Earning My Bedford Cred

The distance is the same but it’s more aesthetically pleasing: This is the reason I’ve always given for walking to work from the Christopher St. PATH station rather than the 9th St. station. And it really is a pleasant little walk, as Bedford Street cuts diagonally through the West Village.

In 15 years of this commute, I’ve gotten to know the street very well, and recognize its characters. There’s Larry, who once asked if I would fetch a piece of trash from the gutter that he couldn’t quite reach. There was gruff Kenny sleeping in the front booth of his restaurant’s original location. Of course, not everyone in the neighborhood has been the subject of an indie documentary. There’s the bespectacled Danny DeVito-type who sits outside a bodega and wishes an enthusiastic good morning to every young woman who walks by. (Though I’m occasionally the recipient of a grudging hello, I’m still envious of that attention.) A tough-looking old guy often sits nearby; I’d been a little worried when he started sporting tubes in his nose for some sort of breathing difficulty. And there was even older fellow who could be counted on each morning to be enjoying an iced coffee in a glass mug. He’d be sitting on a stoop next to a bearded younger man. The old man was developing the red sunken stare that I’d labeled “Bob Hope eyes,” a condition I’d noticed in the legendary comic and then in my own grandfather in their final months. Indeed, I no longer see that particular gentleman out on the steps.

And yes, Bedford Street has folks of even greater fame. On several occasions I’ve walked past Patti Smith, though have never had the nerve to tell her how much I admire her. And just the other night I caught a glimpse of our soon-to-be Supreme Court justice.

In fact, it was a mistaken celebrity sighting that promoted me from observer to participant on Bedford. I’d often pass a cheerier Phil Leotardo-type on my walk: robust, with a shock of prematurely white hair, a permanent tan, and a stylish tracksuit. He’d be holding court not far from the southwest end of the street. And one day a few winters back, as I strolled by, he called out, “Hey, you’re that guy from TV, right? Peyton (sic) Oswalt?”

I stopped in my tracks. This was the second time someone had made the comparison, and sure, I understood where they were coming from:

But I was not flattered. I slowly turned to face my accuser.

“Come on,” I pleaded. “He is much heavier than I am.”

“There’s a resemblance,” he countered with a smile. “Obviously you’re much better looking.”

That definitely broke the ice, and sweet-talker Russell and I quickly became chummy. And I’ve become even closer with Russell’s friend Rich. I was intrigued to learn that Rich—a slight man his early 70s—was an actor of some repute. He had been the priest in A Bronx Tale. On cable, I made an effort to watch Sidney Lumet’s underrated Find Me Guilty, in which Rich had a small role but plenty of screen time.

I can count on seeing Rich on Monday and Thursday mornings, when he and other residents sit in their cars awaiting the street cleaner. They’ll circle the block when the street cleaner arrives and then reclaim their spots. I imagine it was this recurring scene that inspired the parking-themed novel Tepper Isn’t Going Out by Calvin Trillin, who lives just around the corner from Bedford.

Rich and I talk often about auditions he’s going on, parts he’s been cast in, and times I’ve spotted him on TV (as a prominent extra in both 30 Rock and Flight of the Conchords). I’m a bit more savvy than Rich with the Internet and cable TV, so I’ve let him know release dates of his movies, and kept an eye out for his appearances on an ESPN.com web series, in a New York Lottery commercial, and as an extra on Comedy Central’s Michael & Michael Have Issues. Though he liked rubbing elbows with Don Johnson while making the film When in Rome, he was more interested in the upcoming release of The Private Lives of Pippa Lee. The reason was obvious: Rich isn’t just an extra in this one—his character has some dialogue.

I was having just such a conversation with Rich the other morning, when Mr. Hello-To-All-The-Girls came by in a panic. A police car was slowly coming down the block at the exact moment that tubes-in-nose guy had “gone to take a piss.” Apparently, you are not supposed to be parked on that side of Bedford from 9 till 10:30 a.m. on Monday and Thursday, the allotted window for street cleaning. But, if the owners are in or near their cars, the cops will kindly look the other way.

“Do me a favor,” hi-to-girls said to me. “Stand near that black car, willya?”

“Sure thing,” I said. Wow, was I possibly reaching a new plateau with the Bedford crew?

He handed me the keys—which I was not expecting—and I hurried over next to the black SUV parked behind Rich’s car.

Sure enough, the police car stopped at the corner. As an officer approached, I grew increasingly nervous.

“Whose car is that?” the officer asked, looking toward the SUV.

What was I supposed to say? “Mine”? “It’s my uncle’s car”? “That little guy forced me to take the keys! I’m just a patsy! And, he only says hi to pretty young girls!”?

“That’s his car,” said hi-to-girls guy, gesturing to me.

The officer seemed perfectly satisfied with that information, returned to the cruiser, and drove away.

After being thanked, I said my goodbyes and continued on toward the office. I was pleased that I’d been able to help my Bedford friends. I was also glad that I hadn’t actually said anything to the officer to incriminate myself. And yet, I must admit, I was a little bit disappointed to not have a speaking role.