and feel sorry for yourself. You're getting out of this house if I have to shove you out the door myself."
She's right of course, as our better halves so frequently are. I realized it was time for a trip into Midtown. Perhaps I'd find something there worthy of relating to my many readers.
For the first time in years, though, I'd be forced to take the subway instead of a CBS limo. I decided the situation was ripe for one of my famous disguises. I had purchased some appropriate urban garb several years ago for just such an occasion. Now I extracted it from my disguise trunk with a quiet reverence.
I slipped on my baggy satin sweatpants and pulled the Latrell Sprewell Knicks jersey over my head. On with the FILA tennis shoes and the long, black do-rag. A quick coat of Shinola and a few more accoutrements for accent, and my clever ruse was complete.
I checked myself out in the bathroom mirror. The effect was flawless. Buckwheat himself would have said, "Otay!"
I was ready to go into town and blend in with the locals.
On the subway, I noticed a young African-American fellow who appeared to be staring at me. For a moment, I thought he had seen through my subterfuge, but soon enough I realized that he was just admiring my bling. As I got off the train, I felt it would be appropriate to acknowledge his interest, so I called back to him, "Yo, homes! Smell ya later!" As the train pulled away, he banged both fists against the window repeatedly, in a well known urban gesture of solidarity.
Once out of the station, I wasn't sure what to do. I wandered about aimlessly for a bit, and before long I found my feet carrying me, as if of their own accord, down to Sixth Street and into the lobby of the CBS building. Soon enough I was standing before the guard at the entrance desk, a mustachioed black man I'd seen a thousand times, but whose name I had never caught.
"Word up, yo," I stated, calling upon my extensive knowledge of the peculiar vernacular of the street. "Be Andy Heyward in da hizzy?"
The guard regarded me placidly. "I'm sorry Mr. Rather," he said, his specially trained guard eyes somehow seeing through my clever deception. "You know I can't let you in here. I have strict orders that you're not to enter the building."
"Nigga', please!" I exclaimed, thumping my chest with my right hand, fingers extended into a peace sign. "Who be dis' Radder beeotch you be talkin' bout?"
"I can remove you myself very easily, Mr. Rather," he said. "I would probably only need one arm to do it. I wouldn't even have to put down my coffee."
"You be trippin', homie," I replied.
"Sheeeeeit," I said, as I picked myself up off the curb.
I returned to the subway, feeling chastened and old. On the train, a black teenager approached me and asked me if I had the time. I gave him my wallet without protest.
Posted by Dan Rather at 6:00 PM
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