November 5, 1998

I was reading the paper on the Number 1 train two days ago when I became very aware of the man sitting next to me. I'd seen his face before, but I couldn't quite place it.

Not wanting to stare, I went back to reading about the nasty senate race in New York between Alphonse D'Amato and Charles "Chuck" Schumer.

"Wait a second!" I suddenly thought to myself. "I know who that guy is!"

The man next to me was the author of a hugely popular novel that was made into a critically-panned film last year. An Oscar winner directed the film and an Oscar winner starred in the film, but their combined talent couldn't energize a pretty flat script.

"How does a great novel get turned into a bad film?" I wondered as I sneaked a peak at the writer to my left. Incidentally, he was reading the same paper I was. I felt a little bit of a bond.

I wondered how many other people recognized this guy. I didn't see anyone staring at him or even glancing over at him. For the life of me, I couldn't remember the man's name, but I'd seen him on some talk shows discussing his immensely popular book.

"So this is how a famous novelist lives?" I thought to myself. "He's riding the subway just like me. He's not dressed any better than I am. Nobody even seems to know who this guy is. What is his name? Man, it's on the tip of my tongue!"

From reading about the lives of the famous American male writers of this century, I'd always imagined everything a famous writer did was glamorous or at least intriguing. Every gesture was sweeping, every wordplay an inspiring treat to the listener. These guys had women all around them and they were always on their way to a party. But here was this guy--the author of arguably the most popular novel of the decade--and he was existing so...well...unglamorously.

The train stopped at Times Square. Across the platform was an Express Number 3 train. The famous author leapt from his seat and sprinted across the platform, only to have the door of the Number 3 train close in his face. With frustration in his countenance, he watched the faster train leave the station. Then he turned around to get back on the slower Local Number 1 train that he was originally on, but as he approached that door, it too closed in his face.

As the Number 1 rolled slowly away, the man made eye contact with me. His face betrayed his complete helplessness.

The transformation from famous writer to hapless loser was very fast. Much too fast.

In writing the Broadway Jim Jenkins stories, I've always held the romantic notion that, upon publication, my life will significantly improve. But now I think that no matter where you go or what you do, the old adage found in The First Letter of Paul to the Corinthians is true:

Same Shit. Different Day.

Broadway Jim Jenkins