In which our hero finds himself an uninvited guest.

NEWS: I am alone in my own body.

Letters: I’d like to apologize to New York Times columnist A.O. Scott for misappropriating his thoughts on Chinatown.

Sixty-nine years old and cross-legged on the dirty floor of a Hell’s Kitchen loft, brown bag in his fist, our hero makes it abundantly clear to three young men sitting in front of him that his life has not turned out like the Chekhov character’s.[1] Just as they begin to sympathize with the old drunk, he quickly asserts that having never loved before he could not possibly have any regrets because he has never known any other way of living.

He will soon die. Alone, but not lonely.

A mother with blond highlights brusquely lifts her cross-legged child from the floor, and upon being asked to leave by several larger men at the party, Jack Nicholson is at first hurt and at second appalled. One of the men leans down to council, “I assure you, sir. Your presence will not be missed at Lonnie Dreysdale’s birthday party.” 

Tilting his head like a confused dog in order to bring his eyebrow to his finger, he hiccups affectionately at the second woman to pick up one of the young men at his side, and he softly explains, “I have none myself.” To this, his third young friend begins to cry. The child wails out, and Edith and Ironside, who had ignored our hero's presence with desultory talk, cannot avoid the slow turn of his Nicholson eyes – as if in a horror movie. A belligerent point in his fellow thespian’s direction: “Give me your best Eugene O’Neill impression!” Lower lip atremble, Ironside pleads, demands, “Please, leave us alone.”

It was his agent who got him the Dreysdale gig. But is was God-damned humiliating! Dressing up like a sloppy Joker. Birthday parties… Let me see you do Eugene O’Neill, for fuck’s sake! Eugene-fucking-O’Neill.

Under sentry, the scotch proved its strength over his mouth in the feat to determine who would let pass his next words. “Look here,” he waved the pocket-sized bottle. “Am I this? Is this me?” Edith whispered in Ironside’s ear. Attempting to explain that he was the uncle of the young man in the Chekhov play, Jack Nicholson stumbled, “I’m the gabon! Ba-dalup! Balop chop…” Ironside walked outside with a small boy, presumably his son, and Nicholson’s brown bag pursued.

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[1] This refers to an earlier blog post [In which our hero discusses the works of Anton Chekhov ] in which Mr. Nicholson recalls a Chekhov character, an old country doctor who finds love late in life, whom he has often felt he would end up like. It is assumed that he has returned to these thoughts in conversation at the party.