Ex-Con Xmas Trees, Trimmed in Guilt

We go shopping for Christmas trees only to find that the market for Christmas trees has been cornered by criminals. The Delancey Street Foundation, based in San Francisco, owns a restaurant, a moving company and nine Christmas tree outlets in the Bay Area, all staffed by ex-convicts. These people couldn’t be nicer -- they’re much nicer than Christmas tree salesmen who haven’t been to jail -- but as we deal with them I nevertheless have the vague sense we are avoiding the obvious topic of conversation.

We know you’ve just been released from jail, and you know that we know it. So -- do you feel weird selling Christmas trees? I’ll bet one of the reasons ex-convicts have trouble getting jobs is the embarrassment others feel in their presence. To neutralize my own, I use the 20 minutes my children spend hunting for the perfect tree to make absurd and flagrant displays of trust. I insist on paying in advance. I ask our salesman for advice I don’t need, and make a noisy show of taking it. When he asks if I need proof that our tree will stand straight, I wave my hand, as if to say, your word is good enough for me. I do everything but hand him my wallet and ask him to take care of it while I stroll around the block.

Bernard Kerik says he is no longer President Bush’s nominee to run the Department of Homeland Security. Newspapers quoted his first explanation: “I uncovered information that now leads me to question the immigration status of a person who had been in my employ as a housekeeper and nanny. It has also been brought to my attention that for a period of time during such employment required tax payments and related filings had not been made.”

Uncovered information. Brought to my attention. Had not been made. The man’s talking about his own maid! Inside his own household Kerik had risen to such an exalted position that he was unable to remain fully informed of the activities of the rank and file. Family men everywhere should take note: Kerik is a role model, especially for those who feel ever so slightly dethroned in their own homes. We family men may no longer be kings, but we can plausibly claim to be CEOs. And when things go wrong we, like CEOs, need not be held directly responsible.

On a cross-country flight, without a thing to read or write, and so, increasingly, manic. I’m always impressed by people who can sit quietly unoccupied on airplanes. What do they think they are doing? Flying? Desperate, I turn on my laptop, and open my AOL address book. It’s been years since I’ve cleaned it out. Now, as I page through the names, I’m shocked to find how many of the people in it have died.

Here’s Marcus Arnold: a 16-year-old boy who created a phony online identity, established himself as a legal expert, became one of the most sought-after legal advisors on the Web and the subject of a magazine profile by me. Six months ago he went into a hospital with flu symptoms and never came out.

Here’s Doug Pappas -- filed under D -- the finest analyst of the business of baseball, without whom I could not have written my last book. He went hiking in a Texas desert, without water or sunscreen, and got lost. As I delete their e-mail addresses I become aware that I have feelings of guilt about it.

But it’s not until I reach Bruce Paltrow -- father of Gwyneth and creator of many hit TV shows -- that the feeling comes to a head. We met a few years ago, in the offices of our mutual Hollywood agency. We hit it off and agreed to create a TV show together. The way we left it, I was meant to write up an outline and send it to him. Over the next few weeks he sent me many e-mails expressing his enthusiasm; in the following few weeks his enthusiasm dwindled to curiosity: How was the outline coming along? Then one day he ceased to write.

One night, in bed, I turned to Tabitha and said: “There is no worse feeling than not delivering something you promised. Bruce Paltrow must hate me.” She didn’t even look up from her magazine. “Bruce Paltrow can’t hate you, honey,” she said. “Bruce Paltrow is dead.”

My first reaction, perhaps not unfamiliar to other people who know the misery of a deadline, was not remorse. It was relief. Whew! Stroke of luck! Bruce Paltrow’s not walking around telling people how unreliable I am. Bruce Paltrow’s not even walking around! Yet here is his old AOL address, reminding me that with him, as with all my human relations, I have unfinished business. Instead of deleting his address, I click on it and write Bruce Paltrow an apology. I’ll send it when I land. You never know.