Me and Stuart Margolin
Me and Stuart Margolin in the Paris Metro! Stuart Margolin, who played Evelyn “Angel” Martin, Jim Rockford’s shifty best friend in The Rockford Files. Had all those hair-brained schemes. Stuart Margolin got on at Père Lachaise cemetry and he thought no one noticed. I noticed him. Now we’re side by side. He might be going to Opéra. He might have a hair-brained scheme over there at Opéra one two three ten stops down the line. Stuart Margolin always wanted to go to Paris with his hair-brained schemes.
Damn good being in The Rockford Files. You can do a lot worse than The Rockford Files and the odd Quantum Leap. I turn to Stuart Margolin. ‘Damn good,’ I say. He blinks and looks ahead. It’s as if his blinks are saying ‘Yes, friend. It Is damn good. And these Goddamn Parisians wouldn’t even know it.’
We’re sitting together in priority seating by the train doors. Me and Stuart Margolin in priority seating! The sign may say OAPs, war veterans, preganant women and amputees, but it also means “Stars.” Priority means above the other passengers. I can’t even see them, they’re such a blur. All I can see is Stuart Margolin and his filmography that stretches out like a dead man’s hand.
‘Stars,’ I say to him. He looks ahead and nods, as if to say ‘That’s right, buddy. Only the best seats for you and me.’
I need to give him something. It’s Stuart Margolin, I feel I should. My big thigh is taking up a bit of his seat as well. My big thigh is touching his and my sweat is seeping onto his trousers. I have Diltiazem in my pocket. Could give him some Diltiazem. Good for the knees, Diltiazem. Stops the thumping in the head. Reduces blood pressure like you’d never believe.
‘Diltiazem?’ I offer. ‘Good for the knees. Stops the pounding.’
I might have felt his leg with my knuckles when I tried to get in my pocket.
I could tell Stuart Margolin about the side effects. I could tell him about the dry mouth and the sexual difficulties. I could tell him all about it, if he asks, but something on the other side has caught his attention.
République. People off, people on. But Stuart Margolin stays with me. His eyes shift between the metro map and the station sign. His face is made of leather wallets. Doors shut. A busker is here, some sort of Romany accordian player with his filthy child. The busker plays loud, it is awkward, awkward for me and awkward for Stuart Margolin especially, especially him. In The Rockford Files one time he hated street performers, got violent once. I hope he doesn’t get violent this time in Paris where nobody knows him and there’s nobody but me to say ‘Oh it’s just Stuart Margolin. He gets like that.’ I hope the child doesn’t have to see anything like that.
Stuart Margolin stares at everything with those trademark eyes. Adverts of language schools, thin people, filthy child, seats, window, sticker on the window. He can’t much like accordian players who play very loud and sing and their son has a plastic cup. Stuart Margolin is a man who needs things and stories to distract him from accordian players so as he doesn’t get violent with them.
‘I see you’ve noticed the window sticker with the picture of the pink rabbit trapping his hand in the door,’ I say, ‘with the caption that says Beware of trapping your hands in the door in four languages. Of course, judging by its height on the window it is designed for children, but from these priority seats we have a good view of it.’ I have to speak loud in Stuart Margolin’s ear to drown out the accordian and keep him calm. The busker’s red face looks tired but this is a competitive world. You must fight to be heard. I shut my eyes so as not to see the child, whose cup is full of air and sorrow.
My lips are touching Stuart Margolin’s ear hair, which tickles my lips but I have to keep going to get his mind off it all.
‘Well, I have a humourous imagined story about that picture of a rabbit trapping his fingers in that door. He had some sort of heavy night or something and he woke up and his rabbit pals had shaved him with a razor! He’s pink and cold and they’ve got no clothes to give him because they’re rabbits and he’s mad at them. They laugh and say “Man, it was priceless, you got to admit. Get this guy a cab, somebody!” And he goes “Fuck you guys, you crazy or something? Fuck all of you. My head!” And he storms out of the apartment and goes to the metro station because he’s got a pass. He’s cold and hungover and he’s waiting for a train on the platform and it comes – big commuter station, Chatelet or something like that and near a newspaper headquarters. Pressing the door for it to open and gets inside and he’s not even thinking or anything forgets to take his hand away from the door and it shuts WHAM on his fingers like that. And the photographer from the newspaper catches it right with his camera! Perfect for the kids and real story about a rabbit.’
I left some spit on his ear a bit.
Stuart Margolin hates accordian players. He gets violent. That story with the rabbit is the best I can do but it’s not enough because he bangs that rabbit picture with his fist and gets up and shouts and shakes me. He is mental with anger and I feel real bad for the accordian player because he’s just doing his job and he wasn’t to know Stuart Margolin was on the train. Stuart Margolin really shouting and he stood on my toe and got off the metro two stops before Opéra. But good for the accordian player because he’s carried on playing regardless. And look at that child who learns so much so quickly down here under the ground.
