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PROMOTION

BY INVITATION ONLY THE KENTUCKY DERBY

This past May, Esquire and Louisville’s Rabbit Hole Distillery teamed up to host the ultimate Derby experience. The event weekend featured an exclusive three-day Esquire VIP lounge and the city’s greatest Derby afterparty. Guests enjoyed curated craft cocktails, a farm-to-table dinner event, art installations, live entertainment and more.

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Weekend plans depend on us. The ocean gives us more than great waves. It provides the air we breathe and the food we eat, jobs for millions and even medicine to treat disease. Protecting our oceans protects all of us. Join us and together we can help nature and humanity thrive.

The world we depend on depends on us. Join us at Nature.org

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Confident. Cultured. Discerning. Elegant. Gracious. VERANDAFINEFURNITURE.COM

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this Way In STOP AND SMELL THE BRACELET Wearing scents in 2019 means you have more options than spritzing. Case in point: Diptyque’s new bracelet. The fragrance-infused nylon band emits a subtle scent of either sandalwood or tuberose that lasts a week, after which you can replace it with a fresh wrap from the spool. For more ways to subtly scent yourself and your home,

The Big Bite

The Code

Unconventional Wisdom

The Esquire Guide to Smelling Good (All the Time)

Chris Ware’s new cartoon masterpiece; busting out of the Netflix bubble; why the cocktail cognoscenti are wrong about vodka; what’s stuck in Brittany Howard’s head.

Dystopian cinema becomes a style muse; the case for cargoes; the desert boot’s weird cousin; how a dress watch can be your everyday timepiece; can CBD really make you look better?

By Dwight Garner This month, inspired by the worst column ever, the author wanted to try something different. We said yes.

Cologne is one tool for smelling good, but being well-fragranced in all departments takes a bigger toolbox. To scent your life, you need to look at your home, laundry, medicine cabinet, even your car. Here’s how to get it done easily, even if you’re not a cologne guy.

136

This Way Out By Lars Kenseth Back to Work.

Runwell Automatic watch ($1,195) by Shinola; shinola.com. phot og rap h (a b ove) : K athryn Wirsing

Se ptem ber 2 019_Es quire 23

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this Way In

CONTENTS F E AT U R E S

The World According to Woody By Lili Anolik Woody Harrelson was craving a burger at his favorite vegan joint, so he asked our writer to join him. Thus began a weed-infused quest.

Scene Stealer

102

The Case of the Missing $7 Million Car

When a hoodie can pass for chic these days, a striped suit is the surest way to stand out.

By Stayton Bonner Joe Ford, car detective, searches the world for stolen rare automobiles on the black market. The case he’s on now could set him up for life.

110

Introducing Tony Soprano By Michael Hainey We sit down with Michael Gandolfini, who will tackle the role made famous by his father.

116

Raising a Daughter Is the Worst . . . By Tom Bissell . . . Except when it’s the best.

118

The Newest Recruit

126

Airplane Mode

By Matt Gallagher As our Forever War drags on, for the first time our youngest military enlistees were born after 9/11. Meet one of them as he prepares to leave his home in Puerto Rico for the barracks.

Our very well traveled creative director offers sound style advice for your next departure.

ON THE COVER WO O DY H A R R E L S O N

SAME OLD SONG AND DANCE

PHOTOGRAPHED BY

MARC HOM FOR ESQUIRE

NOT THE

Marshall’s Stockwell II Bluetooth speaker looks like it could be onstage next to your favorite guitarist. But it’s not. It’s in your house, giving you instant rocker cred. You’ll notice new acoustic depths to your music, with rich audio and knobs along the top for volume, bass, and treble—plus it has an impressive battery life of 20 hours. So throw a party. Host an event. Dial up the bass, and the volume. $250; marshallheadphones.com —Sarah Rense 24 Sept e mbe r 2 01 9_ E sq ui re

Production by Kara Glynn. Casting by Randi Peck. Styling by Nick Sullivan. Grooming by Kumi Craig using La Mer for the Wall Group. Shot at Artists for Humanity EpiCenter, Boston. ph oto graph : Al lie Holloway

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COMSUBIN ITALIAN NAVY DIVERS AND NAVY SPECIAL FORCES

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this Way In

Robe and T-shirt by Dolce & Gabbana; boxers, Harrelson’s own.

THE WORLD ACCORDING TO WOODY WEED, BURGERS, AND CAR DODGING WITH

W O O DY H A R R E L S O N

PAGE 82

26 Sept e mb e r 2 01 9_ E sq u i re

ph oto g raph: M arc Hom

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JA C K E S S I G

Editor in Chief

Senior Vice-President, Publishing Director & Chief Revenue Officer

HELENE F. RUBINSTEIN NICK SULLIVAN JOHN KENNEY KEVIN SINTUMUANG BOB MANKOFF JEFF GORDINIER ERIC SULLIVAN AMY GRACE LOYD ADRIENNE WESTENFELD, BRADY LANGMANN

Editorial Director Creative Director Managing Editor Culture and Lifestyle Director Cartoon and Humor Editor Food and Drinks Editor Senior Editor Literary Editor Assistant Editors

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Strategy and Marketing SAMANTHA IRWIN General Manager, Hearst Men’s Group CHRIS PEEL Executive Director, CARYN KESLER JOHN WATTIKER DOUG ZIMMERMAN MARISA STUTZ

ART

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BEN BOSKOVICH Managing Editor JONATHAN EVANS Style Director • KATE STOREY Senior Staff Writer MATT MILLER Culture Editor • JACK HOLMES Politics Editor • CHRISTINE FLAMMIA Associate Style Editor SARAH RENSE Associate Lifestyle Editor MADISON VAIN Associate Editor, Social Media • JUSTIN KIRKLAND Staff Writer MIKE KIM Senior Designer • KELLY SHERIN Photo Director • DOMINICK NERO Video Editor CAMERON SHERRILL Snapchat Designer • GABRIELLE BRUNEY Weekend Editor • DAVE HOLMES Editor at Large CHARLES P. PIERCE Writer at Large HEARST PHOTOGRAPHY GROUP

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#SQUADONAMISSION

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Being mad at Netflix is like yelling at the tide. There is no alternative—one cannot survive on Hulu or HBO Now alone—and besides, it makes some damn good content. Television doesn’t get better than The Crown or Wild Wild Country, both Netflix Originals. The company’s aggressive push into film has not been uncontroversial, but Hollywood had long since ceded the territory. The studios simply aren’t in the business of making movies about people born without superpowers, let alone black-and-white foreign art-house fare like last year’s Roma. So my beef is not with Netflix. Or Hulu. illustration: C. J. Ro b in s o n

Or Amazon. It’s with us. We declared our independence by cord cutting, only to be algorithmized into docility. Netflix was founded in 1997 to disrupt Blockbuster. But the advent of cost-effective streaming a little under a decade ago was like the discovery of a new continent, and Netflix was the first to plant its flag. To fully understand why streaming is so much more than a technological advance, we have to go back to 1948 and the S epte mber 2 019_E squi re 31

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the Big Bite TECH

Rediscover the DVD Player It’ll raise your ﬁlm IQ

Independent jewels like “Leave No Trace” are available on Kanopy. All you need is a library card.

landmark antitrust decision known as the Paramount decree. That year, the Supreme Court ruled that movie studios could not own movie theaters, which they did up to that point. Streaming has offered an end run around this inconvenient ruling. Now Netflix and its peers, like the upcoming Apple TV+ and Disney+, are free to produce, distribute, and promote their own products right into the palm of your hand, a level of vertical integration the moguls of Old Hollywood could only dream about. Much has been written about the fire hose of quality programming endlessly blowing us all away like the guy in the Maxell commercial. But that’s the problem: The content comes faster than you can watch it. Trying to keep up with the watercooler crowd is the road to madness, and it leaves no time for discovering anything else. We need to be nudged beyond our comfort zones, and the data set generated by our viewing habits isn’t going to do it. Here are a few other services designed to help you step outside the closed loop of “Because you watched. . . .” The Criterion Channel From the ashes of FilmStruck, a short-lived joint venture between Criterion and Turner Classic Movies, rose the Criterion Channel (launched earlier this year), and it’s larded with art-house classics, among them Seven Samurai and 8½, as well as loads of informative interviews and extras guaranteed to improve your film literacy. ($11 per month or $100 per year) 32 Se pt e mb e r 2 01 9 _ E sq u ire

We need to be nudged beyond our comfort zones, and the data set generated by our viewing habits isn’t going to do it.

Kanopy To open a Kanopy account, all you need is a library card. The number of movies you can stream per month is limited—the exact figure depends on your library— but the selection is a rich one, from recent independent jewels like Leave No Trace and Four Lions to silent classics like Buster Keaton’s The General and F. W. Murnau’s Nosferatu. (Free with a library card)

Mubi Mubi takes the curated approach a step further. The selection is limited to 30 movies, and it’s one in, one out: Each day a movie is added and another disappears. Mubi also distributes select offbeat films to theaters, such as the music documentary Ryuichi Sakamoto: Coda. ($11 per month for 30 movies) Le Cinéma Club Le Cinéma Club is even more audaciously austere, showing just one little-seen movie per week. Founded in 2015, it was relaunched in June with Claire Denis’s long-lost 1991 short film, Keep It for Yourself. Previous offerings have included the student work of Barry Jenkins and Alfonso Cuarón. (Free)

illustration: C. J. Ro bi n so n ( DVD)

Fandor Fandor has been gaining a reputation among cinephiles for its eclectic 5,000-film library. How eclectic? Scroll through the documentaries and you’ll find the fascinating Our Nixon, the awesomely trashy Heavy Metal Parking Lot, and the very Orson Welles-y British miniseries Around the World with Orson Welles. ($6 per month or $50 per year)

Many millennials seem to regard owning a DVD player as an eccentricity akin to using a flip phone or smoking a pipe. I, however, consider it an essential part of my home entertainment system, such as it is—at least for the time being. Consider this statistic: Of the roughly 4,100 movies currently available on Netflix, just 69—that’s 1.7 percent—are older than Pete Buttigieg. Yes, the selection is better when renting from iTunes, Google Play, etc., but those charges add up, and there are many titles that can’t be streamed, period. (To take three examples from my own modest collection: Paolo Sorrentino’s Il Divo, a compilation of UPA cartoons, and the complete Sgt. Bilko.) Don’t expect a vinyl-style revival. DVDs are a bridge technology. But I wouldn’t burn that bridge just yet. —A. C.

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Every mile on the road brings you closer to the ones you love.

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(

READING LIST

THE NE XT GRE AT NERD - OUT

Clockwise from top: Lin-Manuel Miranda on “His Dark Materials”; Regina King on “Watchmen”; Anya Chalotra on “The Witcher”; Kit Harington on “Game of Thrones.”

Arrakis, the sole planet containing a

More of the planet’s biggest show? Of course. REQUIRED READING: The first book in the Song of Ice and Fire saga. ADVANCED READING: Prequel “Dunk and Egg” novellas. Try not to lose it when the show strays from the books.

Showtime is developing a series based on Patrick Rothfuss’s Kingkiller Chronicle trilogy, which follows an adventurer/ magician/lute prodigy through his medieval

With G OT gone, here’s where to expend your BIG GEEK ENERGY to become master of the watercooler

We know Zack Snyder’s movie has some hardcore fans, but will we finally get an adaptation of Alan Moore’s Watchmen that everyone will like? This Damon Lindelof series may fit the bill. REQUIRED READING: The cocreator of Lost and The Leftovers has said the show will be “remixed.” Still, Moore’s classic noirish superhero satire is increasingly relevant. Reread it or be baptized into it. ADVANCED READING: The recent Doomsday Clock comics (Watchmen sequels that bring Superman into the mix).

His Dark Materials trilogy was marketed as young-adult fare, the novels are marked by more grown-up themes involving religion and sexual maturation— which you can expect Lin-Manuel Miranda!) REQUIRED READING: The series’ first book, The Golden Compass. For a quick, sanitized version, watch the 2007 film. ADVANCED READING: The final two books, or even the sequel trilogy, The Book of Dust.

34 Se pt e mb e r 2 01 9 _E sq u i re

From left: The cover of “The Name of the Wind”; a sandworm from “Dune”; Henry Cavill on “The Witcher.”

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the Big Bite

FLYING SOLO

Brittany Howard’s “Jaime,” her first solo record, leans more toward R+B and funk.

MUSIC

CLOSER LISTEN BRITTANY HOWARD—the powerhouse voice of Alabama Shakes—tells us what’s STUCK IN HER HEAD By Madison Vain As the frontwoman of two rabble-rousing rock outfits—the soulful and strange Alabama Shakes as well as the garage-rock-thrashing Thunderbitch—Brittany Howard has earned her reputation as a grade-A experimentalist. “To me, every song is a landscape,” she explains, “and you see a lot of landscapes in your life.” She’ll swap surroundings once more when Jaime, Howard’s first solo collection, arrives September 20. “It was too personal to put in anyone else’s hands,” she says of the set, which tackles romance, racism, and identity amid a heady swirl of Prince-esque R&B, funk, and one full-on psych-rock freak-out. Here, she dishes on the artists she can’t stop listening to. 36 Se pt e m b e r 2 0 19 _ E sq u i re

Betty Carter “A keyboard player named Paul Horton turned me on to Betty Carter, and the harmony in ‘Nothing More to Look Forward To’ is just incredible.”

Jai Paul “The level of detail that he’s getting into his songs . . . I’d love to sit down and pick his brain. I’m glad he took his time and said, ‘I want to do this my way.’ ”

Luther Vandross “It reminds me of my family’s barbecues back in the ’90s. They would blast Luther Vandross and drink a bunch of beer and grill. It [looked like] a neighborhood, but it was just our huge family.”

Nina Simone “I like to turn her on during a road trip because she has such different styles. Slow, sweeping ballads, or you could be listening to rock ’n’ roll when you’re listening to her.”

Lamb of God “I’ve always liked metal music because it’s so different from what I do. I’m fascinated by technicality and shredding and harmonics. It’s like watching a magic show.”

Janis Ian “I feel like every moment is appropriate for a Janis Ian ballad. I was in a bar in Finland and I turned on a Janis Ian song. [Laughs.] Everyone hated me. I had to change it.”

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the Big Bite

E N T E RTA I N I N G

THE CLE AR WINNER VODKA is often vilified as boring by the COCKTAIL cognoscenti. It’s time to ignore them and pour yourself a (very) cold one. I went to Siberia once. That’s not a metaphor. I flew to Novosibirsk, a Russian city northeast of Kazakhstan, and then ventured out into the taiga to experience the Siberian ritual known as the banya, which is sort of a sauna treatment with a touch of Fifty Shades of Grey. The banya involves sitting in a room as hot as a pizza

DON’T SAY IT. . .

tree until you can’t take it anymore, at which point you flee the steam, douse yourself with cold water, and lie naked in the snow. I recommend it. When I was finished being parboiled and spanked, I put on my clothes and wandered into a dining room, where I found something of a gift. At every place setting waited a bottle of local vodka. Each person who had endured the banya received his own. If I hadn’t given vodka much serious thought before my trip,

Vodkas with Verve Sipping it chilled? Go for a bottle with nuance and proudly consider yourself a vodka connoisseur. —Kevin Sintumuang

Zesty, creamy, smooth.

Sean Connery’s James Bond was known to enjoy vodka between exploits. Take it like he did. Boyd & Blair Potato Vodka

elixir just made sense, like rum in the Caribbean or single malt in the Hebrides. In the years that followed, I watched vodka itself get spanked by cocktail snobs who viewed it as little more than a crude delivery system for alcohol (Death & Co, the famous bar in New York City’s East Village, refused even to stock it), and mostly I kept my mouth shut during that dark period while happily storing several bottles of the stuff in my freezer at home. I like

Lightly sweet, very luscious.

S t . G e o rge G re e n C h i l e Vo d k a

Farm-fresh flavors.

Absolut Elyx

Chalky yet perfectly crisp.

P o l u ga r C l a s s i c R ye Vo d ka

Rich and breadlike.

Se ptem ber 2 019 _E s qu ire 37

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the Big Bite

FOOD

THE FOOD PROPHET OF HARLEM GOING BOWLING

FieldTrip, the new restaurant from chef JJ Johnson (below), serves up global cuisine with a range of rice bowls.

38 Se pt e m b e r 2 01 9_E sq ui re

Chef JJ JOHNSON’S cuisines have always been revelatory By Jeff Gordinier Five years ago, in the fall of 2014, this magazine named the Cecil the best new restaurant in America. Josh Ozersky, the writer who made that pick, raised a toast to the pioneering menu, “primed and loaded with the flavors of the African diaspora—that trail of taste that moved from West Africa to India, the Caribbean to America to China, and then back again.” Meanwhile, Eater, the influential food blog that in recent years has rebooted itself into a bully pulpit for diversity, seemed slightly bewildered that a black-owned restaurant in Harlem might merit the top spot on a national list. JOSH OZERSKY CONFOUNDS EXPECTATIONS, said the Eater headline, while the piece itself quipped that “it sounds like Ozersky is out to stir things up.” Ozersky is gone now. He died the next year. And the Cecil has abandoned its original vision; now it’s a neighborhood steakhouse. But half a decade on, it’s clear that Esquire’s selection of the Cecil was a prescient one. In the intervening years, chefs like Mashama Bailey, Kwame Onwuachi, Edouardo Jordan, Nina

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BENSHERMAN.COM

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THE WELL STOCKED BAR

In a world littered with shortcuts, the feeling of satisfaction that comes from doing things the right way is hard to beat. Take this handbuilt oak bar made in collaboration with Knob Creek® — where no effort is spared and no shortcuts are taken in crafting fullﬂavored, high proof whiskey. You should apply the same approach to how you furnish your bar. Here, we’ve stocked this bar with the ﬁnest tools for entertaining at home, so at the end of the day, you can pour yourself (and your friends) a well-earned drink and enjoy. Cheers!

KNOB CREEK® RYE OLD FASHIONED 2 parts Knob Creek® Rye 1 quarter part Rich Demerara syrup 3 dashes Hella® Aromatic Bitters Garnish with a swath of lemon peel, oils expressed over cocktail.

Custom Knob Creek® bar built by James Schadewald/ Popular Mechanics. For details, visit popularmechanics. com/buildabar.

Different cocktails require different types of whiskey. Top shelf (l to r): Knob Creek® Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey, Knob Creek® Single Barrel Reserve, Knob Creek® Straight Rye Whiskey.

BAR TOOLS Creating a well-crafted cocktail requires the right tools. The well-stocked bar should include such basics as a bottle opener, jiggers, an ice bucket/tongs, and silicone ice molds for making large, clear, slow-melting cubes or spheres that won’t dilute your drink. For mixed drinks you’ll also want to have a bar spoon, mixing glass, shaker, strainer, juice press, and muddler on hand, along with a citrus peeler/zester for the all-important garnish.

GLASSWARE Different drinks call for different glassware. Ideally, you’ll want at least four of each shape: Lowball/rocks glasses when serving whiskey or cocktails with muddled ingredients (think: an Old Fashioned or mojito). Highball/Collins glasses are used for mixed drinks with crushed ice like a G&T or Tom Collins, while coupe glasses are perfect for strained drinks without ice (sidecar, daiquiri, martini). And don’t forget the pint and pilsner glasses, champagne yÕÌiÃ] > ` Ài` > ` Ü Ìi Ü i } >ÃÃiÃ° Ãi V « i i Ì>ÀÞ } >ÃÃÜ>Ài v Þ Õ½Ài } } v À > Àiw i` À Ý Ì Õ« v À > Ài iV iVÌ V Û Li°

EXTRAS No bar is complete without coordinating coasters and cocktail napkins. Bonus points for leather or waxed cotton coasters, which add an elegant texture to a handcrafted bar. Consider investing in customized paper or cloth napkins for a truly personalized touch.

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CL E R MON T K . Y.

U. S .

THIS IS WHAT STANDING UP TO THE TASK LOOKS LIKE.

EVERY BIT EARNED

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the Big Bite

Compton, Pierre Thiam, and Eric Adjepong have drawn national attention (and, in several cases, James Beard awards) for exploring the African diaspora through cooking. The long-overdue rise of black chefs is, without a doubt, the most important story in American restaurants right now. People in food media are finally talking about it. Five years ago? “Nobody was,” says JJ Johnson, who was running the kitchen at the Cecil back then. “Nobody even knew how to talk about it.” Innovation be damned, Johnson failed to win the Beard Foundation’s Rising Star prize in 2015. “I still think I was robbed,” he says. “I don’t think anyone was cooking better than me.” But vindication arrived this year when Johnson and Alexander Smalls, the chef, food scholar, and former opera singer who’d mentored him, won a Beard award for Between Harlem and Heaven, a cookbook that’s rooted in the menu they created together at the Cecil. All of which is to say that it would be unwise to bet against JJ Johnson. The man can cook, duh, but at 35 he’s also one of the few young chefs in America with the ability to look forward, beyond the burrataand-avocado-toast clichés that mire so many stateside

menus in dullness. And what Johnson sees on the horizon is rice. FieldTrip, his new globe-trotting temple devoted to the greatest grain, is located in a storefront on Lenox Avenue in Harlem, about five minutes on foot from where Johnson used to cook. The voluminous education that went into Between Harlem and Heaven wound up leading him down a rabbit hole of rice-paddy research, and today he can hold forth on the historical pathways and cooking methods connected to black rice, sticky rice, Texas brown rice, Carolina Gold, aged basmati, you name it; he’s looking to source rice from Bra-

MEN OF MANY TASTES

Johnson and his mentor, Alexander Smalls—who coauthored the award-winning “Between Harlem and Heaven” (above)—visit a market together.

42 Sept e mbe r 2 01 9_ E sq ui re

when the rest of us don’t.

Forget Hot Sauce: Stock Up on This Chili Crisp Now You’ll want to put it on everything • • • Sure, you can drizzle Fly by Jing’s Sichuan Chili Crisp on anything—an omelet, a burger, a bowl of noodles, an otherwise boring platter of steamed vegetables—but if you’re anything like us, you might not even advance to that stage. You might just end up slurping down a jar of the stuff on its own, spoonful by spicy spoonful. Batched in Chengdu with high-quality chiles, Sichuan peppercorns, mushroom powder, and various invisible umami bombs, and with irresistible nubs of chewy heat and funk suspended at the bottom of the jar, this sauce (the crown jewel in Jenny Gao’s Fly by Jing treasure chest) is bound to become a pantry staple for both home cooks and people who want to give their

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the Big Bite

BOOKS

WHERE PE ANUTS MEETS PROUST Cartoonist CHRIS WARE is back with a masterpiece on the modern human condition If ever there was an antidote to the intergalactic quests of the Marvel Universe, it’s the Chris Ware Universe, a depressed cosmos that rarely breaches the boundaries of the Midwest, is populated solely by people born without superpowers, and involves them losing battles against the not-so-simple act of living. Nearly two decades in the making, Ware’s latest book, Rusty Brown, is the first in a pair of volumes about the struggles of the bullied and socially inept Rusty and the characters who surround him. It’s shaping up to be Ware’s epic, a kind of comic-book Ulysses full of unreliable narrators and occasional forays into stream of consciousness. Take that, Stan Lee. Ware gained fame with Jimmy Corrigan: The Smartest Kid on Earth (2000) and the multivolume Building Stories (2012). He’s been heralded as Charles Schulz’s heir and the latest hope to turn comics into the next illustration: C h ri s Wa re

GOOD GRIEF

Chris Ware’s “Rusty Brown” is out on September 24 from Pantheon Graphic Library.

great artistic medium. Ware doesn’t quite buy it: “Even though comics beget superhero cinematic franchises and Pulitzer prizes and museum shows, nothing ever quite seems to stick; we always snap back to being cartoonists. Which is actually good, since it means the reader will never overly revere a cartoonist.” Still, he’s an elder statesman in the field with his trailblazing comic strips of everyday human tragedy. “I see the comic language as potentially the most personal, risky, focused, complex, difficult, democratic, and multifarious visual approach to representing consciousness of anything I can think of,” says Ware, and though Rusty Brown touches on themes both personal (parents, love) and political (racial injustice, the failing American experiment), perhaps its most extraordinary accomplishment is in its depiction of human memory. Ware’s comics don’t necessarily read from left to right but rather in all directions, mimicking our memory’s way of working. In Rusty Brown, characters are called out for remaking their own memory. “Such revision is a process we all go through, copying and pasting our current visions of ourselves into moments that are years and years muddled,” says Ware. Indeed, he has spent so much time on this book that the reader can watch his artistic style change as the story progresses, a meta-twist on the way his characters are reshaping their pasts. “At the risk of sounding pretentious, I always aim as high as I can to capture the sense of what it feels like to be alive,” says Ware, “with Joyce and Proust and Tolstoy and Alice Munro in mind, and with the readability of Peanuts.” —George Pendle Septem ber 2 019 _Es quire 45

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the Big Bite

FILM

The Report is like the world’s most entertaining legal brief. It’s so accurate. Did Jones help you?

“ WE ARE IN A CRISIS OF ACCOUNTABILT Y ”

I was able to call him and say, “Can you explain this footnote?” And that’s complicated because he can’t tell me anything that’s behind those black redacted bars. I can’t know what I’m not supposed to know. Dan was useful in the part of the story that only Dan experienced, which is: What does it feel like to work for six years on a report and now the people who asked you to do it are ambivalent about putting it into the world?

SCOTT Z. BURNS makes the most necessary POLITICAL movie of the year As movie titles go, The Report ranks somewhere between The Dissertation and The Audit. But that’s not the full title. A moment after “The Torture Report” flashes in the opening credits, the word torture is redacted, thus setting up the central tension of the film. Adam Driver (below) plays the real-life Dan Jones, the Senate staffer tasked with investigating the Bush-era program that went by the Orwellian euphemism “enhanced interrogation.” Written and directed by Scott Z. Burns, a longtime Steven Soderbergh collaborator, the film is so procedural that it makes The West Wing look like House of Cards, and shows that the search for truth was a lonely one even before our age of alternative facts. We talked to Burns about directing his first movie for the big screen. —A. C. Esquire: I felt like the movie could have been titled Mr. Smith Investigates the Global War on Terror. Adam Driver has a little bit of a Jimmy Stewart–ish quality. Was that intentional?

Scott Z. Burns: I think that’s a great compliment. There is an accessibility to Adam that Stewart had. He is a very good proxy for the common man. Also, Adam has access to this great range of emotions, which allowed us to have some movement in a movie where, let’s face it, there’s a fair number of people sitting in rooms talking.

BURNS NOTICE

Scott Z. Burns’s “The Report” is out September 27.

Do you think we need to hold the government more accountable?

There are plenty of bad guys in this movie, and the worst of the bad guys are the Bush and Cheney administration and the CIA. But I do think the Obama administration could’ve cleaned up this mess. That was why I made this movie: be-

Flip the Script The ﬁlms that have made Burns one of Hollywood’s most coveted screenwriters

Pu-239 (2007) Burns’s HBO movie follows a man exposed to nuclear radiation.

The Bourne Ultimatum (2007) The best-reviewed Bourne romp of them all.

The Informant! (2009) One of Matt Damon’s weirdest roles.

accountability. Another report has been in the news a lot lately. What grade would you give the Mueller report?

Contagion (2011) Burns went darker in a virus-epidemic thriller that was a box-office hit.

I hope we get to see the unredacted version at some point, just like I hope we get to see the Bond 25 (2020)

the Intelligence ComBurns joins an ace roster mittee report. What’s unof writers including Killing fortunate in this situation Eve’s Phoebe Waller-Bridge. is that our attorney general, who one would hope would have some impartiality in this, seems to want to convince us that it’s a nothingburger. But the rest of us keep reading and seeing that there are all these examples of obstruction of justice. Our inability to have a conversation about this that is independent of our party affiliation is terrifying. 48 September 2019_Esquire

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Wounded Warrior Project helped me reclaim my life.

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the Big Bite

CHARGED UP

The EQC has a range of 279 miles and a 0-to-60 time of 4.9 seconds.

DRIVE

THE GREAT ELECTRIC ROAD TRIP What will 625 MILES in Mercedes’s first ELECTRIC VEHICLE tell you about the future? Even in Norway, where it seems like there’s a higher Tesla concentration than at a Silicon Valley Whole Foods, the EQC, the first all-electric Mercedes-Benz, feels low-profile. This is the most normcore of electric

50 Se pt e mb e r 2 01 9_E sq u ire

THE EV LIFE, BY THE NUMBERS 5.6 million The number of EVs worldwide in 2018, a 64 percent increase over 2017. 7 percent New vehicles sold in the U. S. expected to be EVs by 2025. 69 percent U. S. households that have weekday driving habits within the range of nearly all EV batteries sold today.

wildflowers it made me reach for my Claritin, that I felt at one with its most aggressively eco mode. On this setting you can effectively drive with one pedal—release the accelerator and the car dramatically slows down as if you were downshifting on a racetrack. It’s super involving, which is a rarity in any family-centric crossover. On a journey with so many Instagrammable detours, I often needed to stop to recharge the EQC. Waiting for the battery to fill back up, I’d wander through welldesigned supermarkets and rest stops, observing the more mundane aspects of Scandi culture. Turns out the Swedes truly love lingonberries! And liverwurst. (So much liverwurst.) Was this a gift of unstructured time? Or a delay foisted upon me by the limits of EV technology? Once I reached the autobahn in Germany, however, I felt the need for some fahrvergnügen. I mashed the accelerator, bringing the EQC to its electronically limited top speed of 112 miles per hour, but in the process I massacred the battery. Scheisse! I would have to miss my dinner reservation in Berlin to charge yet again. I ate my gas-station liverwurst smeared with lingonberry jam in a deserted German parking lot. Sometimes it’s not easy being green. —K. S.

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the Code

Because Style Is Always Personal

END-TIMES, BUT MAKE IT FASHION Make the THRIFT-STORE STYLE of dystopian cinema your new muse Why does everyone look so good in modern dystopian movies? Not healthy, exactly—you’re bound to miss a few showers during the apocalypse— but Goodwill chic, perhaps? Think back to The Lobster’s sleek tailoring, or Never Let Me Go’s chunky knits— a seaside energy that makes the whole world feel like a Morrissey-scored Wes Anderson film. In real life, we’re living in the first ten minutes of those movies, the part with mildly alarming news segments and questionable political leadership. So going

Andrew Garfield and Carey Mulligan show off their earth colors in Never Let Me Go (2010).

Jacket ($2,050), shirt ($615), and jeans ($995) by Junya Watanabe MAN; sneakers ($185) by Junya Watanabe x New Balance. p hotog ra p h (st i l l l i fe): Jeffrey Westbrook

Septem ber 2 019_E squ ire 53

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the Code: Trending

grays and blacks, too— think black vest, gray blazer, a pair of loosefitting pants, and loafers. And when it starts getting cold and rainy this fall, top off the look with a plaid trench coat and black boots. Things don’t have to be all doom and gloom, though. Try adding color with your footwear, like a pair of orange sneakers. It’s just about

full hypebeast might not feel right to everyone—and that could be why we’re seeing outfits on the runway that look less Supreme and more Grandpa’s closet. It’s more of a vibe— you can’t put an easy, funny label on it like we all did with sleaze last year—but you can look slick in something more sedate and strippeddown regardless. If you need a nonHollywood reference point for building an outfit, whip up a mental image of an ’80s art student: a patterned, dark green knit paired with brown trousers, or the blue oxford you already own underneath a plaid blazer. You can layer 54

HARBINGER OF ST YLE FRONTED BY ANDREW GARFIELD’S TOP-NOTCH LAYERING, NEVER LET ME GO (TOP AND LEFT) INTRODUCED US TO A SPECIFIC KIND OF ARTSTUDENT STYLE THAT DESIGNERS ARE EMBRACING THIS FALL.

Fall/Winter 2019 runway looks, left to right: Margaret Howell; Gucci; Jil Sander; Dries Van Noten.

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YOUR OLD FLAME JUST TURNED INTO A FIVE-ALARM FIRE.

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the Code: the Endorsement

THE DESERT BOOT’S WEIRD COUSIN The WALLABEE just might be the most versatile standout shoe of the moment

Everyone knows the desert boot. It’s a safe yet stylish standard that works at the office or on a big date. But what’s a more adventurous choice that still keeps you riding on comfy crepe soles? Another Clarks classic: the Wallabee. It’s the desert boot’s weirder cousin— the Pete Davidson to the DB’s Matt Damon. Here’s why it should be in your closet. It’s got a badass history.

Based on a Germandesigned moccasin, the Wallabee didn’t catch on in Clarks’ native Britain when it debuted in 1968. But it was successful in North America, particularly in Jamaica, where “rude boys”—already enamored of the brand’s

desert boot—made it part of their uniform. Thanks to the influx of Jamaican immigrants to New York in the ’70s and ’80s, the shoes were a staple of the early rap scene. A favorite of WuTang Clan, “Wallees” became a hip-hop icon that is still woven into the genre’s fabric. It’s all-purpose.

The square-toed chuk-

56 Se pt e mb e r 2 01 9_ E sq u i re

kas occupy the perfect middle ground between sneakers and more traditional dress shoes. Considering the ever-blurrier lines between dressing up and dressing down, that’s a pretty powerful place to be. Want to give things a more pulled-together vibe? Knock formality out of a suit? They’ll do both. If you’re not quite sure what shoes will work with an outfit, Wallabees ($150) by Clarks Originals.

Wallabees could solve your problem. It’s just different enough.

Despite its revered status in some circles, the Wallabee hasn’t reached a saturation point in popular culture—yet. There’s an

opportunity here, if you’re eager to stand out for the right reasons. A culturally relevant shoe that’s supercomfortable, versatile, and not ubiquitous yet? That’s something you should have in your rotation. — Jonathan Evans

T H E E S Q U I R E E N D O R S E M E N T Heavily researched. Thoroughly vetted. For more of the picks most worthy of your hard-earned cash, go to esquire.com/endorsement.

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the Code: Designers

THE SUIT GOES STREET Leave it to Hedi Slimane and his first collection for Celine to make you want to trade your hoodies for edgy tailoring It is never entirely sensible to declare that the suit is dead. Certainly, the rules that made it the sine qua non of success and all that other boring stuff are long gone. But the right suit is, in fact, suddenly looking full of attitude. For the fall/winter fashion season, the most apparent trend is the reevaluation of tailored clothing. Shifting the goalposts is the whole point of fashion. And for a generation of young men who have reached adulthood without needing a suit at all, it’s looking like a very valid way to move on from the sneakers and hoodies that have permeated fashion. It takes a certain hand and eye to magic this kind of reverse engineering into being, and no one has made a statement clearer or edgier than Hedi Slimane. The opening look of his first standalone show for the

French label Celine was a black double-breasted suit, white shirt, and black tie topped off with wraparound shades. But Slimane went much, much further. The collection also played with other

From left: Wallet ($480), boots ($1,200), sunglasses ($460), and briefcase ($3,950), Celine by Hedi Slimane. 58 Se pte m be r 2 0 1 9_ E sq u ire

old-time establishment ideas—Dad’s tweeds, attachés, pinstripes, and camel coats. Slimane’s monumental influence over the fashion market lies in his rapier-sharp read on music-cult history and, critically, his ability to express it in vital and luxurious ways through clothes. His milieu is precisely what streetwear used to be: sharp, eye-catching, and you-can’t-sitwith-us different. It was the cult bands and musicians that defined these looks— often very specific and codified—and their fans who took them and ran with them. And it would be easy—but a mistake, I think—to try to point to a particular musical movement as the collection’s inspiration. What Slimane does is point instead to a particular attitude, one that transcends time altogether and, as a result, just looks very now. —Nick Sullivan

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the Code: Complications

SLIM STATEMENT Make the DRESS WATCH your new everyday timepiece

Privé Tonneau watch ($26,200) by Cartier; sweater ($455), shirt ($240), trousers ($280), and shoes ($540) by Officine Générale; socks by London Sock Company.

60 Sept e m be r 2 0 1 9_ E sq u ire

It has long been the case—at least since James Bond first shimmied out of a diving suit— for any man striving to make his way in the world that the first wristwatch he buys himself will be a daily beater, a rough-and-ready tool watch, one that’s inspired by diving, flight, car racing, or any variety of adrenaline-fueled adventures. If he’s lucky, he will lunge straight into the meaty-watch market with a TAG Heuer, a Tudor, or even a Rolex that will speak volumes about him, and for one reason alone: Tool watches tend to be big, which makes them visible on the wrist and readily identifiable talismans, even from far away. Dress watches, on the other hand, are the polar flip. Slim, elegant, and precious—like this platinum Cartier Privé Tonneau, a re-creation of a watch that debuted in 1906—they once represented success for a man and went with dressy clothing. Recently, because we have mostly neglected them in favor of their more macho cousins, they spoke most clearly of Grandpa’s sock drawer. But the times they are a-changing. As the rigid rules of dress break down,

photog raph s: Jeffrey Westbrook

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P RO M OT I O N

S T Y L E AGEN DA THE SKY’S THE LIMIT The latest Men’s Dart Jacket from AG Jeans takes a no-holdsbarred approach to seasonal layering. This fresh addition is cut from brand new Range Stretch Corduroy in a relaxed fit with an abstract, bleached-down wash – courtesy of Los Angeles design. Shop new arrivals at https://www.agjeans.com/

FALL FASHION FROM THE EXPERTS IN STYLE With a line of expertly crafted pieces, the Esquire Men’s Jewelry Collection encompasses the right blend of classic and contemporary, in a broad range of styles and materials to complement every fall look. Save now at www.macys.com/EsquireJewelry

GREY GOOSE® VODKA As the season cools down, savor the moments that matter with the very best. With Grey Goose ® vodka, elevate the occasion— big or small—and turn every moment into a memory. Discover the perfect cocktail recipe for any occasion at greygoose.com. Imported by Grey Goose Imp. Co., Coral Gables, Fl. Vodka - 40 % abv distilled from French wheat.

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the Code: Complications Patrimony manual-winding watch ($18,200) by Vacheron Constantin; jacket ($6,095, part of suit) by Giorgio Armani; shirt ($90) by Polo Ralph Lauren.

dress watches no longer need a suit and tie to legitimize them. They look as good with a sweatshirt as they do with black tie. (Provided you care for them— dress watches often come in precious metals.) The kicker, ironically, is that in a sea of jumbo sport watches, bristling like pocket battleships with knobs and doohickeys, a fine small dress watch is actually way more noticeable on the wrist. Go rummage in the drawers next time you’re at the old folks’ home. —N . S .

Calatrava watch ($33,450) by Patek Philippe; sweatshirt ($98) by Todd Snyder + Champion; trousers ($348) by Todd Snyder; boots ($1,980) by John Lobb; socks by Falke. Slim d’Hermès watch ($8,050), sweater ($2,050), and trousers ($1,275) by Hermès.

MEET YOUR FOREVER BAG • • • If you look at messenger bags and think they scream “cargo pants for your laptop,” you just haven’t found the right one. The right one is practical yet beautiful, mobile yet elegant, like this luxe option from Loewe. Here, craftsmanship meets functionality: In a classic shape with a sturdy strap that lends some saddlebag flair, this messenger is fashioned from a soft calfskin that gets better with age. But the bag isn’t just a show pony; it’s also a workhorse. It’s every bit as utilitarian as your standard messenger, but at the same time it’s a showstopper. Stuff it with your iPad, your water bottle, your book, even your gym clothes. Thanks to its many interior compartments, nothing will get lost floating around in the bottom. With this all-grown-up version, you can finally kiss your stack of dirty canvas totes goodbye. —Adrienne Westenfeld Bag ($3,500) by Loewe; T-shirt ($325) and trousers ($450) by Canali; Uno U1-E watch ($615) by Unimatic. 62 Sept e mb e r 2 01 9_ E sq u i re

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Introducing

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the Code

There’s a chance you’ve sipped Don Julio 1942 tequila, sat in a Design Within Reach Lína chair—one of its best-selling pieces—or seen a Billie razor in your girlfriend’s shower. What do they all have in common? They are partly the work of Hlynur Atlason, the Icelandic industrial designer whose eponymous firm is shaking up commercial design by bringing a level of functional beauty rarely seen in mass manufacturing, combined with an emphasis on sustainability. Here are some of his thoughts on design: Keeping it green: I think it’s our responsibility to extract as much function and longevity out of materials as we can. We increasingly need to design with the end in mind— or a new beginning. Packaging matters: Services like Amazon and Blue Apron are just factories for waste. There has to be regulation. True sustainability requires a huge infrastructure. That will change how we design— we’ll design to break things down, reuse parts, and create cycles. Aim for classic: When I started out, I wanted to show that I was clever, so my designs were conceptual. I later realized

HOW I GOT MY STYLE HLY NU R ATL ASON 4 5 , N e w Yo r k C i t y

Talking MID-CENTURY FURNITURE, coffee mugs, and MOTORCYCLES with the designer behind some of your favorite things

Clockwise from top right: A chair designed by Atlason; a Moto Guzzi motorcycle; an asylum mug from Atlason’s sister. 66 Se pt e mbe r 2 01 9 _E sq u ire

that people don’t want weird things. A successful design is one that you want to live with for a long time. It shouldn’t be like a joke that you hear once but don’t want to hear again. Design inspiration: In furniture, I prefer midcentury modernism. I love Jean Prouvé. He took industrial materials but treated them like wood. Everyday treasures: I drink my coffee every morning from a mug that my sister gave me many years ago when

she was working at an insane asylum as a summer job. It has the asylum crest on it. Objects of desire: I love this Moto Guzzi. I saw this same type of bike 15 or so years ago. I couldn’t stop staring. It turned out that the bike was actually quite rare. Only 19 of them were imported to the U.S. at the time. I found one and I worked with a Moto Guzzi specialist in Brooklyn to spruce it up. Great design on a budget: Look on Craigslist for wood furniture. Wood lasts a long time, and you can find well-priced pieces that you can refurbish. Just like in fashion, you want to have some anchoring investment pieces. —As told to Adrienne Westenfeld

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Weight Loss

GET BACK IN

SHAPE Trainer’s AdviCe Can Help You Lose That Extra Weight By Chris Hansen

eing a trainer, bodybuilder, and nutrition expert means that companies frequently send me their products and ask for my stamp of approval. Most of the time I dive into research, test the product out, and send the company honest feedback. Sometimes, however, I refuse to give the product a try, because frankly, the ingredients inside aren’t real food. And I’d rather drink diesel fuel than torture my body with a chemical concoction. Like my father always said, “What you put inside your body always shows up on the outside.” One protein shake that I received, that will remain nameless, was touted as ‘the next big shake’ but really had a list of gut destroying ingredients. Everywhere I read I saw harmful artificial ingredients, added sugars, synthetic dyes, preservatives and cheap proteins; the kind of proteins that keep you fat no matter how hard you hit the gym, sap your energy and do nothing for your muscles. Disappointed after reviewing this “new” shake, I hit the gym and bumped into my favorite bodybuilding coach. This guy is pushing 50, has the energy of a college kid, and is ripped. So are his clients. While I firmly believe that the gym is a notalk focus zone, I had to ask, “Hey Zee, what protein shake are you recommending to your clients these days?” Zee looked at me, and shook his head. “Protein shakes are old news and loaded with junk. I don’t recommend protein shakes, I tell my clients to drink INVIGOR8 Superfood

Shake because it’s the only all natural meal replacement that works and has a taste so good that it’s addicting.” Being skeptical of what Zee told me, I decided to investigate this superfood shake called INVIGOR8. Turns out INVIGOR8 Superfood Shake has a near 5-star rating on Amazon. The creators are actual scientists and personal trainers who set out to create a complete meal replacement shake chocked full of superfoods that—get this—actually accelerate how quickly and easily you lose belly fat and builds even more lean, calorie burning muscle. We all know that the more muscle you build, the more calories you burn. The more fat you melt away the more definition you get in your arms, pecs and abs. The makers of INVIGOR8 were determined to make the first complete, natural, nonGMO superfood shake that helps you lose fat and build lean muscle. The result is a shake that contains 100% grass-fed whey that has a superior nutrient profile to the grain-fed whey found in most shakes, metabolism boosting raw coconut oil, hormone free colostrum to promote a healthy immune system, Omega 3, 6, 9-rich chia and flaxseeds, superfood greens like kale, spinach, broccoli, alfalfa, and chlorella, and clinically tested cognitive enhancers for improved mood and brain function. The company even went a step further by including a balance of pre and probiotics for regularity in optimal digestive health, and digestive enzymes so your body

absorbs the high-caliber nutrition you get from INVIGOR8. While there are over 500 testimonials on Amazon about how INVIGOR8 “gave me more energy and stamina” and “melts away abdominal fat like butter on a hot sidewalk”, what really impressed me was how many customers raved about the taste. So I had to give it a try. When it arrived I gave it the sniff test. Unlike most meal replacement shakes it smelled like whole food, not a chemical factory. So far so good. Still INVIGOR8 had to pass the most important test, the taste test. And INVIGOR8 was good. Better than good. I could see what Zee meant when he said his clients found the taste addicting. I also wanted to see if Invigor8 would help me burn that body fat I’d tried to shave off for years to achieve total definition. Just a few weeks later I’m pleased to say, shaving that last abdominal fat from my midsection wasn’t just easy. It was delicious. Considering all the shakes I’ve tried I can honestly say that the results I’ve experienced from INVIGOR8 are nothing short of astonishing. A company spokesperson confirmed an exclusive offer: if you order INVIGOR8 this month, you’ll receive $10 off your first order by using promo code “ESQ10” at checkout. If you’re in a rush to burn fat, restore lean muscle and boost your stamina and energy you can order INVIGOR8 today at www.DrinkInvigor8.com or by calling 1-800-958-3392.

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the Code: Reconsidered

THE CASE FOR CARGOES (AGAIN) Less function, more fashion B R O T H E R , C A N YO U S PA R E A N ALLEN WRENCH? THEY’VE ALWAYS HAD A POCKET FOR WHATEVER JOB NEEDS DOING, BUT THE NEWEST CARGOES EXTEND THEIR CAPABILITIES.

It’s a genius idea, really: Take the world’s most utilitarian article of men’s clothing and somehow make it even more useful, by making it more versatile. That seems to be the thinking behind one of the unmistakable trends coming out of designers’ workshops at the moment—the reengineering of the humble cargo pant into something that can be worn, well, just about anywhere. Cargo pants have always been the Swiss Army knife of trousers,

with a spare pocket for every eventuality. On any given overscheduled weekend, there’s room for a wallet, keys, and car fob; a phone and earbuds; a pen and small notebook; maybe a tape measure, drill bit, and laser level for the shelves you’re going to hang

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later; even a juice box or two for playground duty. But the very latest versions of these purposebuilt trousers (like the ones from Isabel Marant, on the left) are more finely tailored than past iterations and turned out in a sleeker silhouette with more refined mate-

rial (like the rich wool in the pair from Brunello Cucinelli, middle, or the wool-and-silk blend of the Boss pair at right).

These cargoes can take you from the Home Depot on Saturday to your buttoned-up neighbor’s backyard get-together on Sunday and straight to work on Monday. (Just give them a quick brush-down for any lingering drywall dust.) Of course, you may not need all that pocket space at your desk, but the extra elements and detailing add grace notes of visual interest and lend a forward-looking attitude. They’ll also mark you as a man who recognizes a genius idea, wherever it emerges. —John Kenney

From left: Jacket ($680), trousers ($535), and sneakers ($590) by Isabel Marant Men; T-shirt ($85, pack of two) by Velva Sheen. Jacket ($4,145, part of suit), shirt ($975), and trousers ($1,395) by Brunello Cucinelli; loafers ($228) by Moral Code. Sweater ($648) and trousers ($398) by Boss; boots ($1,150) by Jimmy Choo. ph oto graph s: Al lie Holloway

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STA CYA D A MS . CO M

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STAC YA D AM S. C OM

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PROMOTION

stainless steel case with gold ion plated bezel Japanese chronograph movement 5ATM / 165ft water resistance

available at macys.com

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the Code: The Changeup

BET ON BROWN The OUTERWEAR COLOR

THE OPTIONS

MEET THE BROWNS • • • If you’re willing to go off-script this fall, do it with a luxe brown jacket. Trust us—you have plenty to choose from.

The Warm-up Michael Kors Collection ($1,990)

Suede Upgrade Ben Sherman ($229)

A black jacket can be the backbone of a man’s closet, but let’s face it: By the time black pants and shoes come into play, you’re liable to be mistaken for Keanu Reeves’s John Wick stunt double. You can avoid this fate by working in one of the new crop of fall coats in a softer shade of brown. If you’re worried about resembling a Fudgsicle, inject pattern and texture into your look to add dimension. Whether it’s plaid or checks, suede or leather, a do-all jacket in autumnal brown can bring personality to a traditional

office appearance and polish to the weekend’s jeans and T-shirt. As for the various shades, they run from rich chocolate to tawny. Whichever you choose, the latest jackets have a boxy silhouette, so balance it out with tailored underpinnings, like fitted knits and slim trousers, unless you’re going for a more avant-garde impression. It’s the most stylish way to not look like an undertaker. —A.W.

Fall/Winter ’19 looks, from top right: Brioni; Ralph Lauren; Ami. Above: Josh Brolin and Chadwick Boseman in off-duty browns. 70 Se pt embe r 2 01 9 _E s q u ire

Movie-Star Classic Herno ($1,325)

Tommy Hilﬁger ($330)

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a refined palate deserves pure taste.

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the Code: Grooming

YOUR NEW WEED DEALER IS... SEPHORA Can CBD actually make you look better? It depends on whom you ask. (And what you use.) I started to hear about CBD three years ago. Unsurprisingly, it was around the time that California legalized the recreational use of marijuana and people went pot-crazy. The wave started slowly, with CBD popping up in hippieish earthy oils and fancy Goop-lady lotions that promised immediate zen. But now my coffee shop serves CBD lattes, I’ve walked by a nail salon offering CBD pedicures, and even the bodega across the street put up a neon sign that says WE HAVE CBD. So what is it? CBD (which stands for cannabidiol) is a nonpsychoactive chemical derived from the cannabis plant.

In other words, it won’t get you high. But that doesn’t mean the trend isn’t capitalizing on our national weed obsession. It’s supposed to chill you out—which can explain its popularity in our stressed-out culture—without leaving you stoned. Scientists only recently discovered that our bodies have something called the endocannabinoid system, a network of receptors that react specifically to cannabinoids. It’s through these receptors that CBD delivers its calming effect. And more recently, CBD has been appearing in our grooming products. Why? “There is evidence it has anti-

inflammatory and antioxidant properties,” says dermatologist Jennifer Chwalek. Many skin issues, including eczema, are linked to inflammation. And certain signs of aging are caused by oxidative stress, which anti-

DON’T BOGART THE EYE CREAM, MAN Applying CBD to your face could mean big skin benefits, as long as you know what to use.

H E R B I VOR E EMERALD GLOW OIL

H O R A OV E R NIGHT E XFOLIAT I N G M A S K

CANNUK A CBD CALMING EYE BALM

CODE OF HARMONY R E B E L- C S E R U M

The CBD in this face oil is paired with ashwagandha, another antioxidant. The other ingredients are moisturizers for dry skin.

Exfoliating acids can be harsh, but combining them with the soothing effects of CBD allows this mask to avoid irritating even sensitive skin.

This ultrahydrating under-eye balm uses CBD in combination with grapeseed oil, coconut oil, and shea butter to get rid of bags.

Vitamin C is the ultimate antioxidant, and with the help of CBD, it only gets better at brightening and protecting skin.

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oxidants help reduce. CBD may also help regulate how much oil the pores on our faces secrete, which could have implications for acne. Of course, just because your sunblock has a pot leaf on it doesn’t mean it contains CBD. It’s easy to confuse CBD with the more common cannabis sativa-seed oil, also known as hemp-seed oil, which contains no CBD. “Right now, everything operates in a kind of gray area,” says Anthony Saniger, founder of the CBD retailer Standard Dose. To cut through the pseudoscience, the store employs thirdparty testers to make sure its products live up to their CBD formulation claims.

What makes a good CBD skin-care product isn’t necessarily how much CBD it has but what else is in it, according to Claudia Mata, founder of the CBD brand Vertly. “Plants work well in conjunction with other similarly therapeutic plants,” she says. Skin-soothing ingredients like arnica and calendula play well with CBD since they also have healing properties. Still, thinking of CBD as a magical cure-all isn’t the right approach. “I look at CBD like a vitamin,” says Mata. How it affects you, whether it clears your skin or aids your sleep or limbers up your joints, is a function of what you need. Depending on how much inflammation we have in our bodies, CBD can have a different effect on each of us. Luckily, none of those effects will be the munchies. —Garrett Munce illustration: Euge nia L oli

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ESQ

Unconventional Wisdom

The WORST COLUMN, Revisited This month, DWIGHT G ARNER wanted to try S OME THING DIFFERENT. Inspired by, of all people, Larry King. W E S A I D Y E S .

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ph otog raph: An drew B. M ye rs

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he worst column in the history of American newspapers, according to my subjective assessment, is the one Larry King wrote for USA Today from 1982 to 2001. King’s method was to string together unrelated crushing banalities—“I’ve never been a big fan of Daylight Saving Time,” “Jell-O is still one of the all-time great desserts,” “Burt Reynolds improves the screen by being on it”—with ellipses, as . . . if . . . he . . . were . . . a . . . one-. . . man . . . Chatroulette. Here’s the funny thing: I always read those columns. Maybe it was because I had no dates and no friends and no clue. But like Adam Sandler’s comedies, King’s columns were bad in an almost delicious way. I think I envied his demented ease, the way he skipped over topics like a water bug. He never had to reckon with a Big Theme, or even with the most flickering of ideas. I wondered: Could I write one of those? Hold my martini. . . .

The best book blurb in history is by Dylan Thomas, about a Flann O’Brien novel: “This is just the book to give your sister if she’s a loud, dirty, boozy girl!” . . . If you trust the blurbs on the backs of books, you are a cretin and a sucker. Among all American writers, Barry Hannah best understood how ridiculous men look on fishing piers. . . . Samuel Butler said the truest test of the imagination was naming a cat. . . . T. S. Eliot named his cat Noilly Pratt. . . . Thomas Hardy named his Kiddleywinkempoops. . . . Nietzsche thought we needed new types of house pets, such as lions and eagles, so we could have “hints and premonitions” about how strong or weak we are. . . . Rachel Kushner, in her novel The Mars Room, observed that all cows are badass because they wear leather. It’s disturbing to know publishers have to pay for their books to be sold in airport bookstores. . . . I agree with Saul Bellow that a person should be able to hear, and to bear, the worst that is said about them. . . . Dorothy Parker said her two most favorite words in the English language are “check enclosed.” . . . To my ear, the worst words in the English language are blaring, titular, downright, risible, kudos, exquisite, and lyrical, not necessarily in that order. In Karen Russell’s book of short stories Vampires in the Lemon Grove, a character asks, as I more or less did in high school, “Under what circumstances can you imagine sleeping with me? Global apocalypse?

National pandemic?” . . . In his diaries, Samuel Pepys wrote that a lady once turned and spat on him by mistake, but he didn’t mind because she was pretty. I like to think I’m an adventurous eater— I’m a member of an eating club called the Organ Meat Society—but there’s a character in Maxine Hong Kingston’s memoir The Woman Warrior who deep-fries a ghost. . . . There are only two recipes you need in the bank. . . . Norman Mailer’s steak, where you cook a sirloin on one side until the smoke alarm goes off, then flip . . . and Frank Sinatra’s burgers: “1.) Call for Deano. 2.) Tell him to make you a fuckin’ burger. 3.) Drink his bourbon.” . . . What became of those Cadillacs Elvis doled out to his friends? I live according to Calvin Trillin’s law of compensatory cash flow, which dictates that if you debate making a major purchase even momentarily but do not, you now have that money to spend on anything you like. . . . The great literary interview of our era is Gary Shteyngart in Modern Drunkard magazine, where he complains that writers today are “corporatized. We all know who pays us.” . . . When Don McLean was asked what the lyrics to the song “American Pie” mean, he replied that they mean he doesn’t have to work anymore. According to Saint Augustine’s Confessions, Saint Ambrose was the first person to be able to read without moving his lips. . . . W. H. Auden said thank God

ALL COWS ARE BADA S S BECAUSE THE Y WE AR LE ATHER . for books as an alternative to conversation. . . . Herman Wouk said that life is slow suicide, unless you read. . . . John Updike wrote, and I am with him, “The world keeps ending but new people too dumb to know it keep showing up as if the fun’s just started.” . . . The poet Chelsey Minnis once wrote, “Do you want me to write a poem? / Then hold my flask.” I’m not too proud to give credit where it’s due: Larry King was probably right about Burt Reynolds . . . maybe about Jell-O, too . . . and definitely about Daylight Saving Time. Total BS. S epte mber 2019_E squi re 75

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“Good manners and good

in all departments takes a bigger toolbox. To scent your life, you need to

look at your home, laundry, medicine cabinet, even your car. Here’s how to get it done easily, even if you’re not a cologne guy. P H O T O G R A P H S by

BURNING DESIRE

IT’S TIME TO RECONSIDER

Incense I T ’ S N O LO N G E R T H E H AC K Y SAC K O F S C E N TS

••• I burn so much incense that a neighbor once

thought my apartment was on fire. Smoky incense can seem risky to the uninitiated, but when it comes to flame-based scent, candles can’t hold a candle to ’cense. I’ve never found anything else that can scent my apartment as quickly or effectively. Still, it gets a bad rap, maybe because of its association with the Catholic church and college-town 7 6 Se pt e m b e r 2 0 1 9_ E sq u ire

Don Penny

I L L U S T R A T I O N S by

Kelsey Dake

head shops; lots of us can’t shake the memories of heavy, musky, oppressively perfumed smoke. But that one-note incense from your younger years is not the kind you should be burning in your apartment. A good incense, like those you find at Brooklyn yoga studios or Tokyo denim emporiums, is as complex as a good cologne. The best (like the three at right) are made from natural substances that fill your space with a layered complexity the fanciest candle can’t hope to replicate. The real draw of incense, though, is the inescapable mystical quality. Burning it makes even the most basic room feel like a fortune-teller’s den or a haunted antique bookstore. So next time you’re about to light a candle, consider an incense stick (or cone or hunk of resin) and set that baby ablaze. —Garrett Munce

Costa Brazil Breu resin (right) A hunk of resin is the showman’s version of incense. $145 Norden Ojai incense sticks Smoky and sharp like an airy cabin in the California mountains. $20 Incausa Palo Santo wood incense bricks Palo Santo has been used for centuries for its uplifting abilities. $7

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This resin sourced from the Amazon releases a unique, spicy aroma.

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P E TA L P O W E R

SMELL LIKE A

Flower This Fall. SERIOUSLY. T I M E TO G E T P R O G R E S S I V E , M A N

••• Cologne has always had more in common with cigar bars than with perfumery. Man scents are built on stereotypically male elements like wood, leather, and smoke; it’s generally thought that to be sufficiently masculine, a cologne should have some sort of musk or, the fancier version, oud that can sometimes mimic the smell of sweat (but, like, in a good way). The results are heavy, aggressive, primal. But things change. Culturally, we’re waking up to toxic masculinity; olfactorily, we’re getting into florals. We typically think of floral scents as feminine, but that’s thanks to generations of marketing. “Florals are genderless,” says Pat78 Sept e mb er 2 01 9 _E sq u i re

rick Kelly, founder of unisex fragrance brand Sigil Scent. “If a person is drawn to a particular scent, so be it.” The power of these new floral-forward colognes lies in the mix of ingredients. They don’t completely leave behind the classic man-scent elements but instead use ingredients like musks and patchouli to temper the sweetness of the florals and make them earthier. The results are more like a bouquet lit on fire than your grandmother’s garden. They’re fresh, surprising, and mysterious, inviting people to get closer to your skin and give you a good whiff. Isn’t that what a cologne is for, anyway?—G. M.

From left: Tom Ford Beau de Jour Lavender blended with rosemary and oakmoss makes this new cologne reﬁned and fresh, like a sharkskin suit you can wear every day, but not as in-your-face. $240 • Gucci Mémoire d’Une Odeur The new unisex scent from Gucci mixes coral jasmine with musk and sandalwood to create a mysterious, artistic vibe as if you were raised by a family of Gypsies. $120 • Byredo Slow Dance The midnight violet combined with cognac and vanilla in this fragrance is like a specialty cocktail at the most exclusive bar in town, but lasts longer. $260 • Sigil Amor Fati The heady smokiness of palo santo, incense, and oud are tempered with green pine needles and galbanum—the resin from a ﬂowering plant—in this sexy but not aggressive scent. $120 • Missoni Parfum pour Homme This Italian cologne’s lavender and jasmine are saturated with lemon leaves and ginger. Think dining al fresco at your very own Tuscan villa. $89

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HOW TO

APPLY COLOGNE SO YOU DON’T SMELL LIKE “THAT” GUY The age-old problem for any cologne-wearing human is how to put it on without smelling like you fell into a bucket of the stuff. No one wants to be the guy whose aroma announces his presence before he’s entered the room. This is how to scent yourself without overdoing it.

The Cloud Method The most classic of all cologne-application techniques: Spritz a few times into the air in front of you. Walk through the cloud so the scent settles on your clothes.

NO “BITS OF REAL PANTHER” REQUIRED

A Cologne-Averse Man’s Guide to Smelling Good When I was growing up, my mother

would take the long way through the mall’s department store to actively avoid its overeager, fragrance-wielding associates. She’s a migraine sufferer— something she passed down to me—and cologne is one of our worst triggers. I tried to ﬁght it as best I could. When I was old enough to care what I smelled like, I bought Michael Jordan Cologne, because Michael Jordan had a cologne. It’s still packed away somewhere, only a few spritzes spritzed from its clear-and-black bottle. I’m thirty years old now and I can’t remember the last time I wore cologne. But I do, believe it or not, care what I smell like. For those of us who don’t have that naturalmusk thing going on, there are a few available tactics that aren’t meant to make you smell nice but do

nonetheless. I start with the hair product. Most of the good ones these days aren’t deliberately scented, but the natural smell of American Crew’s Forming Cream ($11) gives off a straight-from-the-barbershop scent. On my hands, I apply Restoration Hardware’s Belgian Linen Hand Cream ($24) a few times a day. Of course, a good deodorant goes a long way here. I recently became an aerosol convert because Dove Men + Care’s “Extra Fresh” ($6) is true to its name (and lasts more than a day).

($6) to each load of laundry. Altogether it’s a Captain Planet of a routine, and when its powers combine, it proves even a cologneaverse guy can be told he

UNDERARM UPGRADE

GO NATURAL.

With Your Deodorant, THAT IS. G O O D FO R YO U, G O O D FO R T H E P L A N E T

••• The Superman Method Arguably the most subtle approach: Dust your bare chest with two spritzes of cologne before putting on your shirt.

Natural deodorant is no longer something you’ll find only at a local farmers market. And gone are the days of it failing on you—these new versions actually work (and they smell great, too). There’s really no reason not to go natural. After all, neither our bodies nor the planet benefits from more and more chemicals being pumped into it. While “natural” deodorant isn’t an official category, in general you should look for something free of alcohol, aluminum, parabens, and sulfates. Any ingredients homegrown or pulled right from nature itself? Well, all the better. Whenever you’re looking to refresh your medicine cabinet, gym bag, or Dopp kit, opt for one of these six choices. Your skin, and Mother Nature, will thank you.

Ursa Major Hoppin’ Fresh Deodorant Ursa Major’s signature blend of peppermint and eucalyptus makes for about the coolest-feeling deodorant application you could imagine. Plus, the fresh smell stays with you all day long.

and coconut oil to ease sensitive pits.

CTRL uses cornstarch to absorb odor.

dry formula is especially handy for a post-gym refresh.

The Body-Heat Method Some say cologne should interact with the heat of your skin. Spray onto the inside of your wrists and then dab behind your ears so the scent is activated at your pulse points.

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STAY CLASSY WITH

Candles SET THE MOOD RIGHT

••• No home is complete with-

out candles. They prove that you, an adult, have your shit together enough to be tuned in to what the subtle scent and soft glow of a burning wick can do. And trust us, it can do a lot. A candle makes you feel comforted. It makes you feel like a pine forest is outside the window, or a sagebrush desert and an open sky. It roots you in happy memories of happy places. And, quite honestly, it’s an impressive hosting flex to invite your guests in, strike a long-stemmed match or flick open a lighter, and light a good-smelling flame. So don’t pick a candle dud like anything brightly colored that smells like a pie, a Christmas tree, or a piña colada. Stick with these. —Sarah Rense From left: Norden O J A I Norden is based in southern California, and it took inspiration for this candle from late wintertime in the state’s verdant Ojai Valley, with the woodsy scents of palo santo, patchouli, and frankincense. This candle burns essential oils, and the base is reusable. $55 • Le Labo S A N T A L 2 6 Le Labo artisanal candles are to be treasured. They’re that good. Santal 26 in particular is a favorite, with smoke and leather tones. $75 • Apotheke C H A R C O A L Brooding and minimal. Its cedar and sandalwood scent serves up serious yet subtle vibes. $38 • Malin+Goetz C A N N A B I S Earthy with a slight sweetness, it’s the closest you’ll get to an herbal scent without stepping into a garden. In other words, it doesn’t smell like weed. $55 • D. S. & Durga C O N C R E T E A F T E R L I G H T N I N G No joke, this was meant to smell like a thunderstorm over asphalt. Amazingly, it does. $65 • Diptyque A M B E R The Diptyque amber is ubiquitous for good reason: There’s no way you won’t like the complex mix of woodsy smells with spice. $95 • P. F. Candle Co. T E A K W O O D A N D T O B A C C O Also known as the “boyfriend candle” because it smells like all things sturdy and reliable: teak, black pepper, tobacco, and leather. $20

A WHIFF OF CELEBRITY

Can You Smell Like Success? In the pursuit of smelling good, there’s no shame in looking for some inspiration. Imagine

smelling rich and famous—the nostril equivalent of tasting the world’s finest wine. Like describing wine, though, I wondered: Could we get this down to a science? Or even a pseudo-science? Hard journalists have been chronicling how the famous smell for years, so I started with the man I’d most like to emulate. Speaking to BuzzFeed in 2016, Lin-Manuel Miranda said that President Obama smells like success. More specifically, “success. . . and bold pragmatism.” That’s difficult to find on the shelf, so I kept searching. Jim Parsons told Ellen DeGeneres that Rihanna smells like “heaven,” but that’s pretty subjective, too. I know because I dabbed a bit of whiskey and pepperoni on my neck to little fanfare. I stumbled upon The Cut’s 2016 interview with Tom Brady. The writer said the quarterback smells like “clean wood.” Better than “dirty wood,” but still vague. Where are the regimens? Where’s the product? Elle asked Xenia Deli, the woman who licked Justin Bieber’s chest once, what he smells like. She said, “Pretty expensive perfume.” For the love of God, Xenia, what brand? But midquest, the answer appeared like a freshly washed angel emerging from a shower fog. In Tom Junod’s 2013 Esquire profile of George Clooney, he described the actor’s smell perfectly: “He smells like soap.” George Clooney, the coolest of the cool, is out there coasting on the scent of soap while I’m cleaning the residue of booze and cured meats off my neck. Turns out the key to smelling rich and famous might just be getting rich and famous. —Justin Kirkland

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SCENTS FOR

Everywhere Else IN YOUR LIFE N O P E , N OT F E B R E Z E

••• Living a good-smelling life doesn’t

EAU DE OBLIVION

What’s It Like to Not Be Able to Smell? It took me three months to realize I had lost my

Sense of Smell. I had just bought a lilac tree for my front yard, and I kept smelling the flowers and thinking, Damn, I can’t believe I bought a lilac tree that has no smell. Then it hit me. I hadn’t smelled anything in a long time. I did notice my farts were odorless, but I thought that was just a gift from God. After visits to multiple doctors and various failed treatments, there was a general consensus that my loss of SoS was probably caused by scar tissue from a previous sinus surgery. First denial, then acceptance. And that’s when the missing began. The smells I miss: the smell after it rains, the smell before it rains, the smell of a fireplace fire, the smell of linden trees (I grew up around them), the smell of the bottom of my dogs’ paws, the smell of frying onions and chicken fat (otherwise known as gribbenes), the smell of hardware stores. The smells I don’t miss: bathrooms, cleaning up dog poop, yellow taxis, skunk roadkill, the inside of hospitals, Pier 1, gyms, that whiff you get when a runner whooshes by. I’ve come to realize it is a legit handicap. Not as bad as losing one of your other senses, but it impacts everyday life. Especially when you live by yourself. One day my dog walker called me at work to tell me that my house smelled like gas. Turns out one of the knobs on the oven was slightly turned. I bought a natural-gas detector. I cannot smell food to see if it’s gone bad. And maybe the worse danger: not knowing if you can go one more day without showering. I feel like I lost an old friend. I think most of all I miss the memories that come along with smells. That linden-tree smell could take me back to any summer of my childhood in an instant. The smell of gribbenes cooking on the stove could transport me to past Passovers. SoS is the forgotten sense, the one most taken for granted. So next time you walk by a lilac tree in the spring, take a deep sniff and say thank you. —Helene F. Rubinstein

stop at what kind of deodorant you use or what cologne you spray before you leave the house. Your house, in fact, is the oft-forgotten but still important area of your world that’s begging to be scented. The same goes for your car, your closet, your office, and any other space you occupy with frequency. Smell is powerful and can instantly change your mood, help you sleep better, and keep

your place more date friendly. Not to mention it can camouflage a shocking number of evils (like a full trash can, a pile of dirty laundry, or the place on your couch where your dog takes naps). But before you start spraying Febreze with abandon, there is a whole world of things that help your environment smell good and look great while doing it. Here’s what you need to make your place smell its best without sacrificing style. —G. M.

Bastide Ambre d’Or Potpourri Crystals (below) Remember that crunchy bowl of potpourri in your grandma’s bathroom? This isn’t it. These crystallized chunks of tree sap look like actual amber and emit a subtle, warm scent that makes your house smell like the South of France. $80 • D. S. & Durga Car Air Freshener Still made of cardboard like the classic rearview-mirror-dangling pine trees, these fresheners are better smelling than anything you’d ﬁnd at a gas station. Think a hip scented candle, but traffic safe. $10 • The Laundress Lavender Pouch Nothing gets rid of clean-laundry smell faster than musty drawers and stuffy closets. Natural sachets keep closets fresh, and lavender is a moth repellent. $12 • Sandoval Interior Aromatic Spray Consider this a Febreze for grown-ups. Formulated with natural ingredients and good vibes as a refresher for stale-smelling areas and furniture and linens. $46 • Vitruvi Diffuser This efficient device uses steam and essential oils to ﬁll even large spaces with customizable fragrance. Plus, you won’t be embarrassed to leave it out for company. $119

These potpourri crystals look like candy, but they’re actually tree sap. Smell, don’t eat.

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It ’s a Saturday in June and I’m running on time to meet Woody Harrelson, but one subway delay, one wrong turn, one mother with a double stroller failing to keep pace and clogging the already clogged sidewalks of midtown and I’ll be running behind. Adding to my anxiety: the possibility that I have no voice, not so much as a croak (laryngitis, a bad case). Brushing past a pair of doormen, I enter the lobby of a residential tower on the southwest tip of Central Park. I beeline for the elevator bank, press the UP button, and glance at my phone. Two minutes after the hour. I’m now officially late. My pores open, sweat gushing out. At last, a muted ding as the doors slide apart. I board. To calm myself, I pull from my bag a sheaf of clippings on Woody. The big takeaway of recent years: He spent his entire adult life cuckoo for cannabis and then, in 2016, gave it up. And yet, as I emerge from the elevator, I detect, if I’m not mistaken (and, frankly, I don’t see how I could be because it’s that

strong), the sweet, feral stink of marijuana. Moments later, I’m standing at the entryway of the designated apartment, which doesn’t belong to Woody—he lives in Maui with his wife, Laura, and their three daughters, Deni, twenty-six; Zoe, twenty-two; and Makani, thirteen—but to a friend. I knock, and the door falls open as soon as my knuckles graze it. I take a tentative step inside. Then another. Then another. The smell is so strong now that it’s almost a taste. I take two more steps, and I’m at the edge of a large living room. In the center of it is Woody. Here’s what I see: a man of medium height, medium build, in a T-shirt and shorts. His hair is fair and mostly gone, and he keeps it short, the same length as the stubble on his jaw. His body is tight and muscular, yet he holds it in a loose and lithe way. His eyes are bright blue, and the whites, at this moment and for obvious reasons, are pale pink. He looks not just younger than his age, fifty-eight; he looks dramatically younger—early forties, tops. Behind him is a table, long and wooden, atop which sit a bottle of mineral water; a manila envelope with the CAA insignia on it; the latest issue of Rolling Stone, the Weed Issue, of all issues, with, of all people, Willie Nelson, Grand Poobah of weed, on the cover, smoking, of all things, weed; two Ziploc baggies of weed; a Willie’s Reserve vape cartridge; rolling papers; a lone sock. The silence stretches, becoming awkward. To break it, I say, “Hi.” My voice sounds like something scraped by a cheese grater and dropped to the bottom of a well. Woody hears it and his eyes go wide, and then he flashes that great Woody grin (gap-toothed, earto-ear) and lets out that great Woody giggle (half idiotic, half maniacal, all adorable) and in his great Woody drawl (languidspacey, sexy-freaky, and purely stoned-sounding) says, “Whaaat? That is ridiculous.” And I nod because, yes, my voice is ridiculous. My voice is fucking absurd. Woody picks up the Willie’s Reserve cartridge, asks if I smoke. I confess that I do not, and then add that I thought he didn’t either anymore. He takes a thoughtful pull on the cartridge. “Yep, I did quit,” he says on the exhale. “For almost two years. No smoking, no vaping. And then I ran into this guy”—he leans over and gives Rolling Stone Willie Nelson an affectionate chuck un-

der the chin—“and that was that. See, everybody thinks of Willie as a model of progressive thinking and virtue, and he is, but he’s also got an evil side. Eee-vil. Now, Willie never felt too good about me quitting. And he kept trying to get me to not quit. We’d be playing poker and he’d pass me a vape pen, and I’d say, ‘Willie, man, I don’t do that anymore.’ And he’d act surprised, like it was news to him—every time, just as surprised as he could be. Then we were in Maui, and you know the whole reason I’m in Maui in the first place is Willie. Yeah, I went and saw one of his shows a number of years ago. I wanted to meet him. So afterward, I went to his bus and knocked on the door, and the door opened, and smoke was billowing out, and I look through the haze and I see this fellow with long hair holding a big old fatty, and he says, ‘Let’s burn one.’ And I know right away that he’s going to be a friend for life. He told me he had a place in Maui and to come on out, and that’s how I just sort of ended up there. Anyway, Willie passed me the pen after I’d won this huge pot. I was in a celebrating mood, so I snatched the pen from him and took a long draw. And Willie smiled at me and said, ‘Welcome home, son.’” We both turn to the window, floor-toceiling, and goof on the view, panoramic. “So what are you doing in town?” I finally say. “I came to see a new play. Saw it last night, as a matter of fact. It’s called Happy Talk.” “How was it?” “Jesse Eisenberg wrote it, and that guy is just a genius.” “Good actor, too. He’s your costar in Zombieland,” a 2009 zombie-apocalypse movie that was also a send-up of zombie-apocalypse movies, directed by Ruben Fleischer. “That’s right,” Woody says.

“I h a lo ad a To t o f R l o t o f of n get K A G E ange r, you urse I C K E . go ’ve g r y sc D O som ot hoo UT l, e d to i s ta nce .” Se ptem ber 2 019_Es quire 85

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“And your costar in the Zombieland sequel,” technically called Zombieland 2: Double Tap (in theaters October 18), directed once again by Ruben Fleischer. “You got it.” “And the Zombieland sequel is the whole point of this interview.” A cloud passes over Woody’s sunny face. “Yeah, it is the whole point of this interview. But I’m not allowed to talk about it.” “You’re not?” “I mean, fuck it. I’ll talk about it with you.

“It’s a hike. Seventy-ninth and Lex.” “Distance isn’t a problem.” He looks doubtfully at my high heels. “You sure?” I express confidence in the resiliency of my feet, though privately I’m as skeptical as he is. He gives a que-será-será shrug, then claps twice. “All right. Let’s do it. I’ll be right back.” I watch him vanish up a staircase I didn’t even know was there. I pull out a chair from the table, all ready to sit down, and that’s when I see it, the book splayed across the

Those same conspiracy theorists are convinced that the tallest tramp was Charles Harrelson, Woody’s dad, a professional hitman and organized-crime figure who died in prison while serving a pair of consecutive life sentences for shooting a federal judge and who, during a subsequent standoff with police, jacked on cocaine and holding a gun on himself, confessed to murdering Kennedy. (All right, yes, so maybe I don’t think the Warren Commission played it straight with the American public. Maybe I don’t believe

Shirt by Dolce & Gabbana; vest by Brioni; bow tie by Drake’s; cuff links by Paul Stuart.

I’ll talk about it with you till the cows come home. It’s just, the studio people don’t want me giving anything away.” “Ah, spoilers, et cetera.” “I’ll tell you one thing about the movie, though, Lili. You’re going to love it. I don’t feel comfortable guaranteeing that to the masses, but I’ll guarantee it to you.” That settled, Woody pats his flat stomach. “I’m hungry. Could you eat? How about a walk through the park and then lunch at Candle 79? It’s my favorite vegan restaurant in the world. We’ll get some coconut water for that voice of yours.” “Great.” 86 Se pt e mb e r 2 01 9 _E sq u i re

Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. Maybe I’ve spent some—okay, a lot of—time pursuing alternative explanations.) I deep-breathe my way to calmness just as Woody returns. He’s still in his T-shirt and shorts, though he’s added sandals, which appear to be made out of some all-natural, cruelty-free fabric and which shouldn’t work on anybody yet do on him, and a baseball hat with the words DRUGS AND WINE stitched above the brim. No one has ever looked less like the son of a gunned-up, mobbed-up, bad-hombre jailbird. Halfway out the door, he smacks his forehead and says, “Wallet, keys!” then trots back inside.

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Together we exit the building and cross the street to Central Park. I’m a little worried about going out in public with him. It’s not just that he’s famous; it’s that he’s been famous for so long. His career began in 1985, when he joined the cast of Cheers as the bartender everybody wanted to share a cold one with, Woody Boyd. Woody (the character) was a sweet-natured, dim-witted country boy, and Woody (the person) inhabited him so easily and openly, without the faintest hint of coyness or condescension, that a

(1994) and the porn kingpin and scourge of the God-fearing Christian Right Larry Flynt in The People vs. Larry Flynt (1996). In recent years, Woody’s gravitated toward supporting roles in award-season prestige pictures such as Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (2017) and Emmy-bait TV shows such as True Detective (2014), as well as ka-ching franchises such as The Hunger Games and Star Wars. He often eclipses the nominal stars, not by upstaging or undercutting (he’s blessedly free of screen-hog

hazy sky, soft rays reflecting off the spokes of bicycles and the carts of ice cream vendors. Around us, lolling on the grass, are carefree youth and cooing lovebirds, families with picnic baskets and soccer balls and Frisbees. I’d be in danger of entirely giving myself over to the pleasures of the day if not for Woody’s tendency to wander into oncoming traffic. The first time I became aware of this little quirk was a few minutes ago, when we were moving from the south side of Fifty-ninth

viewer might be forgiven for thinking that Woody (the person) was also a sweet-natured, dim-witted country boy. He wasn’t. He’d prove his smarts and his savvy by establishing himself as one of the most viable leading men of the nineties in movies in a range of styles and moods, from the hyperarticulate trash talk of White Men Can’t Jump (1992) to the erotic trance-out of Indecent Proposal (1993). He’d prove, too, his daring and his defiance when he risked that viability by playing ultra-unsavory, low-rent dudes possessed of a scary and scummy machismo, including the mass-murdering lover boy Mickey Knox in Natural Born Killers

impulses) but through sheer naturalness and sly, oh-you-rascal-you panache. He’s one of those actors who are easy to overlook or take for granted because they’re so good they don’t appear to be acting. As we enter the park, I realize my worry about a crowd mobbing Woody was a needless one. He’s slipped on a pair of sunglasses. And those, along with the hat, make him virtually unrecognizable. He sets the pace, so we’re not motoring—my usual mode—but moseying, taking in the sights and sounds, our strides loose and loping. The day, I suddenly notice, is beautiful, absolutely primo. Not hot, warm, the sun still climbing in the

Street to the north side, and he stepped off the curb in spite of the DO NOT WALK sign flashing, and I grabbed him and yanked him back. If I’d been a beat slower, an Escalade would have flattened him. The second time is now. We are strolling along Center Drive, car-free, which should mean he’s perfectly safe, except it doesn’t because he won’t stay in the pedestrian lane, keeps drifting into the bike lane. A speeding pedicab comes within inches of him on his right, and I yank him again. Before I can dispel from my brain images of him lying in the road, his guts oozing like SpaghettiOs onto the pavement, and me, next to those guts, making an extremely Septem ber 2 019_E squ ire 87

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s r a e l c r e it a , w s e e t h t r t pla his r e t Af desse s out t h e DY p u l l n d h i s y o u WOO oc bag a cool as Zipl rs and, ns p a p e s e , b e g i J O I N T. plea LING A ROL

awkward call to his publicist, a policewoman on an enormous white horse comes within inches of him on his left, and I yank him yet again. He gives me a curious look but seems otherwise unperturbed. We stop to watch the commotion: the policewoman pulling over the pedicab driver; the pedicab driver trying to talk the policewoman out of writing a ticket; the policewoman writing a ticket; the horse smelling both their hair. Woody grins. “Hey, we just saw a crime go down.” I decide now would be a good time to ask him about his childhood. (I’m not a Freudian, but I’m not not a Freudian.) The basics: Born in Midland, Texas, in 1961. His father abandoned the family when Woody was seven, right around the time he started acting out at school. His mother, Diane— maiden name Oswald, no known relation to Lee Harvey, yet I attach mystical significance to this coincidence anyway, just can’t help myself—a devoutly religious legal secretary, moved Woody and his two brothers to her hometown of Lebanon, Ohio, when he was twelve. To get the ball rolling, I say, “You were a troubled kid?” “Yeah, that would be an accurate statement, I suppose. Though I was a mama’s boy, too.” We’re walking again, and there is, I realize, no graceful way to record the conversation, so I just stick my phone under his chin, try to catch the words falling out of his mouth. He continues: “I had a lot of anger, a lot of rage. To get kicked out of nursery school, you’ve got to go some distance. And then I also got kicked out of first grade. They thought I stole a purse, but I didn’t, and a teacher beat me up for stealing a purse I didn’t steal. So I went around the school breaking windows with my bare fists. After that, I had the blessing of going to Briarwood,” a private school in Houston catering to children with special needs. “The idea there was to educate and simultaneously give love to the child, which sounds hokey, but it worked. I’d do something that was wrong or violent, and they’d treat me with love.” “Was the relocation to the Midwest difficult for you?” I ask. “No, it was good. I wasn’t an outcast anymore. I remember my mother saying, ‘Your teacher told me you’re quite popular with the other children.’ I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew she was proud of me.” “When did you become interested in acting?” “I was in my first play my junior year of 88 Sept e mb e r 2 0 1 9_ E sq u ire

high school. The closest thing I’d done to acting before that was an Elvis impression for the guys on the football team. I’d do ‘All Shook Up.’ The play was for my church. Actually, it wasn’t really a play. What do you call that time in Bethlehem—you know, like, in the manger?” “The nativity scene?” “That’s right. But funny. I played a drunk. I had this great entrance where I came in from the back and stumbled between the pews and landed in the lap of my great-grandmother Polly.” He’s describing Polly’s reaction when I spot a fork in the road. “I think if we go right here, we’ll come out on Seventy-second and Fifth,” I say. “That’s the turn we want.” “Nah, nah, we got a little ways more to go.” “Are you sure? Because my gynecologist is on Seventy-fifth and Fifth, and the cab driver always—” “Nope, we’ve got to keep going.” I shrug, keep going. “Let’s get into your college years,” I say. “You went to Hanover College, in Indiana?” “On a Presbyterian scholarship. I majored in English and theater. I almost minored in theology, because I was considering going into the ministry.” “And then, I guess, you reconsidered?” “That I did.” He chuckles. “You know, Mike Pence was there at the same time.” I almost drop my phone. “You’re kidding me.” “As a freshman, I gave a sermon to a youth group, and Mike was the guy running the show. He was a junior, I think.” “What did you make of him?” “He struck me as a nice guy, very sincere. I don’t know how well we’d get along now, but we got along okay then.” I spend more time probing this Mike Pence connection because—well, because it fascinates me. Two sides of the American male archetype: The hedonist versus the holy roller; the profane versus the sacred; Hollywood’s

wildest wild child, a raw-foodist and eco-crusader and Iraq-war protester and marijuana-legalization champion, versus the prim and proper vice-president of the United States, a man who calls his wife Mother and who is triggered by the 1998 animated Disney feature Mulan, briefly intersecting at a small college in a sleepy town in the middle of the country. It’s one of those crazy accidents of geography and history, and it’s enough to make you believe not only in a higher power but in a higher power with a sense of irony. I raise my head and glimpse, through the foliage, a street sign. I point it out to Woody. “Eightyeighth Street?” he says, removing his hat, wiping the sweat from his brow. “That is a serious overshoot.” “I don’t think there’s another exit for a while, so we should probably go back to the last one.” “Not necessary. I can fix this.” He turns, starts tramping through the small wooded area between the paved path and the wall that divides Central Park from the city proper. He mounts the waist-high wall. “All we got to do is climb over this thing,” he shouts, and then disappears over the edge. I run after him, sidestepping tree roots and underbrush. When I reach the wall, I look down. There he is, beaming up at me from the sidewalk. “Yeah,” I say. “I don’t think so.” “It’s not so far.” The drop is eight feet, minimum. Trying to keep my tone un-freaked-out, I say, “I think you’re failing to factor in my heels.” “So take ’em off.” This I cannot, must not, do. I developed blisters about twenty minutes ago; those blisters popped about ten minutes ago. At present, my feet and shoes are fused together. Their separation would mean blood, lots of it. “Come on,” he says. “It’s easy.” I make a few quick calculations. If I retreat, attempt to find an official point of egress, and return to this spot, a quarter of an hour will have passed. In that time, Woody might get lost or get himself killed. (The cars on Fifth Avenue move fast.) At the very least, our conversational rhythm will have been broken. The moment has come for me to, in the words of Tallahassee, the character Woody plays in Zombieland, “nut up or shut up.” I clamber to the top of the wall and throw my legs over it. I hang there for several seconds, my sole consolation being that my skirt is formfitting, which lessens the possibility of my flashing the entire Upper East Side. I close my eyes, hold my breath, let go. Miracle of miracles, I land on my feet. Woody applauds.

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We make it to the restaurant alive. Woody did have a few more close calls en route. (A Mercedes honked at him after he stepped in front of it at the median strip on Park Avenue, and he backed up, muttering, “Okay, okay, why’s everybody so serious?”) But somewhere between Eighty-fourth Street and Eightieth, I realized that vigilance was not required of me in this situation because he was in no need of saving. His relationship to danger is roughly equivalent to Wile E. Coyote’s relationship to gravity: If Wile E. walks off a cliff, he’ll remain suspended in the air until he recognizes the dire nature of his predicament, at which point he’ll plummet. Woody does Wile E. one better. He never recognizes that he’s in danger, and that’s why he never is. Danger can’t touch him. Over black bean–pumpkin seed burgers and bread-crumb-crusted cauliflower, Woody discusses his career regrets (“I was offered— what’s the ‘Show me the money’ movie? Jerry Maguire? I was offered Jerry Maguire, and I said to Jim [James L. Brooks, one of the film’s producers], ‘Nobody is going to give a shit about an agent’ ”); his initial impression of Zombieland (“My agent sent me the script, and I said, ‘Zombies, dude? Really? Has it come to this?’ And he said, ‘Will you please just read it?’ Finally, I did, and I’m like, ‘Damn. That’s good writing’ ”); and his possible homecoming (“I kind of love the idea of moving back to Texas, maybe Austin, maybe over by Matthew [McConaughey] or up by Willie”). After the waiter clears the dessert plates— chocolate–peanut butter bliss, a double order—Woody pulls out his Ziploc bag and his

Spot On: Weed By Seth Fleishman

papers and, cool as you please, begins rolling a joint. As soon as he lights it, a small, darkhaired woman hurries over to the table, and I’m certain she’s going to tell him to put it out, but she doesn’t. Instead, she wraps him up in a bear hug. It’s Joy Pierson, a co-owner of Candle 79. I half listen as she and Woody catch up—exchange restaurant gossip, gossip gossip, casually bitch about Trump. And then Joy mentions a dinner Woody had with him. I feel my ear tilt like a cup waiting to be filled. Before it can receive another drop, Joy gets called to the kitchen. I ask Woody to explain. He gives a heavy-lidded nod. “You want to hear about that dinner? Sure, I’ll tell you about that dinner. So Jesse Ventura [former pro wrestler and ex-governor of Minnesota] is a buddy of mine, and he called me up—and this is in, oh, 2002—and said, ‘Donald Trump is going to try to convince me to be his running mate for the Democratic ticket in 2004. Will you be my date?’ I said, ‘Yeah, man.’ So we all met at Trump Tower, sat down. Melania was there, only she wasn’t his wife yet. And it was, let me tell you, a brutal dinner. Two and a half hours. The fun part was watching Jesse’s moves. It would look like Trump had him pinned, was going to get him to say yes, and then Jesse would slip out at the last second. Now, at a fair table with four people, each person is entitled to 25 percent of the conversation, right? I’d say Melania got about 0.1 percent, maybe. I got about 1 percent. And the governor, Jesse, he got about 3 percent. Trump took the rest. It got so bad I had to go outside and burn one before returning to the monologue monopoly. Listen, I came up through Hollywood, so I’ve seen narcissists. This guy was beyond. It blew my mind. He did say one thing that was interesting, though. He said, ‘You know, I’m worth four billion dollars,’ or maybe he said five billion dollars—one of those numbers, I forget. Anyway, he said, ‘I’m worth howevermany billion dollars. But when I die, no matter how much it is, I know my kids are going to fight over it.’ That was the one true statement he made that night, and I thought, Okay, yeah, that’s pretty cool.”

Lunch ends around dinnertime. Woody and I wander outside. The traffic is close but sounds distant, like the buzzing of bees, and in the air is the drowsy scent of spilled diesel. Woody suggests going back the way we came, another walk through the park. I admit the sad truth about my feet. He laughs and hails a taxi. I drop him off at Columbus Circle and continue downtown. Yes, there was more Willie’s Reserve in the cab, and, yes, the windows were sealed, and, yes, I’m once again secondhand high. But that’s not why I’m relaxed to the point of stupor, out of it in the pleasantest of ways. Unh-uh. It’s firsthand Woody—the vapors he gives off—that’s got me feeling so fine.

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Suit ($5,520) and shirt ($670) by Tom Ford; boots ($620) by Barbanera; hat ($335) by Borsalino; sunglasses ($525) by Dita; umbrella ($225) by Paul Stuart; signet ring ($2,700) by David Yurman.

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Suit ($7,345) by Brunello Cucinelli; shirt ($995) by Ralph Lauren; tie ($70), Jupe by Jackie; loafers ($550) by Bruno Magli; socks ($100) by Gucci; scarf ($95) by Rowing Blazers; Master Ultra Thin Small Second watch ($19,700) by JaegerLeCoultre; 18k gold ring ($3,500) by David Yurman.

DON’T THINK OF THE FLANNEL SUIT AS A STRAITJACKET. IT NOW HAS THE SOFTNESS OF A

TRA CKSU IT.

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Leather jacket ($2,215) by Ami; jacket ($1,800) and trousers ($620) by Canali; turtleneck sweater ($1,200) by Gucci; loafers ($550) by Church’s; scarf by Charvet; Speedmaster Moonwatch Professional chronograph ($6,250) by Omega. OPPOSITE

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OLD RULES WOULD SAY PUT A DARK DRESS COAT OVER A SUIT, WHICH IS WHY YOU SHOULD PUT ON A

LEATH ER JACK ET

INSTEAD.

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T -SHI RT

IS THE ANTITHESIS OF SUITABLE— SO BE SURE TO WEAR ONE.

100

For store information see page 135. Production by Vivian Song at Kran ky Pro dukt io ns. G ro om ing by Eric a Wh elan u si ng Boy d e C han el.

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Coat ($3,650) by Canali; suit ($2,495) by Kingsman, mrporter.com; shirt ($165) by Mr P., mrporter .com; boots ($650) by Bruno Magli; bag ($2,850) by Prada; hat ($315), available at JJ Hat Center. OPPOSITE

Three-piece suit ($4,045) by Dolce & Gabbana; T-shirt ($130) by Sandro; shoes ($1,020) by Thom Browne; socks ($27) by Falke; Museum Sport watch ($795) by Movado; chain bracelet ($325) and signet ring ($2,700) by David Yurman.

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JOE FORD, CAR DETECTIVE, SEARCHES THE WORLD FOR STOLEN RARE AUTOMOBILES ON THE BLACK SET HIM UP FOR LIFE—IF HE’S NOT CRIMINALS AND CHEATS. By Stayton Bonner Photographs by Allie Holloway

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JOE FORD IS SITTING AT THE

Pelican Landing, an outdoor restaurant in a fancy marina on the Intracoastal Waterway. Across the way is a 180-foot yacht, the name ABBRACCI painted across the stern. Joe’s cell phone rings. Wah-wah-waaahhh. The theme music from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Joe’s ringtone. “Hold on,” he says. “It’s the FBI.” It’s midday, and Joe has just finished his first Corona. He’s selfemployed. The Pelican Landing is off the main channel in Fort Lauderdale, part of the Pier Sixty-Six Hotel & Marina, a twenty-twoacre, four-star resort where deckhands refuel yachts before they sail out to sea. When you’re sitting at the bar, the boats look like shimmering skyscrapers. Crew members scrub down decks; owners sip cocktails and shout into smartphones. It’s a place Joe goes. He hangs up his call. “The FBI says this is the most fun case they’ve ever worked—and I’m going to help them solve it,” he says. He looks around, nods at the Abbracci, once owned by a Texas businessman who recently sold off seventy-eight rare automobiles for a 10 4 S e pt em b e r 2 01 9_ E sq u ire

total of $53 million. “If you can afford that, then you can afford a milliondollar car,” he says, by way of explaining that lunching at this high-end grill is an essential part of his work. His order of ceviche and plantains arrives, and Joe orders another Corona. Joe is a detective for hire who specializes in recovering stolen cars. But not your car. Joe doesn’t look for cars stolen from parking garages or shopping malls—everyday transportation whose value lies in the number of miles they carry us. Joe Ford specializes in recovering cars whose value lies in not being driven much at all: rare, collectible, fetishized cars that are worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, sometimes millions or tens of millions of dollars, prized not for their ability to get from here to there but rather for their beauty, the artistry of their design, the care with which they were built, and perhaps most of all, their provenance. “I’m in a niche of a niche of a niche,” he says. Joe, sixty-two, is more Magnum P.I. than Sam Spade—tall, trim, tan, usually wearing a fitted polo or a Hawaiian shirt. Drinks sweet tea by the gallon and speaks like the New Orleans native he is. (“I grew up in east New Orleans, near the Ninth Wah-ard.”) Likes to swim and dive for lobsters and drive boats. He recently cruised on a sixty-five-footer down to Utila, “this coral-reef island off the coast of Honduras,” he says. “It was incredible—diving with whale sharks and drinking with outlaws. One guy didn’t come back.” People end up doing all kinds of jobs in this life. You sometimes

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wonder if, given a few left turns and different choices, the guy playing center field at Yankee Stadium could have ended up a taxi driver instead. Or vice versa. But Joe . . . Joe Ford is what happens when a particular set of skills, personality traits, and turns of phrase lead a person into the only thing he should be doing. It’s rare. And when you see him at work—when you see him move easily among both the shady creatures of criminality and the millionaires on those yachts—you wonder whether you, like him, have found your place in the world. The FBI agent was calling about a new lead in Joe’s current case.

pulled off elaborate heists of million-dollar vehicles, sometimes smuggling them to international locales, retrofitting them with fake paperwork, and then reselling them on the global market. That’s when people call Joe.

JOE IS STARING at what appears to be a cherry red 1951 Ferrari 340 America Berlinetta. “Look at this engine,” he says. “You’d never know this car wasn’t the real thing. Just a beauty.” He’s at the Creative Workshop, an automotive restoration and repli-

WHITE OVERALLS CUT THE PHONE LINES AND STOLE THE 1938 TALBOT-LAGO, PART BY PART, DISAPPEARING IN AN UNMARKED TRUCK. It’s a big one, the kind that could set Joe up for a long time. Maybe help him get his own boat, his own rare sports car. Help his daughter be more comfortable as she copes with the disease that’s taking away her eyesight. Help him disappear into the sunset. He’s been working this case for six years. “Everyone loves cars, but this is different,” Joe says. “At this level, it’s about bragging rights for the rarest and the best. That’s what makes the Teardrop so coveted.” The Teardrop. Otherwise known as the 1938 Talbot-Lago T150C SS teardrop coupe, chassis number 90108, current value $7.6 million. Built by two men, names of Figoni and Falaschi—Italian immigrants to France who ran the world’s top custom-car shop in Paris from the thirties through the fifties—the T150 is a prime example of a model that the Robb Report once called “the most beautiful car in the world.” One of only two models built with a race-car engine, it’s an art deco masterpiece, a long, sleek body powered by ground-shaking horsepower. The C stands for competition—it gets 140 bhp out of a

cation shop in Fort Lauderdale. The FBI has just recovered the TalbotLago’s missing engine from a mechanic in the French Alps, and Joe will need to have it inspected—but first he needs an expert mechanic. The Creative Workshop is a garage you could live in: high ceilings, hardwood floors with a rustic patina, exposed beams—plus tool chests, hydraulic lifts, blaring rock music, and a fleet of candycolored, multimillion-dollar cars arrayed like Hot Wheels. Tattooed experts carefully plug horsehair into seats, bend wood into dashboards, and replicate ancient paint colors with homemade mixtures in order to ensure each vehicle has the most accurate features possible—a process that can cost millions. Joe shakes his head, admiring the craftsmanship. On one recent case, he tracked down a mechanic who ran a seemingly respectable shop overseas, only to discover he was conducting a side business in black-market replicas. “Just like there’s art forgeries, there’s classic-car forgeries,” Joe says. “There’s an old expres-

It’s shaped like a teardrop, pure aerodynamics.

make grand entrances at balls.

to work, is working his ass off to get it back. get his parking validated. “This one screams.”

THE RARE-CAR MARKET is like a pyramid. Packards in garages across the U.

at Le Mans, perhaps, or a ’68 Mustang driven by Steve McQueen. A 1927 Bugatti Royale, one of six ever made, a twenty-one-foot-long, seven-thousand-pound commercial failure upon its debut, would be worth an estimated $100 million should one ever become available. In 2017, classic cars topped the Coutts Passion Index, a list of the British bank’s top passion investments, increasing in value by more than 300 percent in the past decade to bypass assets like wine, jewelry, and artwork. Like jewelry and artwork, valuable cars are stolen. Thieves have

The daughter of the Maharaja of Kapurthala and her Talbot-Lago, above, at a car show in Paris, 1938. Road & Track got a little worked up in its setup to a feature about the Talbot for the January 1977 issue, below.

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twenty-five special Roadsters, but only thirty of them survived.” In the wrong hands, the 1951 Ferrari—built from scratch for a Mexican businessman who wanted an exact copy of the original— could be sold on the black market with forged papers, passed off as the real thing. But Jason Wenig, who owns the Creative Workshop, vets his customers’ vehicles, ensuring clean chains of title. His cars— whether replicas or restoration jobs—don’t get into the wrong hands. Joe smiles. He feels he can trust Wenig—a feeling in short supply these days. The Talbot-Lago case has brought in the FBI, Interpol, and even an enemy he never would have suspected: his former friend, who turned on him. Joe has ringed his home with security cameras and taken up his old pastime of shooting targets with a Beretta. “Every story needs a villain,” Joe says. “In this one, it’s him.”

HERE, AS BRIEFLY

as possible, is what happened to Joe’s Talbot-Lago: It was imported into the U. S. in 1939 by Luigi Chinetti, an Italian race-car driver who won Le Mans three times. That year, Chinetti sold the Teardrop to Tommy Lee, the son of a radio and television broadcaster who also owned Cadillac dealerships throughout California. Lee lived the playboy life, dating starlets, racing cars in the Mojave Desert, and amassing a collection that included four Talbot-Lagos. In 1950, following a road accident that left him in chronic pain, Lee leaped to his death from a twelve-story building, leaving behind a world-class collection of cars—including the Teardrop. For decades, the car was bought and sold until, in 1967, it wound up in a cluttered garage in east Milwaukee owned by one Roy Leiske, a self-made millionaire and the founder of Monarch Plastic Products, a company he ran in a warehouse near his home. In 1962, Leiske’s wife died of cancer. In 1996, his son, a pilot, died in an airplane crash. Leiske abandoned anything that resembled the life he had been living—everything except the Talbot-Lago. He shut down Monarch and became obsessed with the Teardrop. He spent his days tinkering with the car amid towering piles of machine parts. Collectors traveled to see it, and some tried to buy it, with everyone from Jay Leno to people who might be described as “international businessmen” making the trip. (Leno didn’t make an offer.) Leiske never sold.

white overalls parked an unmarked white box truck in front of Leiske’s former factory. They cut the phone lines at his home. For years, the Teardrop had remained in pieces at the back of the former factory, its parts in various spots, its paperwork scattered among office drawers. Somehow, the thieves knew exactly where to look for all of it. They used an overhead crane in the building to move the Teardrop’s parts into the box truck, according to neighbor eyewitnesses. At 10:00 A.M., Leiske arrived to drink his coffee and begin working on the car, as he did every morning, only to find that all the parts and paperwork—even receipts dating back to the sixties—were gone. No sign of a forced entry. Nothing else was taken. Four years later, Leiske died. He left the car—which he technically still owned—to Richard Mueller, his second cousin and only living heir, who figured he’d never see the vehicle again.

JOE LIVES IN A DEVELOPMENT a few miles west of the $15 million mansions lining the sea, on the workaday side of the Intracoastal Waterway. Lago Del Mar, the developers called it—a ring of townhouses with miniature lakes, palm trees crawling with iguanas, and a pool for the residents, all amid an endless tract of cheekby-jowl houses, single-story shops, eight-lane roads, and municipal golf courses. There’s a synagogue across the street from Lago Del Mar and a shopping center a few blocks away. Joe pulls his weathered SUV into the complex and parks at his place, next to a tarp-covered sports car—a 1976 MGB two-door convertible he hasn’t driven in months. “The battery’s dead,” he says. Ancient seabed fossils, megalodon shark teeth, and plaster molds of Renaissance statues decorate the tidy two-story condo. He collects these, always has. When he was a landlord in New Orleans, he had to dig around his own foundation during a restoration of his 1832 townhouse. As he worked through layers of silt, he discovered tiny combs and trinkets, and they fascinated him. The centerpiece of his home: a four-foot-tall antique replica of an eighteenth-century Spanish galleon, the kind of ship whose wrecks once left sunken gold throughout the Gulf of Mexico, one of several on display. “I’ve always been a treasure hunter,” he says, adjusting a tiny hand-carved cannon on the ship. “When I was a kid, I read about guys who moved here to Florida to hunt treasure, finding mother

T H E G R E AT E S T 1935 MERCEDES-BENZ 500 K SPECIAL ROADSTER The ultrarare ride of war proﬁteer Hans Prym. M.O.: Allegedly stolen by American GIs at the end of World War II. VALUE: $5.9 million. STATUS: Bought by Dutch collectors in 2011, then seized by German authorities. Bonhams sold the car for Prym’s heirs ﬁve years later. PINK SLIP:

1996 FERRARI F50 One of only 349 F50’s built. In 2003, a man walked into a Pennsylvania Ferrari dealership, talked his way into test-driving the F50, and never returned. STATUS: Recovered and seized by the FBI in 2008; promptly crashed into a tree and totaled. PINK SLIP:

M.O.:

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Quentin Tarantino’s 1964 CHEVROLET MALIBU PINK SLIP: The convertible John Travolta drives in Pulp Fiction. M.O.: Stolen from Tarantino in Hollywood

BMW 645Ci

James Bond’s 1964 ASTON MARTIN DB5 The iconic stunt car from Goldﬁnger. Stolen in 1997 from the private hangar of its real-estate-developer owner. VALUE: Up to $12.7 million. STATUS: Still missing. PINK SLIP: M.O.:

PINK SLIP: Driven by wealthy socialite Tara Palmer-Tomkinson. M.O.: Stolen by a notorious East London car-theft ring; the group forged a car registration and got a “replacement” key in Stuttgart, Germany. STATUS: Only six of the 34 vehicles taken by the ring were recovered.

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He lives with his girlfriend, Shari, a knockout who waitresses at a high-end restaurant at a nearby resort; Shari’s dog, Charlie; and Joe’s teenage son, one of his four children from a previous marriage—the older three have grown and gone. Of all his kids, only his daughter, Julia, has left Florida— she works as an analyst at a software company in Washington, D. C. As a child she was diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa, a rare disease that slowly deteriorates the retina and leads to vision loss and in some cases total blindness. Joe is proud of what she has nonetheless accomplished— landing a top job, spending years living abroad, even going bungee jumping—but the disease haunts his thoughts. “She’s down to 10 percent vision, so she’s trying to do as much as she can now,” he says, fixing a glass of sweet tea. “She’s running a marathon in Hawaii this weekend.” He pauses, staring at the glass. “I try not to think about it. But I can’t imagine the world shrinking like that for her. It’s the hardest conversation to have.” Up in his office on the second floor, he squints at a blurry photo of an engine block on his computer. Surrounding him are marksmanship trophies, grease-stained auto manuals, and a wraparound monitor that engulfs his wooden desk. “I like a big screen because I can move things around,” Joe says, toggling between black-and-white engine photos, police reports, and a news story about the San José, a seventeenth-century Spanish ship that’s been discovered off the Colombian coast with $17 billion in gold. “Those guys are the real cowboys,” Joe says. He clicks back to the engine photos. “But I’m still catching fish.” There is no online database of rare cars, no central resource. Instead— in addition to the requisite globe-trotting, interviewing of sources, and general sleuthing—Joe reads. He owns every issue of Road & Track through the seventies, rare-car books in French and Italian, manuals from Ferrari, and even some personal diaries of racers, in which he

control his breathing, slow his heart, and blast quarter-sized bull’s-eyes from one hundred

Replicas of colonial galleons dominate Joe’s living room. “I’ve always been a treasure hunter,” he says.

Joe started another hobby: cave diving. He’d drive to the Florida Panhandle and dive into spring-fed bayous, navigating underground chasms that had never been mapped. “You go through a chimney at the bottom of a bayou, and then it opens up to a cavern and then another cavern,” he says. “It was just fantastic. The only way you knew which way was up was to see your bubbles. You had to be cool as a cucumber and trust your equipment. Otherwise you’d be fucked.” In 1980, Joe graduated from Tulane; married his college sweetheart, Tessie; and started having kids. The architecture thing didn’t work out, so he thought: lawyer, good money. To get himself through

A DIFFERENT E-TYPE JAGUAR EVERY DAY. MY MOM SAID, GET A JOB! I SAID, NO, I’M FINALLY MAKING IT.” pores over hand-scribbled victories in order to verify a car’s provenance. Joe heads downstairs to find his son—slim, tall, wearing a T-shirt— padding into the kitchen. He’s got a date tonight. “Where you taking her?” Joe asks. “Houston’s.” “Not bad.” Joe reaches into his billfold and slips the kid a hundred. A question: Is the son of the world’s greatest car detective into cars? “Kinda,” the teenager says, shrugging, heading back upstairs. Joe laughs, finishing off his tea. “He’s into washing my car,” he says, then pauses. “He’s a good kid. Smart. Wants to study finance at NYU. It’s more expensive than Harvard. But I said, Yeah, if you get in, I’ll pay. I’ve just first gotta find this car.”

JOE GREW UP IN the sixties and seventies, one of five kids of an Air Force–pilot father and a mother who kept house, a military household he says was loving yet stern. As a young teen, he raced motorcycles with a group of neighborhood kids, camping along the Gulf Coast and hunting wild game for food. “We would ride motorcycles and then tear them apart, seeing how they worked,” says Bruce Graham, a childhood friend. “Joe was like the professor of our group, very smart—but he liked to have fun.” Joe went to an ROTC high school along Lake Pontchartrain, where he practiced sharpshooting. Sprawled on his belly with a .22, he learned to

law school, he got in on something he’d learned about a few years earlier: buying and selling European sports cars.

WHILE TAKING LAW SCHOOL classes at night, Joe found another niche by day: gray-market cars. These were cars built in Europe in the middle of the twentieth century—vehicles like the MG, Triumph, and Jaguar, sleek racers with giant engines that dominated anything coming out of Detroit. American GIs noticed them during World War II and brought them home. By the mid-eighties, Americans were importing upward of sixty thousand gray-market European cars per year. “I said, This is better than sliced bread,” Joe says. “Here I am at a desk working my butt off, and these guys are doing well importing cars. I gotta get into a different business.” Joe started importing Mercedes. Then Black Monday happened— the October 19, 1987, stock-market crash—deflating the dollar and drying up the import business. So, shit. But Joe found a new opportunity and helped pioneer a new approach: gray-market exports. He began by focusing on Jaguars. “With the dollar weak, Europeans started coming over here to purchase all these classic sports cars that had been leaving their countries for years, buying them at half price. So I started exporting—riding a whole new wave,” he says. Over the next five years, Joe built a car-export business in New Orleans from scratch. He drove around the United States in his battered Se ptem ber 2 019 _Es quire 107

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Chevy Blazer, placing ads in newspapers and magazines, buying up used Austin-Healeys, MGs, and Jaguars. He took side roads, barreling down dusty lanes looking for rare cars in garages and barns, knocking on farmers’ doors to persuade them to sell. When not on the hunt, he was on the phone, making connections with European importers and flying cross-country for handshakes. He was building a global web of contacts. And he started to make a little money. He stored cars in his garage in the French Quarter before taking them to commercial docks in New Orleans, Miami, Newark, Jacksonville, Charleston, and Mobile,

But no job would compare with the one involving the most expensive vehicle of Joe’s career, a stolen car that would ultimately ensnare international authorities and nearly leave him bankrupt: a 1954 Ferrari 375 Plus “spider.” “Gardner and I did three or four deals, and then the Ferrari popped up on our radar screen,” Joe recalls. “And that’s when he went to the dark side.” The only thing more incredible than the spider’s eight-figure price tag is its history. The first of only a few ever made, it was built with a twelve-cylinder, 4.9-liter engine, able to reach speeds of up

CHEMICALS TO TRACE THE SERIAL NUMBER AFTER THE THIEVES GROUND IT OFF—“TOP-LEVEL SCIENCE BY GUYS WHO KNOW THEIR SHIT.” gray-market Jags—and having so much fun—that this would be his livelihood. “I’d driven a different E-type Jaguar to law school every day,” he says. “My mom said, Get a job! But I said, No, I’m finally making it.”

BACK IN NEW ORLEANS

in the late eighties, Joe met a businessman named Christopher Gardner, who introduced him to the gray market. They worked together for a while and both ended up moving to Fort Lauderdale. They became good friends—really good friends. But in 1992, their relationship soured. Joe had bought Gardner’s Florida home, which, according to Joe, had a cracked seawall he wasn’t told about, costing Joe admiring a 1968 Jaguar; him tens of thousands of dollars. They didn’t speak for he made his ﬁrst real money exporting years, and Gardner eventually moved to Switzerland Jags in the late ’80s. Opposite: The to set up a rare-car business. Creative Workshop, a high-end garage Then, in 2005, Gardner reappeared. Called Joe out of in Fort Lauderdale that specializes in restoring rare and vintage cars. nowhere and said that he had shipped an Aston Martin to Then, on a dark night in January 1989, a shop in the southeast U.S. and paid $25,000 for a repair and that the car had disappeared. He wanted Joe to find it. winch to roll the spider onto a U-Haul. The car was later sold via a broJoe said he would. He visited the shop, posing as a potential customer, and soon discov- ker to dealers in Belgium, where it was restored and even exhibited unered a key piece of information: Gardner had a personal connection to til Kleve, working with the FBI and Interpol, finally tracked it down. Lawyers got involved. The car sat in Europe. Eventually, Gardner a relative of the garage owner, but they’d had a falling out. Figuring the garage owner had decided to hold Gardner’s car out of spite, Joe worked heard about it and asked Joe to take a look. After Kleve’s death, Joe worked with his heirs to gain part ownership with local police to investigate him. “I prepped the file for the police, and they muscled the guy,” Joe recalls. “Then we got the names of some and traveled the U.S., interviewing past owners and authorities and friends who had been storing it for him...and they coughed up the car.” tracking the car’s provenance. He put together a case and helped work out an agreement to auction the car and settle all claims. But things beJoe Ford had a new career. gan to unravel. Joe says Gardner had initially agreed to bankroll the lefew years, he worked with Gardner and other cli- gal work but hadn’t paid a cent. Then he’d broken all contact with him. This was odd. Gardner had brought Joe into the deal. Was it possients, building a reputation as a guy who could find missing vehicles. In Miami, he went undercover in high-end repair shops, vetting ble that he was squeezing him out? mechanics’ trustworthiness for collectors. In Texas, he looked for a rare Ferrari engine that had been placed but . . . yes. The Ferrari was eventually sold in a speedboat and had torn through the hull, sinking in the Hous- at Bonhams auction house. The price: an astounding $18.3 million. ton Ship Channel. The buyer: Les Wexner, the billionaire founder of L Brands, which He even brokered the trade of a vintage Ferrari Daytona for a brand- owns Victoria’s Secret. The result: another quagmire of litigation. new Testarossa from California, ensuring the cars were what the parAfter two years, Wexner got his car and Bonhams took a hit in ties claimed. the press. In the course of the un-quagmiring, (continued on page 132)

FOR THE NEXT

IT’S A LONG STORY,

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I N T R O D U C I N G

TO N Y S O P R A N O

Michael Gandolfini is the late James’s son. He’s also playing a young Tony in next year’s Sopranos prequel, The Many Saints of Newark, his film debut. He sits down with MICHAEL HAINEY to discuss his role on HBO’s The Deuce (returning for its third and final season this month) and tackling the character made famous by his father. PHOTOGRAPHS by

MARCO GROB

STYLING by

ALFONSO FERNÁNDEZ NAVAS

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PRECEDING PAGES:

Shirt ($780) by Gucci. THIS PAGE:

Suit ($3,900) and turtleneck sweater ($1,950) by Dior Men; gold ring ($2,900) and gold-and-carbon ring ($2,500) by David Yurman.

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IT IS, O F C O U R S E , his eyes that get you first, his eyes that give him away. You walk into the restaurant, scan the room, and there he is, hunched over a table tucked close to the wall, catching your eyes with his. Eyes exactly like his father’s. He pops up from his seat, extends his hand, and gives a big smile—the same smile his father had but rarely flashed. “Hi, I’m Michael Gandolfini,” he says. He’s thinner than his father was, and full of boyish energy. But you notice other mannerisms—the way he runs his fingers through his hair, how he rubs his nose with the back of his hand. And all at once you realize why it was inevitable that David Chase would cast him, the twenty-year-old son of the man who played the adult Tony Soprano, James Gandolfini, as the teenage Tony in the feature-length Sopranos prequel, The Many Saints of Newark (2020). Stepping into your father’s shoes would be fraught for any of us. Your identity becomes forever entwined with his. Now imagine you are not just pursuing your father’s profession, seeking your own path, but you are also taking on the role he made iconic. So here you are, playing the younger version of a man your father brought to life, and yet your father, the man who created this role—as well as you, his son—is gone. Has been since you were fourteen years old. You were there when he died of a heart attack, in June 2013, while on a family vacation in Rome. He was just fifty-one. “Yeah, it was a difficult decision,” Michael says when I ask him about assuming the role. He was born in 1999, the year The Sopranos debuted. He liked performing; as a kid, he saw Wicked and loved it. “I dressed up as the Scarecrow almost every night, and my dad would videotape me singing,” he says. But James discouraged his son from making it his career. “As I got older,” Michael says, “he wanted me to play sports. I felt that burden. I wanted to make him proud. And he said, ‘Don’t be an actor; be a director. They have the power.’ ” It was his father’s death, however, that propelled Michael toward acting, after a friend suggested that acting classes might help him heal. Though he had second thoughts the night before he began, he says, “from the first day, I fell in love with it. It actually started my grieving process with my dad.” He gave up the football team for the drama club. He even starred as the title character in a local production of Shrek the Musical. After high school, he enrolled at NYU, where he’s currently a sophomore. He got a manager and started to audition in New York. He landed the first role he tried out for: Joey Dwyer on HBO’s The Deuce,

George Pelecanos and David Simon’s ode to the pornocopia of 1970s New York (returning for its third and final season on September 9). “When I got the role,” Michael says, “my manager joked, ‘You should quit acting now—you’re one-for-one.’ ” Then came the call from David Chase’s office. Chase was getting ready to make a movie about Tony Soprano’s early years. “The funny thing is, before the audition, I had never watched a minute of The Sopranos. I was just a kid when he was making it. I would go to the set and ask him what it was about, and he’d say, ‘Oh, it’s about this guy who’s in the mob and kind of goes to therapy.’ The hardest part of this whole process was watching the show for the first time.” Michael pauses. “It was an intense process. Because, as an actor, I had to watch this guy who created the role, to look for mannerisms, voice, all those things I would have to echo. But then I’d also be seeing my father. I think what made it so hard was I had to do it alone. I was just sitting alone in my dark apartment, watching my dad all the time. I started having crazy dreams. I had one where I auditioned for David and I looked down at my hands, and they were my dad’s hands.” I tell him that his father, as Tony, brought about so many indelible moments. Are there any that resonate with him? He describes two. “There’s a scene where Meadow comes home late at night, and he’s sitting with a drink, and he’s like, ‘You know I love you, right?’ That hit hard,” Michael says. “The other one that crushed me was when he yells at A. J., and he gets a pizza to apologize, and he sits by his son’s bed and says, ‘I couldn’t ask for a better son.’ I just knew he was talking to me in that scene.” I ask him if he has anything from his father that he holds dear, any object. He tells me that when he was young, his father gave him a plaque. “He was away a lot, filming. It was a rough time. A lot of craziness going on. I was eight or nine. The plaque says, TO MICHAEL, THE BOY WITH THE HEART OF A LION.” Just then the waiter comes. We settle up. What happens next for this Gandolfini? Smash cut to black.

LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON Below: Michael, just shy of his fourth birthday, sits on James’s shoulders, in 2004. Bottom: Michael in season 3 of The Deuce (2019).

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For store information see page 135. G ro om in g by K um i Crai g usi n g La M er.

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THIS PAGE:

Jacket ($6,450), shirt ($850), and trousers by the Row; boots ($1,550) by Dior Men; Petrvs Bee signet ring ($475) by David Yurman; shield signet ring ($375) by Tom Wood. OPPOSITE:

Jacket ($2,500) and shirt ($780) by Gucci. 115

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Each day, I thank sweet Christ I don’t have

RAISING A

DAUGHTER IS THE WORST. . . I can pinpoint the moment our daughter

began transforming into a stereotypical girl. She was two, and her mother and I took her to Ariel’s Grotto, in Disneyland. The restaurant traffics in so-called character dining, meaning the tables are careered by marquee Disney characters—princesses, in our case. Since well before we had a child, my girlfriend and I considered ourselves enlightened on the subject of gender binaries. The notion that boys are naturally one way and girls another seemed like bullshit, to use a technical term. Naturally, natural: These are words designed not to explain but to compel. Not every boy loves pointing an imaginary M16, and not every girl squeals when a tiara is placed on her head. To insist that any child behave in ways that to them feel wrong is to lay the first bricks of what will become an adult prison cell. We thus established a household of mild gender neutrality: Yellow-and-gray decorative scheme in her room. Unisex clothes whenever possible. As many tractors and superheroes as dolls and plushy kittens. Highly gendered birthday or Christmas gifts from relatives that went unopened. And absolutely no princesses, at any time, under any circumstance. We’re Americans, goddammit: sic semper tyrannis. For her first Halloween, she was Han Solo. But then, in Ariel’s Grotto, as the coiffed and ball-gowned women began emerging from their lair, something happened to our daughter. She couldn’t stop looking at them. Couldn’t stop touching their dresses. Couldn’t stop talking about them afterward. The parent-friends with whom we discussed what happened all had some reliably structuralist explanation. Patriarchal culture had seeped into her brain, you see, as in a gas leak. Or she was following the cues of the other, less evolved little girls. Or she was responding to the novel sight of women in a commanding position, confidently displaying their power.

11 6 Sept e mbe r 2 0 1 9 _E s q u ire

. . . EXCEPT WHEN IT’S THE

BEST By

To m B i s s e l l

But that’s not what it looked or felt like. My daughter hadn’t been brainwashed by the Princess Industrial Complex. She didn’t watch princess cartoons or movies. Until that moment, in fact, her entire reality was made up of roughly five rotating locations, none of which bore a sparkly trace of princess residue. All she’d done was react to something she obviously and instantly liked. And so I went from buying her Spider-Man pajamas and encouraging her interest in dinosaurs to tolerating her roughly four hundredth viewing of Snow White, which invariably ended with her demanding a dress as poofy as that of its peerlessly insipid heroine and me having another bourbon. A couple years later, here are my daughter’s favorite things, in order of preference: lipstick, sparkly dresses, being a princess, putting on blush, Princess Anna (from Frozen), Mommy, wearing Mommy’s high-heeled shoes, unicorns, watermelon, Queen Elsa (from Frozen), Minnie Mouse, Frozen, and Daddy. Her favorite color? Pink. I suppose I could have discussed with her the harmful gender stereotypes inherent in the princess archetype, just as I could make her watch Dunkirk or describe the rules of golf. But what would that actually accomplish? Eventually I had to ask myself, What’s my real hang-up here? My daughter’s sincere and seemingly spontaneous love of girlie things, or my hope that she would disdain such things? I now realize I’d longed for our daughter, now five, to be something other than a typical little girl. There’s a name for that. It’s called sexism, just slightly off-brand.

a son. It’s not as though I think little girls (or the women they become) are somehow more evolved or admirable than little boys (or the men they become). Of course, I can talk only about my experiences, both with our daughter and with our friends’ children. But these experiences have nevertheless allowed me to deduce that little boys are tiny but efficient engines of parental misery. Case in point: A couple frequently comes over with their son, who’s a wonderful kid. Our daughter adores him; we all do. Unfortunately, he climbs anything that’s remotely climbable, cannot ambulate without running at full speed, and injures himself with a frequency that would startle a medic on the front lines at Khe Sanh. I’ve watched this boy leap off a high patio couch directly onto his own head, apparently to discover what that felt like. Guess what? It hurt. His parents are always picking him up, cooing to and soothing him, until his cheeks, shiny with tears, dry. They set him down and off he goes—directly into a wall. Chaos is come again. My daughter also explores, but more carefully. I don’t have to tell her to get down, because whenever she climbs too high, she gets down herself. I don’t have to yell when she picks up scissors, because she looks at them, surmises their inherent danger, and hands them to me. I don’t have to tell her not to run away when we’re out and about, because she instinctively takes my hand whenever we’re in a crowd. She’s more than happy to destroy things—furniture, hardwood floors, videogame controllers, her parents’ sex life—but the virtues of self-preservation, at least, appear to have taken firm and early root. She has, all the same, found herself in two emergency rooms, suffering separate ailments that don’t bear disclosing. The second time, I was forced to hold her down, kissing her head and telling her it would be okay, while a doctor urgently trying to help was also forced to make her feel pain. I’ve seen war wounds up close, visited refugee camps, and once nearly stepped on a piece of human brain, and yet the most haunting vision of my life remains that helpless confusion in my daughter’s eyes. The parents of many little boys must learn how to live with the primordial noise of spidery fingernails dragging across the cosmic evolutionary chalkboard as daily soundtrack. I’ve asked many of them, “How are you able to do that?” They’ve all said variations on the same thing: “It was hard. But you have to let

Illustration by Ro b e r t C h a r l e s

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go.” They’re wise enough to know that the alternative—a clingy, helpless child—is worse than bumps and scrapes. Tears dry, but habits of mind are forever. Besides, a few parents have told me, as hard as living with little boys can be, raising a teenage girl may be parenthood’s most harrowing gantlet of all. Male aggression develops early and expands outward, eagerly finding enemies. Female aggression develops late and bends inward, toward the most sophisticated, implacable foe of all—the self. Forget watching the unwatchable. With teenage daughters, you must notice the unseeable. For their sake, and for yours. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry when well-meaning but doltish fathers preface their opposition to gender inequality by saying, “As the father of a daughter. . .” These are frequently the same guys who think that raising a young woman necessitates assuming a protective, vaguely Talibanized crouch when it comes to her theoretical sexual activity: It’s a father’s duty, their thinking goes, to chase away his daughter’s future suitors, possibly while brandishing a smoothbore firearm.

a rich, traumatic sex life and slept with as many partners as I could get away with. I hope my daughter will settle for nothing less. In any event, it shouldn’t require procreation to make a man recognize a woman’s basic human worth. Contemplating your daughter’s inevitable sexual intimacy with another human should not generate horror-splashed feelings of despoiled ownership. But post-#MeToo, I’m more forgiving of such instincts. So a few blundering men have become accidental feminists via fatherhood. Surely that’s sort of gross. Just as surely, it’s far better than nothing. Anything that causes more men to discern the indignities suffered by women is better than nothing. What keeps us silent in the presence of monsters is fear and shame, and those feelings—so reflexive, so determining—form early. Little girls can stand up for themselves, but first they have to learn how. Mothers and fathers are together responsible for teaching their daughters how to do that. But only fathers can model

what being a good man actually looks like. To raise a son is to teach him how to master his world while knowing he’ll get hurt. Raising a daughter can and should be about that, too, with the added trick of making her aware that the world will seek to hurt her in far subtler ways. The little boy’s mastery will be applauded, but the little girl’s mastery will often be resisted. How my daughter will deal with that will largely be a result of the tools my partner and I give her—whether she loves ponies or not. This is, quite obviously, terrifying. And with Donald Trump as our president and gender-rights revanchists rampant, the world, as seen through the eyes of those of us with daughters, feels newly thorny indeed. I will guide my child through that briar, but she’ll be in the lead, and one day she’ll let go of my hand. If I’ve done my job properly, she won’t even notice. But I will. People say parenting is hard, and it is. There are not many jobs whose sole purpose is obsolescence, and that’s if you’re any good at it. History suggests most of us are not. This is why parenting is the worst. Except when it’s not. Then it’s the best. Those are the parameters. Good luck.

T h i s i s d a m a g i n g and absurd. Women should feel every freedom to be as craven, reckless, and self-interested as men. Before I met my daughter’s mother, I enjoyed Septem ber 2 019 _E s quire 1 17

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Matt Gallagher

Phot

ogr a

ph s by Brian Finke

THE U. S. MILITARY CONTINUES TO FILL ITS RANKS AS OUR FOREVER WAR DRAGS ON. FOR THE FIRST

YOUNGEST ENLISTEES WERE BORN AFTER 9/11. MEET ONE OF THEM, TIME, ITS

JANN ARROYO MORALES, AS HE PREPARES TO LEAVE HIS HOME, IN

YABUCOA, PUERTO RICO, FOR THE BARRACKS OF FORT BENNING.

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He wraps his fingers around the dumbbells, finding purpose in their hard consistency. I’m to be an infantryman, the recruit thinks again. He begins.

JANN

wakes in the dark of morning. Other than the sweet call of coquis spilling down from the green hills and the psychotic rooster one block over, he hears only the thrum of easy quiet. He’s tired, having stayed up late playing video games. No one will reprimand him if he shuts his eyes and drifts back to sleep. He exists in a state of transience, after all—half here, half there, half waiting, half going. And the enduring benefit of transience is its lack of consequence. But the recruit keeps his eyes open. He has weights to lift, muscle to gain. He’s too skinny. There’s a standard to meet. The recruit sits up and pats down his thick black hair. He throws off his Pirates of the Caribbean–themed bedsheets. Scrambled half-thoughts begin to congeal around numbers. Thirty-two, he thinks. Thirty-two days until Fort Benning. He staggers to his feet and stretches his arms and legs, the joints between his stillgrowing bones cracking. The mere act of motion brings something like clarity. One hundred and eight. That’s the number of pounds he needs to maintain in order for the United States Army to allow him to begin basic training. That’s why he’s been eating so much, more than he’s ever eaten before, meals every three hours and big plates of pasta most nights. That’s why he’s been working out so much, too, more than ever before, deadlifts and squats and curls. It’s why he’s awake now. I’m to be an infantryman, the recruit thinks. I’m to be a soldier. The recruit reaches for the cast-iron dumbbells on the floor. Raw, gray light starts to creep through the blinds. The rooster coughs out a halfhearted crow. 12 0 S e pt e mb e r 2 0 1 9 _ Es q ui re

Arroyo Morales is seventeen, all angles and elbows. He’s sincere and idealistic in the way teenagers, and especially teenage soldiers, can be, and in the final days before he leaves his youth behind for the military, he’s brimming with anticipatory energy. Jann lives in Yabucoa, Puerto Rico, a small city on the southern fringe of the American empire. An hour southeast of San Juan, Yabucoa is wedged between green, granite hills and the Caribbean Sea. Century-old Catholic and evangelical churches dominate city plazas while a large, ultramodern oil refinery looms over the valley. This used to be sugar country, but that’s all in the past now; there are even abandoned mills and rusted machinery to prove it. There’s a McDonald’s and an AutoZone and a Ralph’s supermarket in Yabucoa, though some of the smaller, local businesses closed unexpectedly a couple years back and remain shuttered. This is where Hurricane Maria made landfall, on September 20, 2017. Jann lives with his mother, Maribel, forty-five; his father, Jose, forty-three; and his sister, Josmary, twenty-one, along with their three dogs and a cat, in a square bungalow behind the city park. In the driveway sits a 1986 white Chevy pickup, which Jose is restoring to sell. Jann is helping out—son says “a lot,” father, laughing, says “some.” In thirty-two days, Jann will leave this place, the only world he’s ever known, in order to serve his country. Asked why he’s enlisting, he answers, “It’s the right thing to do.” He tends to speak of big matters like this with the sort of clean clarity that fades with age: “I don’t believe in any politics or religion”; “It’s important to know what you can control and what you can’t”; “I don’t get people who bad-mouth America while living in it.” Still, Jann’s decision is uncommon in 2019 America, where less than one half of 1 percent of Americans serve in the military. Last year, the Army fell short of its recruitment goal for the first time in more than a decade, in part because of a strong economy, in part because about 70 percent of young people today don’t meet eligibility standards. The requirements for physical, mental, and moral character quickly narrow the pool of potential recruits.

That we’re at war, on the other side of the world and with no end in sight, may also be a factor. That war is older than Jann is. He was born on November 10, 2001, two months after smoke filled that perfect blue sky on September 11 and America plunged into the Forever War, already the longest in the republic’s history. I served in this war a decade ago, in Iraq, never thinking we’d hand it off to the next generation. But we have. Jann will be part of the first wave of basic trainees who’ve never known an America at peace abroad. He’s known he’s wanted to enlist since he was a young boy. It became a real possibility after an Army recruiter visited his school. But Jann alone did not make that call. He couldn’t. Because he’s seventeen, he needed his parents’ permission. Jose was on board immediately, believing it would provide his son both structure and opportunity; Jose’s grandfather Martin Arroyo Cartagena served in World War II, a point of family pride. Maribel, however, resisted at first. There was the risk of danger, of course, but it also meant her only son would be far from home. Jann says it took her “weeks”—she remembers it as “one week, that’s all”—but eventually she came around. Next, Jann had to prove his language competency. To become a part of Uncle Sam’s green machine, one’s English must be good enough to pass a test known as the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery, or ASVAB. This is no formality: Only twelve students at Jann’s school passed the test. Jann—who taught himself English, partly through online gaming—didn’t just pass it. He scored well enough to choose the career path he wished. Cyber ops. Drone operator. Launching station maintainer for the Patriot missile system. These specialties offered signing bonuses, as much as $40,000. Jann decided on the infantry— aka the foot soldiers, the ground pounders, the light fighters, the grunts who form the backbone of the Army. There was no bonus for this choice. It’s a hard life, occupied by hard men and women. Jann’s recruiter asked that he take time to think about his options, and Jann agreed. He spoke with friends and family, and he carefully considered their advice. He weighed each option against the others, and he listened to his gut. A couple of weeks later, Jann returned to the recruitment center with his decision: infantry. That pause, that reconsideration and recommitment, is interesting. It’s a glimpse into a young mind that’s both bold and careful. That’s a good combination for a soldier. When I ask Jann why

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he’s sticking with infantry, he replies, “I want to do it from the front.” In thirty-two days, Jann leaves for Fort Benning, Georgia, where he’ll endure the next major test on his way to becoming a soldier, as it’s been for the millions of soldiers who came before him: basic training. Over twenty-two weeks, he’ll march and shoot and crawl through environmental misery on almost zero sleep; he’ll learn combat and land-navigation skills; and he’ll know how to make his bed with perfect hospital corners in thirty seconds, or else.

MEM

ORI A

Day, that sweet staple of the American calendar. It’s the Swiss Army knife of holidays, multipurpose, there to honor the war dead and hail entry into summer, too. For more than a hundred young Puerto Ricans and their families, the long weekend marks something else entirely: ceremony. One hundred and thirty graduating high schoolers gather at the former Puerto Rico National Guard headquarters in Old San Juan, a fist of a base with an old Spanish colonial watchtower that overlooks the Atlantic. They’re from across the island, little farming towns and crowded barrios, from just across the bridges over the bay and nearby Rio Grande to mountainous Caguas and Ponce, “la Perla del Sur,” in the far-flung south. One hundred and thirty young women and men who have volunteered for the Army, Navy, Air Force, Coast Guard, National Guard, Air National Guard, or Marines, on the cusp of breaking free from the hatchery of childhood and seizing a life of their own. Not a one can remember 9/11. Not a one can recall when Congress authorized the war effort they will soon join. The recruits who come with their families have dressed for the occasion— there’s a feeling of new beginnings in the air with these arrivals. Proud moms and dads and little siblings all dressed to the nines, with suits and dresses and pearls and polished pointed-toe boots. The elders come, too, some in wheelchairs and others with canes and one sporting a faded, crisp maroon beret he earned in the 82nd Airborne decades ago, the All American Division. His posture, all these years later, remains 82nd proper. A messy swirl of pride and possibility

TUNE AND STRENGTHEN Top: Jann helps his father, Jose, restore an ’86 Chevy pickup to sell. Bottom: Jann works on his weight-lifting form at the local U. S. Army recruitment center, in Humacao. Septem ber 2 01 9_E squ ire 12 1

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and dread fills the cavernous room on the National Guard base like vapor. In some parts of mainland America, joining the military is frowned upon, even viewed as an option of last resort. In other parts of the mainland, it retains its honor and prestige, for both social and economic reasons. In this room on the base overlooking the Atlantic, the latter dominates. It’s a throwback, in its way, summoning a lost Americana. To get this far, to earn a certificate in this room on this day, means something, and it means a lot. Jann arrives with his recruiter about fifteen minutes before the event starts; rush-hour traffic brought their van to a slow creep as soon as they hit greater San Juan. Like many of the other recruits from beyond the metro area, Jann is without family and dressed casually—plaid checkered shirt, jeans, black sneakers. The uniform of a young man’s cool disinterest in ceremony. In this way, he’s already primed for infantry life. The event is organized by Our Community Salutes, a national nonprofit devoted to “helping communities recognize, honor, and support high school seniors who plan to enlist in the U. S. Armed Services.” Sponsors include Pan American Grain, the Puerto Rican Senate, and the local DoubleTree hotel. There’s a large balloon for radio station Hot 102 across from the recruiters’ stations. Flags for each of the fifty states in the union line the edges of the room, the American and Puerto Rican flags up front. Attendees slowly gravitate to rows of white plastic chairs, which face a podium. The ceremony begins with live renditions of “La Borinqueña,” the anthem of Puerto Rico, and then “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The veteran grandfather in the maroon beret stands up for both, saluting during the latter. A large man named Agustín MontañezAllman—Gulf War veteran, Bronze Star recipient—gives the first speech. As the director of the Puerto Rico Veterans Advocate Office, Montañez-Allman works toward getting Puerto Rican veterans the same care and access to medical facilities as their mainland compatriots. As he talks about the benefits offered through military service, the recruits in the room lose interest. Legs twitch, mouths yawn; phones discreetly appear. They’re to be soldiers, not broken vets. Jann, hunched in his chair, blinks as if to keep himself awake. The room perks up when men in dress uniforms cycle to the microphone. There’s a major, and a colonel, and two brigadier generals. It’s an impressive showing. The last speech is delivered by the valedictorian of the class of recruits, about the 12 2 Se pt embe r 2 0 1 9_ E sq uire

matter of finding identity and purpose, and the importance of protecting others. “Who am I?” she asks the crowd in English. She’s Army bound, same as Jann. “I am a warrior. I am a servant. I am courageous. Who are you?” For the presentation of certificates, the recruits are announced one at a time, in alphabetical order, organized by the branch of service they’re joining. The Army goes first, so Jann is one of the first called up. He pops from his chair like a bottle rocket. Then self-consciousness grips him. His steps slow a beat and he walks in front of the crowd wanting nothing more than to be sitting down again, watching someone else thinking about not doing something stupid like stumbling and falling. Jann gets to the podium without incident. He shakes hands with the brass. His recruiter snaps photographs of him accepting his certificate and accompanying packet of Army materials. Jann lets a small smile cross his face. He returns to his seat and holds up a challenge coin found in his packet, courtesy of Our Community Salutes. If his military career goes right, it’ll be the first of many challenge coins earned. More names are announced. One hundred and thirty recruits who’ll join the ranks of the Army, Navy, Air Force, Coast Guard, National Guard, Air National Guard, and Marines. About a third of the honorees are women, higher than the armed forces’ overall average of 16 percent. A raffle follows the presentation of certificates. Bags of military swag, stuffed with water bottles and camo hats and exercise shirts, are given out, as are prizes such as gift certificates to local restaurants and big chains alike, including the Cheesecake Factory. Jann doesn’t win anything. He shrugs it off by folding up his ticket and carefully putting it in the back pocket of his jeans. When the ceremony ends, as most of the recruits head for the buffet table, Jann talks to his recruiter. His recruiter tells him to eat. “A hundred and eight pounds,” he reminds Jann. “Not a bit lighter.” “One-oh-eight,” Jann says. He goes over to the food, scoops a heaping pile of ground beef and vegetables onto a paper plate, and starts eating. T-MINUS THIRTY-TWO DAYS In his final days before boot camp, Jann (clockwise from top left) eats calorierich foods to maintain 108 pounds, the weight required to enlist; checks in at the recruitment center in Humacao; plays video games with his friends Arseneo (left) and Jan (right); and eats some more, this time food prepared by his mother, Maribel.

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P U ERTO

Rico is one of five populated U. S. territories. Its residents pay federal payroll taxes, though not the personal income tax. Programs like Medicaid send less funding to Puerto Rico than states receive, and outdated shipping and cargo laws remain a sore point for the island’s businessmen and politicians. Puerto Ricans elect a representative to Congress, who can do everything but vote. Like all territories, Puerto Rico participates in the presidential primary process but possesses zero electoral votes in the general election. A 2017 referendum on the status of Puerto Rico showed that 97 percent of voters desire statehood (though surely that number was influenced by a boycott of the referendum by the pro– status quo party). The history behind all this is, well, complex. In 1898, after years of political efforts and various separatist movements, Spain granted Puerto Rico limited sovereignty. Within months, war broke out between Spain and the United States. The U. S. invaded and occupied Puerto Rico and, after winning the war, decided to stay. Puerto Ricans became U. S. citizens in 1917 via the Jones-Shafroth Act, but it wasn’t until decades later that World War II–era spending and an expanding military presence helped transform the island’s infrastructure, adding modern housing, new roads, and telephone lines. The GI Bill similarly transformed the lives of Puerto Rican veterans and their families, according to Harry FranquiRivera, a historian and the author of Soldiers of the Nation: Military Service and Modern Puerto Rico. “Before the war, they were largely peasants and urban workers,” he says. Enlisting “was a gateway to middle-class life.” The island first elected its own governor in 1948 and transitioned to commonwealth status four years later. Such incremental steps did not satisfy all of its citizens. In 1950, an armed revolt by Puerto Rican nationalists led to attacks on government buildings across the island and an assassination attempt on President Harry Truman in Washington, D. C. In most places, the uprising was quelled with haste. But in Jayuya, a town in the central mountains, the nationalists burned down the post office and seized the police station and the Selective Service office. In response, the Puerto Rico Air National Guard sent ten P-47 Thunderbolt fighters to bomb 12 4 S e pt e mbe r 2 0 1 9 _E sq uire

the town. Similar retaliation occurred in nearby Utuado. According to Nelson Antonio Denis, author of War Against All Puerto Ricans, “It was the only time in history that the United States bombed its own citizens.” At its height, through the cold war and into the nineties, the U. S. military’s presence on the island expanded to twentyfive bases. This included Roosevelt Roads Naval Station, once the largest naval installation in the world, located on a green ribbon of land in the northeast. It closed in 2004 in part because of public protests against weapons and bomb testing. The surrounding community fell into economic hardship almost immediately after. Hundreds of thousands of Puerto Ricans have served in America’s foreign wars since World War I, from Korea to Iraq, Grenada to Vietnam. Of the 136 national cemeteries across America, only one is outside the fifty states, in Bayamón, Puerto Rico. More than forty thousand military veterans and family members are buried there, including three Medal of Honor recipients. According to FranquiRivera, “There are currently some 330,000 veterans and some 35,000 Puerto Ricans in active-duty service,”

numbers that dwarf the per capita rate of many mainland states. More than anything, Franqui-Rivera stresses that over the course of the twentieth century, Puerto Rican service members “fought for the right to fight” for America. For economic mobility. For social and cultural pride. For honor. Under Spain, “Puerto Rico was a military colony,” he says. “The U. S. didn’t militarize it so much as it remobilized them with a different uniform and new flag.”

THE

DAY

after the ceremony, back in Yabucoa, I meet Jann at McDonald’s. It’s early afternoon, but sleep still cradles his face. He says he stayed up late playing video games, got up at sunrise to lift weights, crashed out again, and woke up fifteen minutes ago. His friend Arseneo joins us. Eighteen and part of Jann’s crew at school, Arseneo has an easy smile. He understands English well but is shy about speaking it— Jann’s been helping him practice, because Arseneo wants to join the Army, too. “I don’t want to do any of the gun stuff, though,” he says. “I want to be a cook.” We pick up a third friend, Jan (one n), on the outskirts of Yabucoa. He’s lanky

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and skater-mellow and sports little black earrings. He’s been playing Plants vs. Zombies: Garden Warfare 2, which is not just a real game but a popular one. I ask the three teens where they want to go for lunch. They debate for a couple minutes. “Chili’s,” Jann eventually says. “They have good ribs.” We drive past the city gymnasium. It’s named after Pedro Albizu Campos, the first Puerto Rican to graduate from Harvard Law School and the Nationalist Party leader in charge of the 1950 uprising. The gym remains closed because of hurricane damage. So does the baseball stadium behind it, its grass torn up and wild. The disparity here between neighborhoods of haves and havenots—a huge issue in Puerto Rico before the storm—can be tracked by blownout windows and abandoned houses. It’s not easy to plot a discernible path of Maria’s destruction. Some people lost everything. Others were left mostly alone. It all depended. Chance or fate. On the way out of town, we pass a statue, adjacent to the public library, dedicated to Yabucoeños who served in foreign wars. It depicts a soldier wearing fatigues and a helmet, carrying a rifle. An infantryman. On its stone base, below the names of each war, hang plaques with

the names of the fallen. Two of them, for those lost in World War II and “Irak,” as it reads, are missing; they were likely blasted off by Maria. The boys recommend taking the scenic way to Chili’s, north through the lowlands to Humacao, a larger municipality where Jann’s recruiting station is. We drive by plantain fields and a sign for sugar-mill ruins. Lazy horses graze under the shade of palm fronds. We pass a shack that sells fresh bread the boys swear by. The three friends clown on another pal of theirs who’s disappeared into the maze of new love. They’ve all had girlfriends themselves over the past couple years and been through heartbreak. They agree now that it’s usually not worth it. Girls get in the way of things, Arseneo explains. “Like what?” Jann asks him. “Video games?” Arseneo shrugs. The young men laugh again. Talk returns to the hurricane. Twenty months on, Maria and its aftermath still affect everyday life in Yabucoa. Jann and his father boarded up their home’s windows, then hunkered down with the family. They took turns on watch in the living room, listening to the screaming wind and putting pots under

roof leaks. More than forty hours later, they climbed to the roof and took in what Jann calls “a sea of brown.” The hurricane had blown away the greenery and foliage, all of it, leaving only the stark earth and tree skeletons in its wake. Electricity didn’t return for seven months. Employment in the area remains an issue; luckily for Jann’s family, his father’s work, as a skilled welder/ mechanic/cabinetmaker/electrician, is still in demand. The boys tell me about those they know who lost homes; Jann describes how the storm blew open the front door of a neighbor’s house but couldn’t blow down the back door. A pressure vacuum formed, all the windows shattered, and everything inside was destroyed. Days after the storm, while Jann was helping clear debris in the park across from his home, he heard a deep whooshing from above. He looked up and saw a U. S. Army helicopter arriving with relief supplies. “It gave me goosebumps,” he says. “I was like, They are the first here to help. Someday, I will do that for others.” It’s begun to rain as we pull into the parking lot of the strip mall where Chili’s is located. Most of the other businesses have not reopened since Maria, though the Walmart in the back looks packed. We take a corner booth. Over Pepsis and plates of ribs, I ask them about the relationship between Puerto Rico and the U. S. by way of a quote from Puerto Rican novelist Eduardo Lalo. “We are American citizens,” Lalo writes, “but we are not Americans; we are Puerto Ricans.” Jann, Jan, and Arseneo don’t agree. “American, Puerto Rican—it’s the same,” Jann says. For him and his friends, they can be both. They are both. They ’re not bothered by the federal government’s widely criticized disaster relief. Partly because Yabucoa was where the hurricane made landfall and partly due to the city’s accessibility, relief arrived quickly and en masse, as they recall. “Up in the mountains, though,” they allow, “parts are still messed up.” The ribs are housed in short order. Jann’s friends encourage him to eat everything on his plate. And not just because they’re good (continued on page 135)

WHAT’S GONE, AND WHAT’S TO COME Far left: Jann and Arseneo in the outfield of Yabucoa’s baseball stadium, which was damaged in Hurricane Maria and never repaired. Left: At Sato Beach, Jann takes a moment to himself, which will be all but impossible at Fort Benning. Septem be r 201 9_E squi re 12 5

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PHOTOGRAPHS BY GRANT CORNETT

Airplane

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Think back to what you packed on your last few trips. Now take only what you a c t u a l l y u s e d : An overstuffed carry-on is just deadweight.

PROP STYLING BY JOJO LI

Mode

p. 127 On the road, everything should make a statement. There’s having the right luggage, of course, but what about the perfect functional jacket? Or headphones that shut the engines out? Esquire’s well traveled creative director, Nick Sullivan, offers flight instructions you’ll actually want to read.

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Keep the

g a d ge t s and g i z m o s to a minimum. And reward yourself with a drink. (But not five.)

P R E C E D I N G P A G E S Left: Sweater ($425) by Vince; sunglasses ($405) by Balenciaga; Rimowa x Bang & Olufsen headphones ($900) by Bang & Olufsen; notebook ($230) by Smythson; Meisterstück Solitaire Calligraphy fountain pen ($1,870) by Montblanc; iPhone XS (starting at $999), iPad Pro (starting at $799), and smart keyboard folio ($199) by Apple; wallet ($80) by Y-3; ring ($95) by A.P.C. Right: Jacket ($3,995), shirt ($795), and trousers ($1,345) by Brunello Cucinelli; scarf ($950) by Goyard; bag ($3,390) by Corneliani; headphones ($400) by Bose; boots ($1,635) by Edward Green.

p. 128

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Never check a bag if you can avoid it. The airline c a n ’ t l o s e what you don’t give them.

T H I S P A G E Suitcase ($700) by Rimowa; blanket ($4,825) by Hermès; C-Lux camera ($1,050) by Leica; jacket ($1,950) by Thom Browne; sweater ($295) by Woolrich; sunglasses by Fendi; camera bag ($2,440) by Louis Vuitton; trousers ($398) by John Elliott; sneakers ($965) by Off-White c/o Virgil Abloh. O P P O S I T E Gloves ($135) by Hestra; wallet ($1,285) by Goyard; jacket by John Elliott x Blackmeans; vintage green turquoise Navajo ring ($600) and vintage turquoise cabochon Navajo ring ($375) available at Shiprock Santa Fe; earphones ($995) by Louis Vuitton.

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Have you found the ultimate travel jacket yet? It should be

functional, of course, with multiple pockets for all your gear. But it should also be warm and luxurious—think wool or cashmere.

p. 130

РЕЛИЗ ПОДГОТОВИЛА ГРУППА "What's News" VK.COM/WSNWS T H I S P A G E Notebook ($230) by Smythson; scarf ($85) by Rowing Blazers; jacket ($645) by Boss; sweatshirt ($595) by Brunello Cucinelli; jeans ($495) by Isaia; sunglasses ($575) by Jacques Marie Mage; socks ($30) by Falke; wallet ($360), Celine by Hedi Slimane; laptop case ($850) by Thom Browne; iPad Pro (starting at $799) and smart keyboard folio ($199) by Apple; Meisterstück fountain pen ($980) by Montblanc. O P P O S I T E Jacket ($595) by President’s; sweatshirt ($198) by John Elliott; passport cover ($295) by Mark Cross; binoculars ($3,225) by Hermès; trousers ($425) by Massimo Alba; backpack ($3,795) by Brunello Cucinelli; wallet chain ($285) by Kapital.

Plane time is t h i n k i n g t i m e , not working time. Instead of using a flight to catch up on emails, use it to plan ahead. Take a notebook and pen.

For store information see page 135. Airplane: VistaJet.

WHEN FIRST CLASS WON’T DO, VISTAJET

Pay-to-play e-scooters: solid business plan, right? Hand over a couple bucks, whir past traffic with the wind in your hair, get where you’re going just a little bit faster. Now dial that business model up a few income brackets and you have VistaJet. It’s for those of us with the distinct issue of wanting to get around via private jet—without actually owning a private jet. Using a flight-hour subscription plan, you get dibs on VistaJet’s fleet, which includes some sweet in-flight entertainment, like blind wine tastings. And if you’re curious what the digs are like, look no further than these spreads—they were all photographed on a VistaJet plane. Sure beats the middle seat!

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THE CASE OF THE MISSING $7 MILLION CAR

Joe finally got a piece of the winnings, but the legal wrangling had decimated his earnings. Even worse, he had lost someone he thought was a trusted friend: Gardner. According to Joe, Gardner had secretly maneuvered behind the scenes to get the auction to proceed over Joe’s objections, asserting that Joe no longer had any legitimate claim on the vehicle. Ultimately, after the Bonhams sale, the proceeds were distributed to everyone involved to make them all go away—leaving Joe with a fraction of what he otherwise would have received. “He and I would have earned millions,” Joe says. “But what I later learned is that he had cut me and the Kleve heirs out totally, claiming he owned 100 percent of the car, an out-and-out lie.” Gardner had been accused of unsavory dealings in the past. Joe didn’t know it at the time, but in a 1989 court filing, assistant U. S. attorneys in Louisiana charged Gardner with “smuggling ten used foreign-made automobiles into the United States by means of false documents.” (Gardner pleaded guilty to two counts of knowingly concealing facts, and the additional counts were dismissed.) Classic-car collectors in Cooper City, Florida; Seattle; and Brescia, Italy, had claimed in court filings that Gardner had sold them fraudulent 1930s Horsch Special Roadsters and Alfa Romeos and owed them hundreds of thousands of dollars. “Gardner could provide no paperwork,” claims Richard Scott, one alleged victim, who paid $300,000 for what he thought was a Roadster. “At this point, it is believed [the car shell] is some sort of custom body, made after the war, and as such has a value of less than 20 percent of the price that I paid for it.” Gardner did not respond to multiple interview requests for this story. Joe didn’t emerge from the Ferrari case unscathed, either. He had originally partnered with Kristine Lawson, one of Kleve’s daughters. In the past year, she sued him, claiming she should have received more money from the sale. Joe settled the suit. Then, just this past February, Lawson’s two sisters, Karyl Kleve and Katrina English—who had been represented by Lawson and Joe in the lawsuit—filed another suit against a different set of former attorneys, hiring one of Gardner’s former lawyers and claiming that Joe had not been fit to be their counsel. Calling Joe a “south Florida hustler and con 13 2 S ept e mbe r 2 0 1 9 _E sq u i re

man,” they said they had only received $150,000 apiece from the sale of the Ferrari, while Joe took $2.4 million. (The suit, which was not against Joe but nevertheless took a shot at him, alleged that $1.1 million of that amount went to pay for Joe’s legal fees during years of litigation against Gardner. Joe says the whole issue was between the sisters and not him.) Although Joe says he got “seven figures” from the sale of the car, he claims legal fees have eaten up a lot of it and that his remaining funds are now in jeopardy thanks to yet another suit related to the Ferrari case. “It’s taking a few twists and turns,” Joe says of the case. “It’s a tactical thing. They settled with everybody but me in order to paint me as the rich guy. . . . I’ve filed Chapter 11 bankruptcy, and it’s going to federal court.” But there was one silver lining. During the Ferrari case, a French mechanic had told Joe about a car Gardner had stolen: the rare TalbotLago. So, during the deposition, Joe decided to see if it was true. His attorney asked Gardner about the car to see what he would say— and caught him in a lie. “Gardner claimed he had bought the Talbot-Lago from an estate,” Joe says. “But I checked, and the estate did not sell the car. So that’s when I knew Gardner was a fucking liar and was fabricating documents to launder a stolen car. The car had been stolen.”

Back when Joe had first called Mueller—the second cousin of Roy Leiske, who inherited the title to the stolen Teardrop—Mueller told him he had gotten a call from a man in 2005 who had asked about buying some old parts from Leiske’s garage. “Then he asked about the stolen car,” Mueller says. The guy’s name? Chris Gardner. Joe asked Mueller if he wanted to work with him, and Mueller jumped at the idea. He offered Mueller his standard deal: Joe would search for the car, paying his own expenses, in exchange for a majority ownership. If it was recovered, he would sell the vehicle and share the proceeds with Mueller. Joe started his research. He ordered rare histories of the Talbot-Lago and French manuals that chronicled its mechanical details, and he contacted car clubs in Europe, paying locals to read through race records. He traveled to Milwaukee to review fifteen-year-old police documents, working backward to piece together the story of the Teardrop. “I’m trying to find when it was made, who bought it next, was it dismantled for steel during the war, whatever,” Joe says. “Provenance.” For two years, Joe went to work crafting a history of the Teardrop. But his leads took him nowhere. Then in 2016, he got another call. The Teardrop had resurfaced in Illinois, now apparently the property of a Rick Workman, the millionaire founder of Heartland Dental, a nationwide back-office administration company for dentists that Bloomberg once called the corporate “Walgreens for the dentistry business.” Workman had bought the Teardrop—from Gardner. Somehow the stolen Teardrop had

ended up in the hands of Joe’s friend turned enemy, who had sold it for more than $7 million to the novice collector. “Workman is the new whale,” one car collector says. “He’s recently wealthy, a self-made millionaire, and also a recent entry to the classic-car market— which means he’s now on everyone’s Rolodex.” Workman tried to register the Teardrop in Illinois under a corporation, and it popped up as stolen on a government database. Motorvehicle authorities contacted the Milwaukee police, who called Mueller—its rightful owner—and the FBI. Mueller, who was then working with Joe to find the car, demanded the return of the Teardrop. Workman refused. So in 2017, Joe and Mueller sued Workman for its return. They lost a decision in circuit court and then won on appeal, and the case is scheduled to go before the Wisconsin Supreme Court. “I respect Workman,” Joe says. “I even met him at last year’s Cavallino Ferrari event at Palm Beach. I said, We find ourselves on opposite sides of the fence, but I hope we can work this out. You got snookered.”

On a warm morning in May, Joe is in the gleaming, eighty-two-thousand-square-foot regional headquarters of the FBI near Milwaukee, on the shore of Lake Michigan. The room is airy and filled with sunlight. Joe stands alongside a couple FBI agents wearing polos, jeans, hiking boots, and badges around their necks. Mueller is there, along with his lawyer. In front of them, Joe’s long-sought goal: the Talbot-Lago engine. FBI agents seized it from the mechanic in France—the same mechanic who told Joe about the car in the first place— who had flipped to help them. Joe carefully removes parts of the engine from a crate, inspecting and documenting them piece by piece, helping the FBI verify their provenance. He finds a hinge to the rear trunk lid. Some chrome trim. A metal rod with some of the car’s original paint, a crucial link for tying all of this to the original vehicle. Nothing, however, compares to the motor itself—a shiny two-carburetor racing engine that has traveled the world for nearly a century to wind up in Milwaukee. Following the engine’s theft from Leiske in 2001, its original serial number was ground off. But over the past few weeks, since seizing it in France, the FBI was able to use chemicals to trace the fatigue left from the original stamping, raising a ghostly image of the serial numbers and identifying it as the original motor. “This is some top-level science by guys who know their shit,” Joe says. “It confirms it’s the original motor, and once it’s done as evidence, they’re going to release it to me and Richard. A $2 million engine.” Today, Joe is wrapping up a Midwest field trip, one that involves both his detective and legal skills, visiting the FBI as well as Workman’s lawyers in Chicago. A few days ago, in a conference room on the seventy-first floor of

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the Willis Tower in Chicago, Joe—wearing a fishing shirt and jeans—met with two of Workman’s top lawyers in the headquarters of Schiff Hardin, a national firm. Joe was there to give them one last shot at redemption. “I said, Listen, guys, the reason I’m here is that you’ve wasted $5 million of your client’s money,” Joe says. “I was willing to settle in the beginning for $3 million, dropping our lawsuit. But since then, another Talbot-Lago has sold for $9 million, and I’m about to meet with the FBI about the [Teardrop’s] engine, currently worth $2 million. Give me the stolen property now and then go after the real villain for your money. He’s going to jail—and I can help you with that.” Joe has never worked in a law firm. But he keeps up his legal license in Louisiana, studies the specifics of the law wherever he’s working a case, and then does his own legal work, representing himself in courts from Ohio to London to win cars. “Joey’s not corporate material, but he’s better than any corporate lawyer I’ve ever met,” Graham says. “I once ripped the bottom of my $200,000 catamaran, and the insurance company was not going to pay for it. Joey did all the legwork. They ended up paying me half a million dollars for that boat. I would have lost if Joey wouldn’t have stepped in. There’s a lot of good lawyers out there, but a lot of them charge you for nothing. And he makes an ass out of them.” On this trip, Joe couldn’t persuade the lawyers to give up the case—even though he claims the state of Wisconsin will never allow Workman to keep stolen property. “I gave them an opportunity to be the good guys, give me the car, and then I’d help them go after the villain,” he says. “I said, If you take this to court, you’re going to lose. You’re taking a court remedy statute and trying to trick the court into using it as criminal theft—it’s a Hail Mary pass.” Joe sighs. “The other lawyer said, Well, Joe, that’s the chance we’re willing to take.” Joe may have struck out in Chicago, but he hit gold with the FBI outside Milwaukee. Although he still has to win the Talbot-Lago from Workman in court, he and Mueller are guaranteed to receive the engine—all thanks to the trickery of Gardner. In the course of his investigation, Joe learned that the French mechanic had originally tried to sell the motor to a representative of Workman, who didn’t bite. So the mechanic next tried to sell it to Joe—whom he knew through his years with Gardner—saying he could ship it from France through a car-restoration shop in Milwaukee. Joe informed the FBI, who then had him set up a meeting with the car-shop owner—a rep for the mechanic. “This was a high-end shop,” Joe says. “I told the guy the engine was stolen and I’d only pay him a finder’s fee. But he didn’t do anything, and the deal fell through. They must have sniffed it out.” Joe figured that was the end of it. In the following weeks, however, the FBI and Milwaukee police traveled to the mechanic’s shop and, along with French police, interrogated him. Initially, 13 4 S e pt e m b e r 2 0 1 9 _E sq u ire

the mechanic mouthed off to them. But after his arrest, he became cooperative, giving them the motor as well as his computers and files, which contained information tying him to what Joe believes is a $60 million network of international car thieves—all run by his former friend. “The FBI won’t tell me shit,” Joe says, speaking hours after leaving the FBI headquarters. “I know it’s going to be a long indictment, and they’re poised to arrest Gardner, but they just won’t tell me when or where.” He sighs. “I can tell you this: His goose is cooked.”

On May 30, a federal grand jury in the Eastern District of Wisconsin released a five-count indictment against Christopher Gardner, charging him with wire fraud and causing a stolen car to be transported in foreign commerce. “A guy from the Milwaukee newspaper just called me about it,” Joe says, pausing to look at his phone. “Holy shit, it’s already on Fox News.” Gardner is believed to be living in Mont-surRolle, Switzerland. The investigation that led to his indictment involved the FBI, the Milwaukee police, Homeland Security Investigations, and the French National Police. If convicted on all counts, Gardner, sixty-three, could face thirty years in prison. Just the week before, Gardner had posted images on Instagram depicting him smiling in a red racing suit next to an antique car at the Vintage Revival event in Montlhéry, France. “Swiss helmet,” his caption stated with a Swissflag helmet emoji. Then his Instagram account was almost entirely scrubbed. “We’re looking and appealing to the public to help us identify and locate him,” says a rep for the FBI. The investigators analyzed the whole complicated history, and slowly the complete story of the Talbot-Lago’s journey tumbled forth. According to the indictment, it was Gardner and two accomplices who, in 2001, broke into Roy Leiske’s garage in east Milwaukee, working quickly to extract the Talbot-Lago. After its theft, Gardner transported it to California, where it was kept in storage. Then, in October 2005, just months after Leiske died, Gardner returned to Wisconsin to visit Mueller, who, figuring the Teardrop was gone for good, had no idea Gardner was the one who had stolen it. Leiske had kept a second Talbot-Lago as a parts car, which Gardner offered to buy. Mueller sold it to him. Which meant that Gardner had Mueller’s signature. Gardner used the signature and bill of sale to forge documents of ownership for the real Teardrop. He contacted the authorities in Milwaukee to affirm that he was in lawful possession of the car. According to a 2005 police report, Gardner provided a copy of the bill of sale and (falsely) told authorities he had bought additional parts for the vehicle from a classic-car specialist in Stockton, California, and then prom-

ised to contact the police if he ever learned “the identities of suspects in the initial burglary.” Incredibly, the Milwaukee police didn’t question the story and didn’t call Mueller. A report was written stating that the Teardrop had been “recovered,” and it was removed from the government’s stolen-car database. Gardner then shipped the Teardrop from Oakland to Geneva to the mechanic’s shop in the French Alps, but in the course of the restoration job, Gardner stiffed the mechanic. Out of spite, he kept the original engine. Unfazed, Gardner simply placed a different Talbot-Lago motor from the same period into the car—eventually selling it to Workman for $7.6 million in 2015. By this point, Joe and Mueller had placed the vehicle back on the government’s stolen-car database, triggering authorities when Workman tried to register it the next year—leading to the current international crime scene and legal shit storm. Through a rep, Workman—whose corporate bio says he “grew up on a farm, has a car collection, was a DJ in college”—initially declined to comment for this story. After the indictment, however, his lawyer issued the following statement: “[Dr. Workman] purchased the vehicle in good faith for fair value. He has fully cooperated with the ongoing investigation into Mr. Gardner. Since the investigation in Mr. Gardner is pending and civil litigation over the vehicle is continuing, Dr. Workman cannot further comment until those proceedings are concluded.”

“Friday afternoon—time for beer and oysters.” Joe is sitting at a plastic table at the Southport Raw Bar, a dockside shack tucked behind a strip-mall dive shop near the Fort Lauderdale airport. A locals joint, the bar is adorned with Christmas lights, kitschy signs, and a narrow view of an industrial boat slip looking east to the Atlantic. “I’ve been coming here for years,” Joe says, sucking down an oyster. “Someday I’ll have my own boat here.” Joe is a man who found his place in the world. He is doing what he was meant to do, and he’s thinking about the future. He’s got a whole file of new leads. People heard about the Ferrari and Talbot-Lago cases, and he’s getting calls from around the world. He’s looking into a missing car in the former Soviet bloc, “where they’ll kill you for a million-dollar vehicle. Not sure I want to touch that one yet.” He’s searching for a wealthy collector who angrily bulldozed a barn full of rare cars after a fire destroyed a few—Joe is convinced he can pull out the chassis from the dirt and get them restored. “Back then, the cars weren’t worth what they are today,” he says. “The former landowner is dead, but I’m using Google Maps to search the area. It might be under a highway; I’m not sure.” First up: He’s thinking about the case of a Ferrari owner in California whose vintage $5 million racer has gone missing in Asia. “When he said Asia, I said, Oh fuck, good luck with that,” Joe says, finishing his drink. “But then I said, Tell me more.”

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THE NEWEST RECRUIT

pits for stomachs. You’re gonna be representing us soon, they say. You’re going to be an American soldier from Puerto Rico. Later, I ask Jann how he feels about Puerto Rico’s status as a territory. “I don’t get why we aren’t already a state,” he says. “I mean, I’m joining the Army, right? It’s stupid.” There’s not an argument out there about government debt or corporate tax havens that can withstand the force of that clarity. On our way back to Yabucoa, I ask Jann about killing another human being.

The wind has picked up, and the rain is now coming at us horizontally. The air smells like bathwater. The car’s wipers slice across the windshield at maximum speed. We’re on the safer route, via the highway, from which we catch glimpses of the now-flooded roads we’d taken through the lowlands. Jan and Arseneo are in the backseat, ignoring us, or at least pretending to, playing on their phones. “I . . .” Jann stalls. It’s the first time he’s been asked this. His eyes widen to saucers and his mouth falls open a bit. He’s not upset, but bothered, and maybe confused. I know it’s a hard question, because it’s one that I used to ask my cherry privates before we deployed to Iraq. It’s a question I used to ask myself, too. Clearing his throat, Jann answers. “Yes, I’ve thought about it.” Neither of us uses the word war. I call it Afghanistan. He calls it battle. “It’s not something I want to do. But if I need to, it’ll be because my sergeant says to. In battle, I mean.” A country that still produces young people such as this is inspiring. I believe that. A country that still sends young people such as this to the same foreign war I fought in more than a decade ago is not. I keep all that to myself and wait for Jann to continue speaking. “I know it’s not like video games, at all. It’s . . .” He turns away from me and looks out

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the passenger window at the rain. “I don’t want to do it. There are guys who join the Army who say they want to kill, but I don’t believe them. They’re just trying to sound tough.” “But you’ll be willing to kill. If necessary.” Jann turns back and looks at me. His face sets like a flint. His eyes are hard now and tight around the corners. “Of course,” he says, this time with certitude. “If it’s for duty.” The recruit wakes in the dark of morning. His ears open before his eyes do, finding only the thrum of easy quiet. He stayed up late playing video games, again. Remaining in bed feels justified. No one will know if he skips today. It’ll be a little secret between him and the pillow. But there’s a standard to meet. The recruit sits up in bed and pats down his hair. Scrambled half-thoughts find a number, then cling to it. Twenty-seven, he thinks. Twenty-seven days. I’m to be a soldier, the recruit thinks. Then, one-oh-eight. He’s above it now. He needs to stay there. The recruit reaches for the dumbbells on the floor. Raw, gray light starts to creep through the blinds. The rooster coughs out a morning crow. The recruit wraps his knuckles around the dumbbells. He begins.

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The Big Bite, p. 32: Still: Everett Collection; p. 34: Game of Thrones and His Dark Materials: courtesy HBO; Watchmen and The Witcher: courtesy Netflix; The Name of the Wind: courtesy DAW Books/Penguin Random House; sandworm: courtesy Avalon Hill/Wizards of the Coast; p. 36: Howard: Danny Clinch; Carter: Anthony Barboza/ Getty Images; Paul: courtesy XL Recordings; Vandross: GAB Archive/Redferns; Simone: Jack Robinson/ Getty Images; Lamb of God: Travis Shinn; Ian: Gijsbert Hanekroot/Redferns; p. 37: Connery: courtesy Everett Collection; Nikka: courtesy Nikka Whiskey; Boyd & Blair: courtesy Pennsylvania Pure Distilleries; St. George: courtesy St. George Spirits; Absolut: courtesy Absolut; Polugar: courtesy Polugar; p. 38: Bowls: courtesy FieldTrip; Johnson: Beatriz Da Costa; p. 42: Johnson and Smalls: Beatriz Da Costa; Sichuan Chili Crisp: Kathryn Wirsing; book: courtesy Flatiron Books/Macmillan; p. 45: Chris Ware/Pantheon Books; p. 48: Burns: J. 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BACK TO WORK By Lars Kenseth

“While we encourage our employees to take time off, now that you have, it will count against you.”

“I’ve got some space left on my vacation camera roll—let’s do a fun one.”

“Three long days back from vacation and I still haven’t caught up on all the hikers I need to maul.”

“Coming back from vacation isn’t so bad when you’ve got a watercooler filled with straight vodka.”

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