Desperate Measures

recently published in the inaugural issue of Overwrite magazine

Two men, both in their early fifties, strike up a conversation on the subway and become friends. They meet for coffee. They play table tennis. They commiserate about their arthritis, their thinning hair, their bad knees, bad backs, and bad luck.

If you saw them on television—one of them played by Albert Brooks, in a movie from 1979—you’d think they were adorable. But in real life, in 2026, they’re mostly pitiful, and you’d be wise to look away.

I met Joel on the F train, three Tuesdays ago. I’d just seen my rheumatologist. He’d just seen his daughter, who said she’d prefer not to see him again. An insane person was asking Joel an insane question, which he escaped by pretending to be in conversation with me.

“I think,” he said, turning suddenly in my direction, “you have every right to ask people to remove their shoes when they enter your home.”

It was such a strange move—talking to a stranger about domestic etiquette to avoid a subway lunatic—that I couldn’t help admiring him. And it worked. The nutjob moved down the subway car, harassing other people. Joel looked at me.

“Sorry,” he said, “I panicked.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “You know it’s weird. I always feel like I can’t ask guests to take their shoes off in my apartment, then I resent them. I hate that I can’t be assertive.”

“Oh man,” he said. “I get it. But your apartment, your rules. Nobody would be offended.”

He was right. I never felt offended when someone asked me to take off my shoes in their apartment.

“I’m Brad,” I said. “You wanna get a coffee sometime?”

I was humiliated by the words leaving my mouth. My friendship situation was bleak. I rarely saw anyone beside my wife.

“That sounds nice,“ Joel said. “That sounds real nice.”

It turned out we were both getting off at West 4th. Over lunch at the Waverly Diner we reassured each other that we were both happily married—to women. This was just a friendship thing. Nothing else. That was three weeks ago, on a Tuesday.

On our last ‘date’ Joel and I went to Wu’s Wonton, then took a constitutional along the East River while we digested, like two old men. I said I’d seen scenes like this in movies—usually Italian ones. Joel said it reminded him of a Saul Bellow novel, though he couldn’t remember which. We were self-aware about our nascent friendship, which made it slightly less pitiful. By poking fun at ourselves we avoided discussing how we were both isolated, friendless, with wives who urged us to “go out and meet men” our own age.

Joel was vague about what he did for a living and I didn’t pry. Whatever it was, I assumed it embarrassed him. It didn’t matter to me. We shared the same taste in movies, and we both loved ‘90s NBA basketball. He had helpful insights about marriage and health, and our conversations were always stimulating. “A man isn’t what he does for a living,” Joel once said. I thought that was wise.

It was during our constitutional that Joel advised me to write this. I told him I’d been asked to contribute something to the inaugural issue of some new art/writing magazine. This happens from time to time. Usually I decline, mostly because I’ve run out of ideas. That, and I’m tired. But it’s important for people like me—old, with careers situated mostly in the past—to stay “relevant” and associate professionally with young people whenever we can.

I didn’t have any ideas for short stories, I told Joel. Making up a scenario, an environment, inserting people with distinct appearances and personalities, forcing them to interact—it was so much work. And essays, expressing your opinion, arguing your position, ugh. I’m only really qualified to write about mental illness and maybe late nineteenth-century painting—but then only in France, Belgium, and parts of Switzerland. Considering the genocides, the tech horrors, and what appear to be the first weeks of World War Three, it might seem slightly obscene to publish a defense of the overlooked Belgian painter Gustave Van de Woestijne.

“Well,” Joel said, smiling, “what could you write that wouldn’t feel like work? What’s the one thing you never have the chance to write about?”

He was so kind, so gentle with me. He really seemed to care that I was happy. I didn’t remember male friends from my past giving me that impression. There was one thing I’d wanted to write for months, but nobody would publish it, because it wasn’t a story, or an essay, or even interesting writing. I told my new friend.

“You know by now,” I said, “that I’m always hustling to make money. Editing something for one person and writing something for someone else, always for very little money. I never have time to paint anymore, and I rarely have time to write my own shit. I work on painting Mondays, I try to work on this novel I’ve been writing on Fridays—every other day is just grinding, errands, doctor’s appointments. Capitalism is unrelenting. The endless work involved in keeping food in my fridge and a roof over my head means that my writing career and my art career—if they can still be called careers—never get my full attention. It’s maddening. I know that if I could devote all of my time to either art or writing I’d be able to make some real money, and I wouldn’t need to be doing all this other work that eats away at my time.”

Joel nodded, and smiled warmly.

“So what do you want to write?”

“I want to write a plea. Nobody publishes pleas. I want to say ‘Hey, my name’s Brad and…