THE NEWYORKER, DECEMBER 6, 2021 29
ing their happy faces. No amount of
money in the world could top that!
I kept in touch with the boy through-
out his youth, and, after his parents lost
all their money in a Ponzi scheme, I
put him through college and medical
school. Today, he’s on the verge of a
monumental cancer-research break-
through and is slated to appear on an
upcoming cover of Time. I told him I
preferred to remain anonymous in the
article. (You don’t have to include this
in the book, but, if you want to, I guess
there’s nothing I can do about it.)
People always ask me what I would’ve
done had I not become a comedian.
Besides the aforementioned stints at
prizefighting and animal husbandry,
I was also a child prodigy at the piano.
By the time I was eight, I was play-
ing Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier” So-
nata No. 29 in B-Flat Major flawlessly.
There’s no telling how far I could’ve
gone, but my budding career as a vir-
tuoso ended when my “friend” Frenchie
dropped a bowling ball on my foot. It
broke my third and fifth metatarsal
bones. I lost all proficiency with the
pedals, and my tone was never the same.
As I look back on that incident, what’s
most galling to me is that I was only
two strikes away from a perfect game
when the “accident” occurred. Many
years later, I ran into Frenchie at Yan-
kee Stadium and accidentally dropped
a fist in his face.
But the universe works in mysteri-
ous ways, because the day after my bowl-
ing-lane encounter with Frenchie I at-
tended a podiatry convention (by then
I’d become obsessed with the intricate
bone structure of the human foot), where
I met a doctor who told me that the
simple act of running might be the best
thing for my injury. Soon I was pound-
ing the pavement nearly thirty miles a
week, and, before long, not only was I
playing the piano again but I had signed
up for the New York City Marathon.
It was my first race, but clearly I had a
gift for distance running, because, after
eighteen miles, I found myself in fifth
place, only an eighth of a mile behind
the leader.
We were approaching the Queens-
boro Bridge when, for some reason, I
turned to my right and, behind the crowd,
I noticed a holdup of a jewelry store in
progress. Even though I was in striking
distance of the leader, I couldn’t ignore
what was taking place. I made a sharp
detour to my right and slithered through
the crowd. When I arrived at the store,
the robber was brandishing a gun at the
terrified jeweller while emptying the
contents of the case into a cloth sack. I
proceeded to sneak up behind the thief,
karate-chop his arm, and render him
unconscious with a sleeper hold that I
picked up from watching Chief Jay
Strongbow in a wrestling match on TV.
Then I handed the gun to the jeweller,
told him to call the police, and added
that, if the robber were to wake up, he
should shoot him if he made a move.
Mission accomplished, I made my way
back to the race and still managed to
finish twentieth. There was no doubt in
anyone’s mind that, had I not foiled the
robbery, I would’ve easily placed in the
top five, or maybe even won. (Life’s funny.
Bought a new watch today and was re-
minded of that story for the first time
in years. Can’t think of any reason that
you wouldn’t use it, unless you don’t want
people to know the truth. News flash!
There’s more to me than just jokes!)
I entered the marathon again the
following year and thought for sure that
this time I’d sweep the chips, but two
days before the race I was contacted by
an adoption agency. There was a child
available in Romania, and she was mine
if I could get there in twenty-four hours.
As badly as I wanted to win the mara-
thon, I couldn’t pass up this amazing
opportunity. For years, I’d longed to
adopt a child. I had so much to give, so
much knowledge to impart. That night,
I was off to Romania. When I returned
home, it was with a beautiful, sightless
little girl named Natasha, whom I re-
named Jill. She was six years old and
didn’t speak a word of English, but, given
my proficiency with languages, I was
fluent in Romanian within five weeks.
Tragically, after a few months, Jill’s birth
mother showed up and begged to take
her child back. How could I deprive a
mother of her little girl? And so, as dif-
ficult as it was, I gave Jill up. I still write
to her every day in Braille and make
the trek to Bucharest annually. She’s the
love of my life.
So these are just a few memories—
yours to use as you see fit. Just know
that there’s certainly a lot more where
they came from! SHOWCASE
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