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the richard cohen project

The Richard Cohen Project Part VI - "A Pile of Vile Garbage and Trash"
For rules of The Richard Cohen Project click here.

I think Richard Cohen is trying to kill me. He's aware of the Richard Cohen Project and he's trying to give me a goddamned aneurysm.

So I was too hungover/tired to do my usual installment of TRCP on Tuesday (thanks to the Spaniard show at The Delancey), so I put it off until today. And then, it turns out, the guy went ahead and did a special Thursday edition of his column! What was so great that he couldn't wait until next Tuesday to file?

It is this. It is columns like this that made me choose Richard Cohen over, say, Michael Goldfarb. Richard Cohen is doing his own thing, The Barack Obama Project, where he's writing fan fic about what Obama is thinking about on vacation. It has it all: hack political writing incorporating DC conventional wisdom, a tin ear, and a throwaway boomer reference in the form of a citation of a line from a popular Bob Dylan song. As punishment for all these transgressions I'm having lil' Rich Cohen crap his pants this week.

Anyway, time for his usual Tuesday goodness. Once again, he has treated me well:

Russia is mighty; Georgia is not. Russia is huge; Georgia is tiny. The whole thing is a mismatch from the word go, and the Georgians -- when it is appropriate to do so -- have to be reminded that you do not poke a sleeping bear with a stick.

*****

It is also a refreshing reminder that sprinkling BMW dealerships hither and yon in this or that country does not, in the end, change the culture all that much. Russia, as my grandmother could have told George W. Bush, always fights dirty.

*****

He likes the West. But he ought to be reminded that the West no longer likes him. That, too, is reality.

For what seemed like hours Rich was half-listening to the world around him. He heard people calling and laughing, people trying to talk to him, people making fun of him and he had responses in his head but they got stuck there. He just lay among the trash, even when someone threw an extra bag his way. He used it as an extra pillow. Cannot move. It got to where the smell was pleasant because it was familiar.

It wasn't until much later, when the streets grew quieter, that he suddenly came to, awake and terrified. "Oh my God. Where the hell am I?" In his sudden flailing, he disengaged a mountain of trash, which came tumbling down with a great noise, right on the unsuspecting head of Kolya Vishnekaar.

"AAAaaagahhHHHHHAHAAAAAAAA!" He was so angry he could not make true words. Richard responded the only way he know how, with the same sounds.
"Aaaaaaghartaaaaaah!"
"AAAAAAAGHAGAHAAGAAAAAHHH!"
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
"ENOUGH! IS ENOUGH!!"

Kolya lifted himself to his full height, a massive six feet seven inches. He looked like a Buick. "Here I am, I am sleeping then what are you doing? What are you doing throwing the trash on me??"

"I...I don't even..." Rich was literally knocking his knees where he stood.

"Phew! My friend, it appears you have had an unfortunate accident!"
Richard was still drunk and confused, so it took him a minute to realize what Kolya was referring to. "What? No, I...I've been sleeping in the trash and, maybe..."
"Come come, it has happened to us all at one time or another. I have more pants for you to wear that do not have your mess in them."
"I'm telling you maybe a baby diaper was in one of the - "
Kolya stopped his rummaging cold and turned a humorless eye to this irritating little man.

"What is your name, irritating little man?"
"Uh, Rich. Rich Cohen."
"Hmphm. Well, Rich Cohen, my name is Kolya. And if you and I are to be friends, it is of utmost importance that we are honest with one another. I must tell you, I am sleeping here because I can no longer afford hotel room because of money lost to the bottle. And you must tell me, because it is truth, that you have made the boom in your own pants."

Disarmed. Rich's shoulders dropped. "Yes. I guess. I did."
"Good. Now, we find you new pants. Better pants! It is a new day, Rich Cohen!"

Before long Kolya dug out a pair from his own filthy suitcase that he found acceptable (after washing Rich off with a discarded bottle of seltzer). They were, of course, massively oversized brown slacks, and they looked like clown pants on the lithe young body of Rich Cohen, but they were unfouled so they would have to do.

"There! You look like millions of dollars! Now we go find breakfast!"
"I...I have a hotel room, if you want to go there and get cleaned up."

Kolya tapped his chin with his beefy index finger. "Hotel room, eh? I would be honored if you would have me, even for a few minutes, as your humble guest!"
"Alright. We'd better get to walking. What do you want me to do with my old pants?"
"Leave them! It is not the worst thing they will find this morning in New Orleans!"

Kolya laughed heartily as Rich led the way, still in a perfect little daze. He never once turned around to see if Kolya was following him because he could hear his steady, labored breathing. And he never saw the brightness return to Kolya's once-blurred eyes, the sly grin overtaking his lips, or the sympathetic shake of his head. To Kolya, this was going to be too easy.

*****

It's really cookin' now and Richard cannot believe the speed he's reaching or the fact that he's not tired yet. He hadn't even thought about it at first. If it was a normal run, the kind of jog that Cindy was always encouraging him to go out on to try to increase his "stamina", he never would have made it this far. No, that took some sort of premeditated thought that he just wasn't interested in. He'd heard many comedians say it before and now he truly understood it: running as a hobby never made any sense because you were never running away from anything. Now he was running away from something, from death and explosions and jail. This is a workout I can get behind, he thought somewhere near the front of his mind.

Richard hides beneath some foliage, thoughtfully covering himself with a somewhat large branch (leaving his legs exposed) and listens closely. No helicopters. Sirens, but all far away, wherever the jail is. This wooded area is providing excellent cover but he knows it can't last forever. He needs to get out of here and quick.

A clearing. A BMW dealership. Richard prefers a Saab, but these are desperate times for desperate men to shine.

He searches his mind for any information he might have gleaned about hot-writing cars through his years of pontification, but its no use. If only he could just explain to the cars how the Iraq invasion was a good idea at the time, but now it was morally imperative to oppose it in retrospect. If only that would make a car engine turn over. But no. That information is still utterly useless.

Just then, the Gods smile on him and Richard spies a car pulling into the lot, just a few yards from where he crouched beneath his trusty branch. A married couple taking a test drive. Perfect! Richard could not believe his luck as the salesmen and the couple exited the car and he distinctly heard his cue: "No - go ahead and leave the keys. I all have Ramon drive it around."

Ramon moves easily, unsuspecting. This is my chance, Richard snorts excitedly to himself. Need a plan need a plan need a plan.

Ramon doesn't quite know what to make of the strange dirty man running towards him waving a tree branch, but he knows he wants none of it. "Dave! Dave! Call security!" Richard doesn't even hear him. He's screaming too loud "AAAAGHAGHAGGAAA!!!!!" and having a blast waving the tree branch like mighty Thor or Lee Trevino.

Yes, having a blast. Richard cannot believe that he is actually having a blast doing this.

Ramon doesn't give a damn because it's not worth his take home, but Dave makes no bones about jumping on top of the car as Richard peels out. Richard swerves this way and that way, even after Dave flies off into a pile of hot dog buns, because it's part of the feeling of being a renegade on the road. Before anyone can react he's up and over the curb and onto the street, speeding away with blind joy. It hasn't even yet occurred to him to be worried yet. He's taking this one step at a time.

"Are you folks OK?" Dave asks his rattled customers.
"Are YOU OK?"
"Oh, I'm fine. These hot dog buns are the softest we could find."
"Well, I guess I'm - oh my God, honey?"
"What?"
"Is there something wrong, Mrs. Carpenter?"
"I just, oh dammit I just bought it yesterday!"
"What?"
"My Kindle. I left it in the back seat. Oh, golly!"
"Well, we can replace that, honey. The important thing is that everyone is safe."

*****

The thing about Donny, the reason he made such a bang-up private eye, is that he could absolutely will himself to stay awake if he had to. Days at a time. He didn't need much. Never had. At first, when he was a kid, he thought that something was really wrong with him. All kids do. But he got used to it. Made a living out of it. Some guys, all it takes is the radio on and their eyes start going all fluttery. But Donny could sit up and keep his mind at ease (yet oddly focused) no matter the distraction. He didn't wish for his bed at the end of the day like most people. For Donny sleep was a sadly necessary waste of his time.

Blitz was no such warrior. He was out for the count, having made a night of it with his boys, celebrating the weird spectacle they'd all taken in the night before. He cradled a bottle of rum like it was a puppy.

Donny sat perched at the window and finally tuned back around annoyed, throwing a quarter at Blitz's face.

"What'd you do that for?"
"Look alive! I need video. The stooge is back in his room."

Blitz tried to shake off the booze (while still holding the bottle) and through the bleariness he could make out the lights flick on in the hotel room across the street. He spooled the film awkwardly while Donny grabbed his camera.

"Who's that with him?"

Donny didn't make it out at first. For a guy of his size, the stranger moved quickly out of view. He switched to the telephoto lens to get a closer glimpse, saw The Stooge gesturing to the bathroom and grabbing a towel from off a chair. And then disappearing inside.

"Where'd that other guy go?"
"I dunno. He looks bigger'n you, Blitz."
(snort)"But he aint' handsome like me, I bet."

Just then the stranger glided in front of the balcony doors. He moved quickly, deliberately. He looked right at them.

"What's going on, Donny?"
"I think he sees us."
"No way that guy sees us."

The Stranger waved directly at them. A wicked smile.

"Oh shit! I know that guy! He paid for this job!"
"That's the husband?"
"I don't know if that's the husband, but that's the guy with the money! Some crazy Russian!"
"What's he doing over there?"

Empasse.

"What do we do?"
"I don't know. Wave back?"

Sounded good enough for Donny. Without lowering his camera, he waved back.

The Stranger acknowledged the wave with a slight nod of his head and a playful salute. And, without taking his eyes off of them, he slowly closed the patio doors and pulled the shades. They couldn't see a thing anymore.

TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR PART VII: "LONG GOES THE SNUFF BOX!"