Seinfeld [antikvár]

Prologue His city—the New York City he introduced to middle America; the city whose foibles and characters and neurosis and buzzwords have become part of the national lexicon and consciousness; the city everyone thought they knew from watching his show; his city of movie theater hnes and Chinese restaurant waiting lists and gymnasium saunas and fascist soup stand proprietors and inane coffee shop booth chatter and parking space battles and oddball neighbors and eccentric bosses and yada, yada, yada about nothing; his city, which was as much a character of his show as the players themselves—was burning on that sparkling Tuesday, September 11,2001. Jerry had awakened early, but it was still dark where he was, which was some fifteen hundred miles west of, and two time zones earlier than, what would become known as Ground Zero. Like so much of his adult life, Jerry was on the road, in a hotel room that horrific morning, in a suite at the Charter at Beaver Creek, a luxurious Rocky Mountains getaway, in Colorado. It was shortly after 6:30 A.M., mountain daylight time, and he had requested an early wake-up call because he was scheduled to take the wheel of one of his $300,000 classic '50s Porsche Speedsters and participate with eighty-five other high-rollers in the Colorado Grand Vintage Car Rally, a charity event. In the past, most of the money had been raised for HIV patients; this year it was for research and treatment of bipolar manic depression. At a pre-rally brunch, the watch company Girard-Perregaux auctioned off for $20,000 one of its vintage chronographs— the kind of timepiece Jerry likes to sport on his wrist—for the cause.