America Peals

Malcolm sits across from me 5 days a week. His age is indeterminite. He is well coiffed. His suits if I were to guess come from a local haberdashery. Malcolm speaks six languages, walks every day to work, refuses to wear shirt sleeves (“They would make me feel like I am from the midwest“), does not snack in between meals and refuses to make his FaceBook page public.

Malcolm beats me to work by 3-4 hours each day and always looks the fresher. He allows himself two hours in the morning to read actual newspapers and eat a refined breakfast. He ends his day at 11:30 p.m by shutting down his Macbook and indulges in one half hour of television: The Colbert Report.

Malcolm is the platonic love of my life.

He is a rarefied New Yorker who identifies as a New Yorker well before being an American. Just yesterday I overheard Malcolm speaking to a foreigner. When the foreigner said his name, Malcolm chortled: Is that your real name? Or, is it dumbed down for Americans.

Yet, Malcolm has a wicked sense of humor.

Underneath this Christopher Guest countenance lies the heart of punk rocker who harbors abject disdain for Sears, the state of Florida and all things foolish. The other day I sent Malcolm this photo:

I asked Malcolm if he dressed like this family when he travels to foreign countries. Malcolm responded: Actually people who dress like this should be denied passports.

ADDENDUM: I sent Malcolm a first glance at this post. He does not like his “moniker.” He writes: Malcolm belongs on the list of names that parents should be ashamed of foisting on their children. Other entries: Arnold, Melvin, Milton, Irving, Ethel, Effie, Shirley.

Ok, Malcolm.