Volume 4, Issue 14: Tony Pena

"He sees everything out on that field from back there."

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Thursday night, the Mystery Writers of America presented their Edgar Allan Poe Awards, their 77th annual event. (Past winners include Stephen King, Elmore Leonard, Dennis Lehane and John Le Carre.) My novel How Lucky—“boring!” says Rachel, “put this one down because of the language” raves Stephanie!—was nominated for an Edgar for Best Novel, so I flew to New York City for the celebration and to find out if I won. I assumed I would not win, so I did not write a speech, but I did have an opening line, just in case:

Thank for to the Mystery Writers of America for this award. It’s funny, when she found out I was nominated for this award, my mother, who loves crime fiction, read all five books nominated. So you know, having read all five, she wants me to let you know that she disagrees with your decision here tonight.

My assumption was correct: I did not win the Edgar for Best Novel, so I did not need my speech. The winner was James Kestrel’s Five Decembers, which is great and very much deserved for James Kestrel (which is in fact a pseudonym) but a bit of a bummer for the ceremony, because of the five nominees for Best Novel—the last award given at a four-hour awards show—he was the only author who was not in attendance. (He was effusive on Twitter, though, and deserved to be.) It was a fun evening, and all told, it’s probably for the best that I did not win, considering, well, uh, I am not sure How Lucky actually is a mystery novel (and I know the next one isn’t) so winning would have felt a little like Avatar winning Best Foreign Language film. I mean, yeah, sure, I guess there are some subtitles, but maybe you should give the award to something more in the spirit of the thing.

Anyway, I’m still in New York City for the rest of the weekend, and I’m staying in one of those midtown hotels that have a bed, a bathroom and 16-to-24-inch passageway through which a person can transverse between them. I try not to stay in midtown when I’m in New York for work, not because it’s terrible (I know New Yorkers hate midtown, and I understand why, but it really is a wonderful way to get a look at the sort of cross-section of humanity that people in New York rarely get to see; it’s like having a random rest stop you can peer into whenever you need to) but because every time I stay there I wake up several times in the middle of the night to flashing Times Square billboards and it always takes me a few minutes to realize I’m not living in Blade Runner—and then I can’t get back to sleep. This weekend, though, I’m staying on the 17th floor of a hotel that faces an apartment building, one that also is a high rise, which means as I sit here and type to you I can see into all of their rooms and they can see into mine. I can’t imagine a worse way to start your day than by looking out your window and being confronted by me watching Cardinals highlights in a towel.

I had one apartment in New York City where you could see into other apartments, the last one I lived in, a 22nd floor high-rise in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. This was an excellent time to have an apartment like this because we had a six-month-old, so there wasn’t much to do other than sit in the apartment, look out the window and wait for him to eat, poop or sleep. If you’ve never lived in New York—and maybe even if you do, I dunno—you might find it creepy, Peeping Tom behavior to look in other people’s windows, but I swear, it was never like that. I don’t think I ever saw anyone naked, and if it looked like that was about to be a possibility, that was the end of my window watching for the day. That’s not what it’s about. You don’t make it your intention to look, and you never stare for very long. But there’s a window. People are moving past it. You are moving past your window. You see these little glimpses of life, of the nuts-and-bolts of it all, all the parts of the story that they skip over in the movie. There is something inherently fascinating, almost sociological, to see how people act when they are not worried about being seen. There is a lovely banality to it. They make the bed, they fold the laundry, they stare at the TV screen, they type on their computer, they play a game on their phone, they pick their nose. They do the things we all do all the time and don’t think about. I sometimes wonder if these moments are pure as our lives get.

I’m looking out this hotel window now. There’s a heavyset man, wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, sitting at a coffee table, fidgeting with some sort of small machinery—a watch, maybe? He is growing increasingly frustrated. A woman is sitting on the sofa reading a book. A boy, a teenager maybe, is stretching and cracking and loping his gangly arms and legs everywhere. A guy in a white shirt and khakis and a tie that is too short is drinking a cup of coffee and looking in my general direction. A skinny man is cooking something—it looks complicated. Two cats are on a windowsill, bored.

And a man sits at his computer on a Saturday morning, looking at them, just long enough, not too long. He sees them in a way that they’ll never be able to see themselves, and if they see him, they will see him in that exact same way. Just a few random glimpses between strangers who will never meet, who will go their separate ways, who, for a couple of days and nights in late April 2022, were about 50 feet away from each other but never will be again.

We can get lost in our silos, our little safe havens we built to keep us safe but siphoned away, where—particularly when there is a pandemic that comes along and wipes out a couple of years—we can go long periods of times without interacting with anyone who already isn’t a part of our lives. But as I’ve been out traveling more this year, I’ve been reminded by how much I’ve missed strangers. There are literally billions of people out there whom I’ve never met, know nothing about, who have walked around this planet their entire lives, doing their own things, having their own joys and fears and hopes that I couldn’t possibly know one bit about. They’re everywhere. I find myself, after the last couple of years, thinking more about them than I ever have before. There’s just so much living going on out there. It makes you want to stop and stare. Just for a second. Just to see them for that brief moment, caught up in the dull parts of their lives, perfectly comfortable, just living their lives. It makes me appreciate those little moments in my own. But again—just for a second.

And then it was time to shut the blinds. All we get is a second. All we get is a glimpse. Then we have ourselves to take care of.

Here is a numerical breakdown of all the things I wrote this week, in order of what I believe to be their quality.

1. You Can Just Ignore Twitter, If You Want, Medium. It’s easy, if you try. I consider this my official statement on Twitter.

2. Wimbledon’s Ban of Russian Players Is Stupid and Wrong, New York. This seems so obvious to me I can’t figure out why it’s even a debate.

3. Your April All-Stars, MLB.com. One month of the season, already done.

4. You Can’t Get as Mad at Technology As You Can at a Human, Medium. You can try, though.

5. MVP Candidates Who Have Never Won One, MLB.com. Is it Arenado’s year?

6. The Thirty: How Each Team’s Top Addition Is Faring So Far, MLB.com. What’s going on with Carlos Correa?

7. Your Friday Five, Medium. Why would you want to hurt me? (Five against one, five five, five against one.)

PODCASTS

The Long Game With LZ and Leitch, we discussed the NFL Draft, the NBA Playoffs and talked with Josh Kantor, organist for the Boston Red Sox.

Grierson & Leitch, good movies this week, with “The Northman,” “The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent” and “Le Samourai.”

Seeing Red, Bernie and I try to talk to Cardinals into calling up Nolan Gorman.

Waitin' Since Last Saturday, no show this week.

LONG STORY YOU SHOULD READ THIS MORNING … OF THE WEEK

“John Darnielle Wants to Tell You a Story,” Helen Rosner, The New Yorker. I will confess to not being much of a Mountain Goats guy, but this interview is wonderful. Maybe I should become one.

ONGOING LETTER-WRITING PROJECT!

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Write me at:

Will Leitch
P.O. Box 48
Athens GA 30603

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO

“Waking On a Pretty Day,” Kurt Vile. Have finally, finally gotten into Kurt Vile. I’m sorry it took me too long. I think what I’m most impressed about by him is how he can, like, make a nine minute song seemingly pass by in about two minutes. I would think that impossible.

Remember to listen to The Official Will Leitch Newsletter Spotify Playlist, featuring every song ever mentioned in this section.

Yes, I am going to make you watch my son’s home run this week.

Have a great weekend, everyone.

Best,
Will