Wading Mary

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The falling in place didn't happen right away. No. It crept up in subtle ways and, when I finally realized it, I pushed it aside. I thought the fractures would heal, unattended, before a break occurred.

There was a lovely limbo in between leaving the Big Man and starting again with the Producer. I found myself with three weeks off and, luckily, I had some money stashed away to live on (those were the days). So, the Mormon and I took advantage of it.

He, first, took me to his friend's house in the Hamptons for a weekend. Anyone who knows me well, knows that I have an aversion to automobiles; especially when it comes to driving them. The Mormon had a truck and he often used it even for local errands. I felt pretty safe when he was driving. Except for the night we left for the Hamptons. It was a torrential downpour. He pulled up to my apartment on Grand Street and by the time I got from my front door and into the truck I was soaked through. Lightning flashed across the sky and thunder made the earth shake.

Are you sure you want to go tonight? I asked, timidly.

"Yeah. This is great. It'll be a fun drive."

Yeah. Fun. I swallowed hard, buckled my seatbelt and didn't breathe for approximately two and a half hours. I have inherited anxiety from my mother. So I spent most of the trip with my eyes closed afraid I'd be too annoying employing the imaginary breaks in front of me the entire ride. If I was driving in that weather I'd have the speedometer at about 2.5 miles an hour. No more. Maybe less. And I refused to talk to the Mormon for fear of distracting him from the road. It was raining so hard you couldn't see more than a foot in front of the car. At least, I couldn't. We eventually arrived at the house. I, white-knuckled and light-headed, finally allowed my breath to return to its normal flow. It had not stopped raining. It had just continued to get worse.

We sat in the rain looking at the small, white house about 30 feet in front of us. There was a small lake in between us. The Mormon said the keys were hidden under a brick to the right of the doorway.

How do you know the guy who owns this house? I asked.

"We used to date."

Oh. For a long time?

"Not too long. We had only been dating about a week or two when one day he ran across the room, jumped in my lap and asked me to marry him. He moved a little too fast so I ended it."

Understandable.

"But he lets me use this place from time-to-time. Or we come up with his new boyfriend for weekends."

Cool.

"Are you threatened?"

No. And I wasn't. But there went my plans for a marriage proposal that weekend.

"So, let me leave the car running and the lights on and I'll go find the keys and open the door."

I watched him intently as he jumped out, held a hand over his eyes to shield them from the rain and plunged through the puddle. He was so unlike anyone I had ever dated. Anyone I had ever met. He was a man from Utah. He grew up on a farm, a real, honest-to-god farm. He was tall and broad like someone who spent their life working on the land. We didn't have land to work in South Philly. We had a back yard that was about 10' x 20'. We had concrete sidewalks in the front. The Mormon had spent a summer working in a slaughter house. His job slicing the throats of cattle. I would look at his hands sometimes and imagine them drawing the cool, steel blade with a firm sure hand across the hairy necks of the helpless animals. I spent my summer's working at the gift shop in the U.S. Mint. I would have liked to have sliced the throats of some not-so-helpless tourists.

Suddenly, he was knocking on the door of the car. I was startled and looked at him, eyes dancing in the light reflected from the house and laughing. I opened the door.

"Where were you?"

Thinking. Sorry.

"Come on."

I unbuckled my seatbelt and before I knew it, he swept me up in his arms and carried me over the puddle and deposited me on the front step. I laughed, breathless, and called his name. He was already on his way back to the car to get the bags.

I turned into the house and looked around. It was small, cottage-like. But tasteful and well-appointed. It was going to be a nice few days.

The next morning, we awoke early to sunlight streaming in the windows. The room was entirely white. The comforter on the bed was white. The sheets were white. The curtains were white. The light was white. The room was aglow like heaven. I pushed the covers aside and threw my head over the edge of the bed and let the light hit my face. It was warm and comforting and I was glad the rains of last evening had stopped.

"Let's go to the beach," he said.

It's February, I responded. But ok!

As we opened the front door of the house there was water about a foot high everywhere.

I can walk this time, I said and winked at him.

He cautiously backed out of the driveway and we made our way through the water. We passed a house I had not noticed last night in the rain and the darkness. In the front yard, surrounded by water, was a statue of Mary; her arms spread wide at her sides, her robes gently brushing the cold water by her feet, her head tilted down and to the side as if contemplating her reflection in the black water. We stopped and the Mormon took some pictures. I wanted to ask her what she saw in herself, the wading Mary. Did she feel trapped or comforted by the surrounding water? Did she want to dive in and swim away or just stand there and accept it all, whatever 'it all' was?

I watched he slowly fade from sight as we drove away and turned a corner and headed off to the beach.

Spinning

In high school, I spent a lot of time at my friend's house in New Jersey. His parents were divorced but lived in fairly close proximity to each other. His mother's house was a sprawling Victorian with lots of room and a piano in the living room. I couldn't play but I could sing. And we would spend hours at the piano with him playing, and me singing. Or both of us singing. Or just making things up as we went along. I felt I belonged there, at that piano with him. We would do this late into the night then crash on the sofas in the living room to fall asleep. As we would lay there we would play a game. One of us would think of a color and the other would try to guess which color the other was thinking of. We were so in sync that we often guessed on the first try.

One morning -- after an exceptionally long evening of belting out songs from Chess, Les Miz, Song & Dance (Tell Me On a Sunday was my signature number) and probably some of Billy Joel's Captain Jack -- I found myself alone in the living room with my friend's mom.

"Was that you singing last night?"

Oh. Yes. I'm sorry. Was I too loud? I hope we didn't keep you up.

"Oh no. Not at all. I just wanted to let you know that you have a beautiful voice."

Oh. Thanks.

And I left the room. I wasn't used to being complimenting. My friend was the star, the talented one. He got all the girls. He got the lead in all the plays and musicals. He was the "It" Boy in my world and I was a sidekick: Pancho to his Don Quixote, Robin to his Batman. You get the point. No one had ever acknowledged my talent and I didn't know how to accept it.

But I loved singing. It took me away.

Another thing that took me away was our late nights in the local playground. I became friendly with his New Jersey crew and we spent many late evenings playing on the swing sets, sliding down the slide or talking in low, hushed voices about life and philosophy.

"What are you most afraid of?" was always a big question to pose to the group. And me, feeling like an outsider in their group -- a welcome outside but an outsider nonetheless -- held my tongue at first. Here I was, 15 or 16. Close to 200lbs. And struggling with the fact that I knew I was gay but not knowing what to do about it. So as answer went around the group --

"I'm afraid of dying in a fire."

"Drowning."

"Being the victim of a serial killer."

"Death."

And finally, me. I'm afraid of being alone.

Because I had felt alone my whole life. I never belonged anywhere. And here, with them, I felt the most inside of anything I had in my entire life. And I was terrified that something was going to take it away.

To get me out of my funk, the Girl would take my hand and lead me down to a wide open space. We would look at each other, nod, and begin to spin. Looking down at my feet at first, I would watch as they clumsily shuffled around in a tight circle. In the dark, my white sneakers quickly began to turn into flashes of light as I began to turn faster and faster. When this was achieved, I would raise my arms to shoulder level and feel the air on my arms and the breeze of the momentum we were creating. The world began to flash around me. Streetlights became meteors. The lights of houses in the distance were distant planets. And nothing else matters. We would spin and spin as fast as we could and then on call, stop on a dime. You stopped and there was a moment of pure weightlessness, then a rocking side to side as the your body tried to return to the earth followed by a collapsing to the firm ground where you looked up and the world still spun around you. You couldn't stop spinning if you tried. It was the most amazing feeling in the world. And I would laugh and laugh and laugh. And forget about feeling out of place. Because, in spinning, I was a part of everything.

The Mormon and I were lying in his bed one night. He lived in a converted loft and had turned it into a two bedroom. His bed was lofted high up in the air to make room for closet space and bookshelves underneath. The ladder to get up was steep and I never managed to mount it gracefully.

We were in bed reading and an overwhelming feeling of loneliness overtook me. I felt so alone. Or I felt the potential of being alone, perhaps. I didn't want to be alone. I felt I belonged with the Mormon and I didn't want him taken away from me. I wanted to feel him. I needed to know we were connected. I felt so inexplicably lonely and empty inside. Maybe I could feel him pulling away. There were waves of ambivalence over the past few weeks. Sometimes, he would disappear for days and not answer phone calls or emails or text messages.

Will you lie on top of me?

"What?"

Will you put your book down and lie on top of me?"

"Not tonight. Go to bed."

I felt like a little kid put in his place. I wasn't asking for sex. This was deeper than sex. I needed to feel the weight of his body on me to make me feel like I was there. Like I was present. But I didn't know how to verbalize it in the moment. I just wanted him to hold me. And I turned away from him, defeated, and stared up at the ceiling and the room started spinning. But it was spinning out of my control. And I was a part of nothing. I had asked for something I wanted, something I needed, and had been denied.

Who's gonna break my fall
When the spinning starts?
The colors bleed together and fade
Was it ever there at all?
Or have I lost my way?
The path of least resistance
Is catching up with me again today.
-- Brandi Carlile

Dear John

I spent many long days in the casting office, finding replacement Jews for the shtetl of Fiddler on the Roof and drunks, punks and queens for a revival of Threepenny Opera. Variety is the spice of life. I was miserable in the office. I'm miserable, as a rule, in most any office. The Big Man paid no attention to Fiddler, which was fine, except when he was needed to make a decision or show up at an important final callback. One day I was so overwhelmed I had to ask him to go to a director's callback in my place and he actually bristled. Mind you, this was a show he was receiving a substantial maintenance check on every week.

I did, one day, manage to arrange to have Sandra Bernhard audition for the Golde replacement. It took me weeks to track her down through her manager. Apparently, she moves around constantly. But, with Harvey Fierstein on as Tevye why not have a lesbian Golde. Plus, I just wanted to meet her and be in a room with her. Sandra was actually very excited about the audition and when she showed up at the rehearsal studio to meet with the director, producer and musical director I could see how nervous she was. As is the case when you're auditioning a star of a certain caliber you have to assure them that this is a closed audition and only the necessary parties will be there. I had provided Sandra with two scenes and the music to Do You Love Me?. She came prepared.

Sandra's dry humor and off-beat tone added many new laughs to the book but somehow felt a little too contemporary for the world of the play. The director worked with her though and she got better and stronger with each take. And then she sang and although some people may not be fans, I love her voice. It's raw.

She did not get the part. It went to another lesbian comedienne, Rosie O'Donnell. I had nothing to do with that decision. But found Rosie quite moving in the role. She and Harvey brought a warmth to the production that had been lacking with the original cast. And a lot more humor. And upped the gay quotient.

Meanwhile in Threepenny Opera land I had managed to convince Cyndi Lauper to meet with the director for the role of Jenny. I can't talk enough about my love for her. Ever since she sang 'Goonies 'R Good Enough' I was in love. And although Madonna had skyrocketed past her, Cyndi is the better singer, musician and songwriter. Her album "A Hat Full of Stars" got me through high school, especially the song 'Dear John' which, in my mind, had been written just for me. What? You don't know it?

Dear John
What's wrong ?
Why can't you just be anything you want ? Why not ? Why not ?
I tried to tell you then. You didn't understand. T
hey try and pigeonhole you.
Buddy, they don't even know you.
But hang on my dear, dear, John.
Maybe you're not just like everyone, so what, so what.

And there's more to live for, than some abbreviated encore,
much more, much more.
You can't define yourself in terms of someone else.
You can't say what you're thinking ? But I don't know what you've been drinking.
But don't cry. 'Cause life goes on.
Dear John, you could be anything you want. Why not ? Why not ?
Why you could even be an astronaut, dear John, dear John.

This album and Rites of Passage (Indigo Girls) still bring up a well of feelings in me when I hear them.

So, after weeks of calls, Cyndi was coming to meet the director. This was not my first time meeting her. I had had a drink with her when we were briefly casting the John Doyle, play-your-own-instrument-and-stare-blankly-out-at-the-audience-as-you-recite-your-lines-in-a-detached-manner revival of Sweeney Todd. But we (Roundabout) were none-too-subtly let go from that project and it was given a commercial production. Anyhow, I had a drink with her, the Big Man and Doyle one night at the Regency. When asked what instrument she played Lauper said, "The dulcimer." Yeah, of course. Why not? The role went to Patti LuPone and the rest of the cast was almost all people that we had found. We got no credit. Upsetting. Show business.

So. There I am at the stage door of The New Group waiting for Cyndi Lauper to bring her to the director. She's 5, 10, 15 minutes late. Finally, half an hour later a car pulls up. Her LA Ken-looking manager gets out and flashes me a too-white smile and puts his hand out to help Cyndi out of the car. My phone rings. It's the Big Man. He's been calling every two minutes to see what's going on and why she isn't there yet, even though he's still in his pajamas in his apartment on the UWS and it's noon. I put the call into voicemail. I introduce myself to Cyndi, hoping for a flash of recognition but nothing. "You danced on my table at Joe's Pub" I want to scream out, but I hold back. I lead her down a very confusing series of backstage hallways until we find the elevator that will bring us up to the director's office. In the elevator I keep wanting to say, "Tell her about high school. Tell her about Dear John. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her." But I look over at her and, like Sandra Bernhard, she's a performer looking for a job and her thoughts are elsewhere. I swallow my voice, the elevator doors open and I introduce her to the director and disappear.

This part of the job I loved and hated. I grew out of being star struck early on in my career. I enjoyed seeing the humanity and vulnerability of famous people. It puts you all on the same level. But to them, I was just a lackey. No matter that I had spent weeks trying to make all of this happen. I was a nobody. Theirs eyes were on the prize. So be it.

But I was restless. I felt trapped. I was tired of doing all the work and someone else getting all the credit. Honestly, it wasn't even the credit I wanted it was the money. I was tired of doing so much work and living hand-to-mouth. No amount of gifted dvds or books that Big Man presented us with on a regular basis as gifts could pay the rent, the credit cards or the utilities. I also still didn't like casting. I resented letting go of a project just as all the pieces came together. And I resented even more directors fucking up all the work I had done by turning in a mediocre, uninspired production.

Why couldn't I be anything I wanted?

Fiddler closed and Threepenny was close to being cast. The Big Man was having a nervous breakdown about finances. He didn't have as much work lined up for the coming season to support his expanding staff. I quickly sent a text to the Producer to ask if she could take me back. I needed to get out of casting, once and for all, for my own sanity. She immediately responded yes. I told Big Man that I could leave and he immediately assented. As much as he cared about me, he cared about his finances even more. There wasn't much going on with the Producer but at least I could finally maybe get my thesis paper written and get my MFA, especially since I was already repaying student loans.

So I said 'goodbye' to Sandra. Goodbye to Cyndi. And, I thought, goodbye to casting.

I left the office that night and headed down to Union Square to meet the Mormon and it was as if I was flying. I was so happy. A giant weight had been lifted and I was off to bigger and better things. The Mormon was standing in our usual meeting spot when I got there, the statue of George Washington on the south side. I told him the news and he picked me up in a giant bear hug and spun me around. I laughed and laughed. Everything was coming together.

Signs: Heeded and Ignored.

The Mormon wanted me to meet his mentor.

He had discovered a class about writing a solo performance piece. In this class, he was developing and writing a play about the event he described to me on our walk around Union Square. I was thrown a bit by this information. Not so much as by his sharing his story (who am I to judge that?) but the underlying desire to perform that seemed to be lurking not so far beneath the surface. After my past experience with the Actor, I was hesitant to get involved with another. But the Mormon seemed so different. He asked questions. He looked at me. He wanted my opinion about things.

I also discovered how my friend, the Perpetually Recovering Addict, and the Mormon knew each other. They met at New York's GLBQT Center. In a Sexual Compulsives Anonymous Group.

I wasn't really aware of that the fact that there was such a group. And in my head, sexual compulsion means you're going around having sex with as many people as possible as much as possible. Not so. It also compromises people who are addicted to internt porn and it gets in their way of achieving intimacy with others. Hmmm. That sounds familiar. The Mormon didn't seem afraid of intimacy. Not that I had noticed yet. But it was still new.

So, he wants to be an actor and he's addicted to internet porn. Check. Check. We're made for each other.

Signs: ignored.

Our date to meet the mentor is at the Lincoln Center Cinemas. We're all going to see Brokeback Mountain together. I'm hoping this time will work out a little better than the last.

The Mormon has a truck so he's picked me up in Brooklyn with my overnight bag because we're going to spend the weekend in a house he's renovating in Cold Springs, NY. As we're walking down the street, the cold air cutting a chill right through me he asks, "Are you nervous?"

About meeting the mentor?

"No. About spending a weekend away together."

No. Should I be? You're not a serial killer are you?

"No. It's just...do you think it's too soon?"

No. I think we'll find out.

He smiles at me. I have given the right answer.

And I wasn't scared. I think things progress naturally. If I didn't want to go up with him, I wouldn't have. But it felt right. I liked spending time with him. I liked getting to know him and the more I found out, the more I liked.

The Mentor shows up and she's a tiny, wiry, wisp of a woman. She had achieved great success in the 70s with a one woman show that started at the Public and then moved off-Broadway for an extended run. She is warm, smart, thoughtful and funny. She's well-spoken. And she seems to truly connect with the Mormon. She believes in his writing. I take this as a good sign.

Brokeback was sold out so we decided to go see Match Point. Woody Allen cast two very attractive people who aren't very good actors and certainly not good enough to improv. After a while, the movie became them having the same fight over and over again so that I was finally happy when the shotgun came out.

After the movie, we shared a quick bite and the Mormon and I headed off to Cold Spring.

On the ride up, he turned to me and asked how I felt about religion. I was taken aback. No one had ever asked me this question outside of a religion class, and that was in high school. I was raised Catholic. We went to Church every Sunday. Well, Dad and I did. Mom said she had to stay home to get dinner ready for the week. After high school, I only went to church for weddings, christenings and funerals. After I came out, my dad stopped going saying he wouldn't support an institution that didn't recognize his son. Sweet. But I think he just didn't want to go anymore either and I gave him a good excuse.

I don't know, I said. I think I'm spiritual. I don't find God in church. I find him in myself when I'm doing yoga or kickboxing and my whole body is working and doing things I didn't imagine possible. I find that I stop thinking and go some place else inside of myself. I think I find God in other people too...

And I trailed off. Because I wasn't entirely sure.

"Religion is very important to me. Spirituality. It's important that I date someone who feels the same way."

Sign: ignored.

"What's important to you?"

Again, a question I've never had to field in a relationship.

Someone who's active, takes care of themselves. Someone who is confident and knows who they are and knows what they want. Someone who pays attention. Someone who knows how to laugh.

The rest of the trip is spent pretty much in reflective silence. The night passes quickly by the passenger seat window. There are few overhead lights on this narrow road we're on and I watch the broken white lines pass underneath us through the glow of the headlights. I play a game in my mind that I used to as a kid in my dad's car. I pretend I'm running and I have to keep up with the car, at the same speed, and jump on every other white line. If the line is solid, I can just run. It feels like flying if you let yourself go.

It's funny that way...

Present Day.

Not too long ago The Playwright somehow, magically, came across this blog and started reading it. And reached out to me across the sea of worldwide channels and an unexpected friendship was formed. Life is funny that way.

The Playwright and I have been corresponding daily, sharing stories and getting to know each other. The other day I went to Drama Book Shop and I picked up all of his published works so that I could conduct my own little "Playwright's Voice" class, a la grad school. In the Playwright's Voice we were to read a bunch of selected works by one author (I think we had Williams, Pinter and Mamet) and identify the themes that carried throughout. The we were given three scenes to choose two of which to direct. I, of course, chose Williams (Talk to Me Like The Rain and Let Me Listen) and Pinter (Victoria Station).

I've read three of the Playwright's works now and have started to uncover and define the various themes that reoccur throughout. But last night I was struck deeply by one particular passage because a character stood out to me in a way that none of the other's had up to this point. And it got me to thinking. Her name is Helen. She's at first glance a weak soul, lost and wounded and brighter than she thinks and, underneath it all, manipulative. She confronts her husband who has walked out on her:

"Did you ever love and respect me? Did you learn anything from me? Did I give you succor and warmth? What were you thinking when you hid in my chest at night, scared? Were we partners together? Did you ever stop in the middle of the goddamn day and wonder what I was doing or feeling?...I've had the last ten years of my life revealed to me as an absolute disaster..."

And what she, eventually, gets to is that her husband used her to get his greencard and she just figured it out.

And last night, sparked by an intense therapy session, this made me think about this play and beyond because Helen goes on to blackmail her husband.

The Playwright's works are full of people who use and manipulate each other for power or for personal gain, most of the time with skill and cunning. In his worlds, we are all looking out for ourselves. And getting to know him, I don't believe that is his view on the world but what he perceives other people as doing. Maybe I'm wrong. But I don't think so.

All my life, I've had issues with trust. I've had difficulties trusting anyone who wanted to be my friend. Why would they? What do they want from me? As a casting director it was even harder. Actors only want to be my friend because they want a job, I thought. As a director, it was the same thing. I found myself doubting even those who I was closest to from time-to-time. It's why I have a "don't date other people in theatre" rule.

But what I realized last night was, we all want something from someone. Companionship, love, friendship, competition...something. But we have to be willing to give something in return.

I have asked big favors of the Playwright this week. Favors that, in my past, I wouldn't have dared ask for fear of rocking the boat of our blossoming friendship. But he had provided me with a lifeline. I feel seen and heard in a way that I haven't before and it means more to me than he, or anyone can possibly know.

This is my way of saying thanks and trusting that there is no manipulation or ill-intent at hand. Unlike the character's in his plays, I have the ability to look after myself and others simultaneously. And although I'm going through a profound feeling of being stuck in certain circumstances on an almost daily basis, he has give me some greater hope on this island at the end of the world.

Isn't it funny?

13th and Broadway

The Mormon and I were on our third date.

I hurried from the Casting Office down to 13th Street for a 6:30 showing of Pride & Prejudice at the Quad. I don't really like seeing movies there. It's like paying $12 to watch a movie in your own basement. But we both wanted to catch it in the theatre. So there we were. I had been on edge all day. It was only the third date but my feelings for the Mormon were certainly growing and I had yet to divulge a certain health matter. It was looming over my head like a pendulum, swinging back and forth at such a great speed I could hardly concentrate on anything else. I knew tonight was the night. And I knew telling him meant risking the loss of him. But it couldn't be put off.

We sat through the movie. Keira Knightley was more charming than I would have thought. The sound was so bad it was hard to catch some of the dialogue but I'm smart enough to get the gist. And the whole time I'm sitting there thinking, "I have to tell him. I have to tell him. I have to tell him." The iPod of my mind was stuck on repeat.

The movie ended too quickly and I was a little teary-eyed at its presentation of love lost and regained. Although the last image of Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen kissing in front of the candles was eerily similar to Molly Rigwald and Michael Schoeffling kissing over the birthday cake at the end of Sixteen Candles, I wistfully ate it up.

Then there was the talk of what to do next. It seemed like we both wanted to call it an early night, not for lack of interest but for reasons I can't define. We began a slow walk through the cold to Union Square. The January air tore through me. It stung my eyes and I pulled my hat down further over my ears. The Mormon had somehow managed to get a good few feet ahead of me and I hurried to catch up. Suddenly we were on the corner of 13th and Broadway and too close to the subway station that would whisk me back to Williamsburg.

I swallowed hard and said, "I need to talk to you about something."

He looked at me...and, at this point in my life, I had so gotten used to being looked through that being looked at was truly startling...he looked at me with concern and interest. The wind picked up and shot through me yet again. I nodded the entrance of an antique store to my right. It was in a recess and would save us from the cold air. "Let's go over there," I muttered.

We moved into the relative safety of the doorway and stared into the shop. Rows and rows of items I could not afford, some tacky and some beautiful, framed in the red panes of the store front. Inside, all along the tops of the wall were small busts of Poseidon, his hair billowing out like clouds behind him and his lips pursed, about to blow a huge gust of wind toward...something.

I couldn't look at the Mormon but my gloved hand clutched his bare one as I looked at the ground and told of my unfortunate condition. I cried. No matter what anyone tells you, it doesn't get any easier with time. It's still an admission and it still made me feel tainted somehow; unclean. But I told him, "Before this goes any further and if you want to stop now that I understand and respect that but I needed to let you know because, well, I needed to."

These words hung in the air for a second, held up by Poseidon's breath and then disappeared into the night. He took my face in his hands and looked at me, looked into me. "That must have been very hard," he said. I laughed. "Yes. Yes it was."

"Thank you for telling me."

Of course.

And then he took my hand and told me a story about him. A story that is not mine; it is his alone to tell. And he has told it very eloquently in his own way. We walked hand in hand up Broadway and around Union Square Park. The wind had died down The night was suddenly cool and comforting. His hand in mine was warm. We walked and talked. His story unfolded and I listened without judgement. Then we were back on the corner of 13th and Broadway. Cars and trucks rumbled by. People shuffled around us, their Whole Foods bags slapping into our legs. I looked up at him and took his face in my hands and he bent toward me. As I slowly closed my eyes to receive his kiss the last thing I could see were the scrolling red lights of the movie theatre across the street and the image of them became so blurry that they almost looked like comets in the night sky as my eyes closed all the way and his lips met mine.

The End of the End

As things progressed with the Mormon, the situation with the Actor would drift in and out of my thoughts. I left it hanging and we hadn't spoken. My one last effort to reach out had been to invite him home with me for Christmas because he wasn't going home and said he didn't know what he was doing. I invited him out of pity. I didn't really want him to come and I was relieved when he said 'no'.

Months later, I received an email from him. He told me he had run into friends of mine. They had talked about me. His grandmother had died and he had to go home and be the "rock", the "patriarch" for the family. I'm sure he played it like a martyr.
The email was supposed to illicit some kind of sympathy from me. It ended with this:

"I thought sometimes about calling you and then thought
better of it. I wonder what you're up to and if we'll
be friends. I wonder if you're closer to your ranch
style home in Texas with two dogs. I've thought about
Ripley. I care about you and I believe this much time
has passed between contact with one another out of
love for one thing and fear of another. I respect that
we have not spoken since Christmas. I trust you are
well. It would be nice to hear from you."

Sympathy was not what he got. He got the full brunt of me instead:

"Actor--

I'm sorry about your grandmother. I know how it is.

I know that I disappeared and although I tried not to it was all I
could do at the time.
I too have thought about getting in touch with you but I didn't really
know what...how to talk about what happened and my perception of the
situation without coming across as mean.
I don't think that we can be friends. In retrospect, I don't think
that we were friends. When I had sufficient distance from our
relationship -- if that's what it was -- I was so angry at myself for
what I went through and put myself through. I felt manipulted by you
both physically and emotionally. It seems to me that you want to
control the way people perceive you to such a point that ultimately
they don't know anything about you. You want to be needed and loved
but when I required that from you at times and admitted I was needy
all you could say was, "I'm glad you can see it."

Your physical distance was also another way of keeping intimacy at
bay. In three months the only time we kissed was our first night
together. And you kept thanking me for my "patience" as if finally,
one day you would bestow this amazing gift of yourself upon me. I got
tired of waiting. I feel like I tried consistently to open up to you
and let myself be vulnerable but, alas, against a brick wall. And I
would get angry and frustrated and then breathe and try again. Only
to be met with the same response. So I ran out of patience. I also
met someone who was emotionally and physically available. Who was not
trying to manipulate my perception of him or his own perception of
himself. And as scary as intimacy is, I would rather risk getting
hurt and reaping the rewards of a loving relationship than fear I'm
going to be alone for the rest of my life. If I get hurt, I will
recover.

Again, this is my perception of things and you probably see things
differently. But I discovered how disrespected I felt by the
situation and how stupid I was for feeling that I somehow deserved it.
Or that it would get better. And when I realized that you keep your
friends at the same distance, I realized it wouldn't get any better
for me. Especially since you can't seem to accept your sexuality and
let it be a part of you wherever you are. I don't understand how you
can study improv and not be out there. I'm not saying your sexuality
rules or defines your personality but it certainly influences/affects
it.

Your addiction to internet porn is, I learned, another sign of your
fear of intimacy. You can imagine whatever you want in those
scenarios. Everything is safe because it's not real. But I want
real. I want sloppy, ugly, honest, ecstatic, disappointing and
beautiful reality.

All of this has been on my mind for the 5 months I haven't seen or
spoken to you. And it weighed me down because, mostly, I felt I owed
it to myself as much as you.

So I don't think we should try to be friends. I don't think we should
stay in touch. I do wish you the best because I think underneath the
facade you try to present there is a vulnerable, talented person with
something to offer both to himself and the world. But I don't have it
in me to see it through."

I am needy. Terribly so. But I think most people are and should be. We have needs and we want them met.

I had forgotten about his addiction to internet porn. A problem that plagues us nowadays with our easy access to naked images online which we respond to, mistakenly, as intimacy. Unfortunately, intimacy and internet porn were problems that would plague me, once again, with the Mormon. But more on that when I get there.

Mambo Italiano

So the day after Thanksgiving I got on a plane and flew to Italy.

The entire trip is an endless blur. I don't remember much. Only fragments.

I remember the long walk through the Papal Museum in the Vatican until we finally reached the Sistine Chapel.

I remember looking up at the ceiling and being so overwhelmed that I started weeping and had to sit down on a hard pew. I kept crying but I couldn't stop looking. How was I going to make a mark like that? What would my contribution to the world be? Who would remember me when I died and what would they remember me for?

I remember some of the freshest produce I've ever had in my life and most of the best meals. We found one place around the corner from our hotel on the Piazza del Popolo in Rome and I ate the same meal three times because it was so good: cold seafood salad and spaghetti carbonara.

I remember going to bed those first few nights and praying that I would wake up and it would be a dream. I would wake up and I wouldn't be in Italy and I wouldn't have Hepatitis B anymore.

I remember sitting in a bar every day from 4 - 5:30 to drink (against my doctor's orders) and write in my journal and just watch and listen to the people.

I remember feeling strangely at home in Rome.

I remember not liking Florence and trying to go into a gay bar late one night but feeling scared, inadequate and foreign on every level. The music was loud, pulsing and Italian. The gays were dressed in better, more expensive clothes than mine. I didn't even get a drink. I did a lap and left, frustrated and lonely.

I remember staring at a plate with the head of Medusa painted on it at the Uffizi. I couldn't stop staring into her eyes. I wanted to turn to stone, yes. I also couldn't help but notice the fear and sadness in her last look before her head came off. I spent days thinking I'd write a story about Medusa and life from her point of view but then I thought it was too close to Wicked. So I never did.

I remember a long train ride with my face buried in the uncollected stories of Patricia Highsmith.

I remember Venice. The sound of the water lapping against stones older than the United States. I remember the joy of walking streets with no cars.

I remember my shock at realizing the Big Man was reliving the exact same trip he had taken with his one and only boyfriend in the years when they were young and in love and exchanged rings in Venice. I followed him up and down the twisting Venetian streets that all look the same, until we came to stop in front of a non-descript hotel. "This is it," he said. "This is where we stayed." And it all came together for me. This is why we were here. Big Man was chasing ghosts. And I wanted to go home.

I remember trying to call my parents on a Sunday afternoon and thinking it was odd that I couldn't get in touch with them.

I remember thinking my liver was slowly expanding, taking over my body. I remember hearing my blood pump disease through me morning, noon and night.

I remember one final day in Rome going right from the train station to the Vatican because I wanted to sit in the Sistine Chapel one more time. It was closed.

I remember the endless flight home and just wanting to be alone.

I remember once again trying to get in touch with my parents and when I finally did them telling me that Chloe, the beautiful dog Present Ex and I got together had to be put down while I was away. She had a one-in-a-million reaction to a distemper shot and developed anemia. My parents woke one morning and found her with her head in the water bowl, too weak to even pick herself up. They cried when they told me. They didn't want me to think it was their fault or that they acted hastily. I couldn't cry. I couldn't react. My whole world was turned upside down. I deserted Chloe. I didn't take care of her. Her death was my fault.

I was not in a good place.

Giving Thanks

It's a cold, dreary Wednesday in November of 2002.

I'm in New Jersey at my parents house and it's the day before Thanksgiving. Tomorrow will be a big family dinner and then on Friday I leave for a 10 day trip to Italy with my former boss, The Big Man.

I've always wanted to go to Italy. It's been a dream of mine for...well, forever. My division of NYU had a study abroad for a semester session in Tuscany and I thought about it but I was so in love with New York at the time that I thought I'd miss something if I was gone for that long. I thought I wouldn't be able to function without the power of the city fueling me. Foolish. But so it was at the time.

I've always wanted to go to Italy but I thought I'd do it with my family, or with someone I was totally in love with or by myself. So I was on the fence about this trip. The Big Man called me out of the blue months ago and asked if I wanted to go. I told him I had to think about it. I called Mom right away. She said, "This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. You'll be going in high style. You'll eat and stay at all the best places and the two of you travel well together." She wasn't wrong. The Big Man and I had been to London multiple times, DC and so on. I just couldn't get it out of my head that this wasn't how I had planned my first trip to Italy. But I was also unemployed and still living off of student loans, so I called him back and said "Yes." He planned the entire itinerary (Rome, Florence, Venice, Rome). All I had to do was follow along.

We have a complicated relationship, the Big Man and I. I started out as his intern when I was only 20 years old. He had a powerful job and a powerful personality. I was naive, young, smart and funny. He saw something in me and...well, nurtured would be the wrong word but he certainly pushed me to achieve things I hadn't thought possible. He also, after working for him for a year and coming very close to a severe nervous breakdown, understood when I quit but rode my ass to get out of a job in a non-theatre related position. He knew this was all I could do. And after some time away from him I realized how to say 'no' and set up my boundaries and stand up for myself. And I've gone back to work for him numerous times over the past 10 years. The problem is, as with many people in this business, he still sees me as a casting director, not a director. And I was good at casting. It could have been a great career for me. If I liked it. But it lacked artistry for me. I was always serving someone else's vision. And just when you put all the pieces of the casting puzzle together, you're done with the process. You miss all the production meetings, the set and costume design meetings, the rehearsals. As a casting director, you're forgotten. People think it's an easy job but, like stage management, it's underrated in its complexities and execution. But when a cast is "bad", you're the first person blamed.

I digress. Work talk will come later.

So, I'm in New Jersey. It's the day before Thanksgiving and two days before I leave for Italy. I had been to the doctor's a few days before for a check up. Something was wrong with me but I wasn't sure what. I was sitting in my parents cozy, warm living room reading a book and wishing I could smoke a cigarette when the phone rang. It was my doctor. Mom was upstairs washing her hair and Dad was in the studio working but I still wanted to take the call in private. I answered the phone in a hush and quietly opened the front door and slipped out.

"Hello?"

"I've got the results of your blood work and I'm afraid I have some bad news."

A sharp intake of breath. And then I held it. Bile churning in my stomach.

"Are you there?"

I manage to squeak out a 'Yes.'

"You've tested positive for chronic Hepatitis B."

I don't know what that means.

"There are two kinds of Hepatitis. A and B. We'll vaccinate you for the A but there's nothing we can do now about the B, of which there are also two kinds; chronic and acute. Acute can come and linger in the system for a few days or a few weeks but it goes away eventually on its own. Chronic means you have it for life. Hepatitis is a disease that attacks and breaks down the liver and the liver enzymes. It affects the blood as well. Your levels are sky high which leads me to assume you've had it for a while and it's had time to strengthen and grow. I need to do some more blood work and there are medications we can try out that do their best to stop the multiplication of the virus or even make it undetectable but...you're going to have it for life. I'm also going to need to send you for a sonogram on your liver and spleen and also, possibly, a biopsy. It's also highly contagious. You need to be careful and warn all your sexual partners. When are you available to come back in?"

I...uhm...I...

I need a cigarette asap. But more than that, I need to run away. I'm hearing his words but none of it registers. My instinct is to run, but where to? Physically, I just want to run. I hop back and forth on my feet instead.

I...uhm...I, well I'm home for Thanksgiving and then I'm going away on Friday. To Italy for 10 days. I guess I can't come in until after that.

"Well, that's fine. There's no rush at the moment since it appears you've been living with this for quite some time. But let's make an appointment now because I want to see you and get moving on this as soon as you get back. Alright?"

Yes. I just don't understand how...

"Look. Don't dwell on it. Genetically, you're predisposed to get it. So even if you had been vaccinated, chances are you still could have acquired it. You have it and we're going to treat it. Don't beat yourself up for it. It's an unlucky roll of the die but there it is. We'll deal with it."

Silence.

"Are you there? What are you thinking?"

I was thinking what to say tomorrow when we go around the table and give thanks for something. Hepatitis?

"You're going to be OK."

OK.

"I'll see you when you get back.

OK.

Have a safe and fun trip.

OK.

The front door opens and Mom pokes her head out, "What are you doing out here? Who are you talking to?"

No one. I'm coming right in. I'm toxic, Mom. Diseased. A carrier. Tainted. Unhealthy.

"No one, Mom. I'm coming right in."

A raindrop falls and hits me on the face. Then another and another.

"It's raining," I say to no one in particular.

I don't want to go inside. I don't want to go to Thanksgiving. I don't want to go to Italy. I don't want to be me.

The Middle of the End

The very next day I get an email from Handsome Man. Short and to the point, what could he possibly say to one who has asked to get in touch with him besides 'Hi and my name is ____'?

I emailed back, immediately, cause that's they way I am. I apologize for my shyness the night before and then explained I didn't stick around to talk because I had had too much to drink and didn't want to embarrass myself even more than I do when I'm sober. And, would he like to go out some time for dinner or a drink?

The holidays were quickly approaching (it was December 22nd) and I was looking to make something happen sooner rather than later, cause that's they way I am. Alas, he was around for the holidays but I was going to my parents for a few days. We made a lunch plan for the week between Christmas and New Year's, which was perfect because I had to work anyway. So it was.

I saw the Actor once more. We made plans to see Brokeback Mountain together. I had seen it once but was up for a second viewing so we picked a Saturday night in the East Village. I love the movie theatre on 3rd Ave and 11th Street. In college, Daria and I lived in the dorm across the street and would spend afternoons hopping from one flick to another. I think one day we managed three for the price of one. We sat through one of the Addams Family movies with a lesbian couple furiously making out in front of us. They would bend each other backwards over the arms of the seats, come up and run theirs hands over each other's faces and through each other's hair and then go over in the other direction. I still enjoyed the movie.

Brokeback had only recently opened and it was going to be crowded. The Actor and I made plans to meet half an hour before the film started. We had, at this point, had numerous discussions about his lateness. One in which he finally said "Arent' I worth waiting for?" to which I replied, "I'm worth showing up on time for." He called, of course, to say he was running late because he had been hanging out with his straight friend he had a crush on, no doubt singing Barbershop Quartet on a street corner somewhere. I was pissed. I went in and found seats and waited for him to call. The catch was, the movie was showing in the basement theatre and I didn't get service. So I had to leave our seats every few minutes to check for messages. I had to tell about 20 people that the seat next to me was taken. 15 minutes after the movie started, he arrived. I left my seat. I asked the too kind people sitting next to me to please hold the seats. I went up two escalators, icily handed him his ticket, turned and went downstairs. He followed. He tried to take my hand during the movie but I was having none of it.

After the movie I told him I had plans to meet another friend, I said goodnight and walked away.

The Actor, realizing I was setting up (no, established) my distance, was in non-stop contact. Calling and leaving messages. Emailing. IMing. I was playing it cool. I didn't want to make a scene. I didn't want to talk about it. I kind of just didn't want to have any contact with him ever again. I knew I had to do something because it was just too mean not to but I wasn't ready. Christmas came and went and the Actor went...somewhere, but I didn't feel the need to call and wish him a happy holiday. He called me. I put the call through to voicemail. After Christmas he called again listing numerous New Year's Eve plans we could partake in. His voice sounded beyond desperate in his last message to the extent he even said something like, 'Please, please call me back. I'd like to talk to you." Like any actor, he was in fear of rejection. Like any man, he wanted the person who no longer wanted him.

I heaved a deep sigh and picked up my phone. I put the dog on my lap to provide some comfort and I hit redial. He had just called about 3 minutes ago so I was certain I was going to get him. The phone rang. And it rang again and again. And again. Typical. Voicemail. Thank god. I winced at the sound of his voice and at the beep left my message. "Hey, Actor. JUst got your message, thought I'd get you. Listen, I think I'm just going to spend a quiet New Year's Even by myself. I don't really feel like being around bunches of people I don't know...or anyone at all, for that matter. So thanks for the offers and have a good time and I'll talk to you later." Five minutes later he called back. I put it through to voicemail.

After six months or more with him I didn't feel like I owed him anything because he had never given anything to me. This is how it would end. Even if things didn't work out with Handsome Man, there was something else out there for me, somewhere. You get back what you give and the Actor gave nothing but took everything.

The first date with Handsome Man was here. It was a Wednesday afternoon. The air was cool and crisp and to avoid the matinee crowds we met at Viceroy in Chelsea. I took a long time deciding what to wear. I was nervous. What if I forgot what he looked like? What if he wasn't as good looking as I thought he was? What if...? I needn't have worried. Everything was perfect. He was dressed in a plaid shirt, carpenter jeans and work boots. His smile disarmed me. His light blue eyes lit up when he smiled and his broken nose was the most charming feature of his face. He lived in Brooklyn. He had left his job at a corporate company to pursue his own renovation and construction company. He was from Utah. He had been raised a Mormon but left that behind long ago. An hour and half flew by. We finally started walking down the street to the subway. He was going to see Memoirs of a Geisha. I told him how, years ago, I had worked with the director of that movie in two shows. He said he needed to stop at American Apparel to get a sweater. I said I'd hop the E on 23rd and go back to work. We shared a brief hug and kiss on the corner and we both glanced back after we said goodbye.

He had asked me what my New Year's Eve plans were. I told him the same thing I had told the Actor. I was going to stay home by myself. I had directed a play once called Other People in which the main character said you should spend your New Year's Eve the way you wanted the rest of your year to go. So if you wanted to get organized, you went through your files. If you wanted to clean the slate, you stayed home and cleaned. I wanted to find some space within myself. I wanted to write. I wanted to breathe. I had spent way too many New Year's Eves forcing myself to have fun, drinking too much and being miserable. No more.

The Handsome Man, heretofore to be known as 'The Mormon' was scheduled to go on a retreat with the Gay Radical Fairies or something like that. But he asked me if I wanted to go out again when he came back. I said, Yes.

The Beginning of the End

So, things with the Actor were not going so well.

I don't remember the specific details but one day we were having a rather heated discussion about something. He kept asking me questions that were pointed, loaded and leading. I wouldn't play his game and I kept answering his questions with questions of my own. Finally he said, "JV. It's a rule of improv that you don't answer a question with a question." I had to pause to collect myself and wipe the look of disbelief off of my face. "This isn't improv," I finally answered. But for him, it was. He was always "performing", always looking to be the protagonist and antagonist, always looking to be the center of attention.

In retrospect, I realize that this was an abusive relationship. Obviously, not physically but emotionally. And I let it happen. I fought it from time-to-time but it carried on for many months. And, what kept me there wasn't the fact that I thought I needed to be with someone but rather that belief, the hope, that Actor would one day change. But what instigates change? Obviously, I couldn't do it. But I wasn't at a place where I could define what was happening between us. I did know that I wasn't happy and I was beginning to think that maybe I did deserve better...

So I did what any good gay man does, I drank. I dragged myself out to the local gay bar, Metropolitan.

I hadn't been out in a while. I had distanced myself from my friends, as one does when they know they're doing something not exactly right for them but don't want to her about it from the people who matter. So I called a new-ish friend, The Perpetually Recovering Addict. The PRA was an older guy, approaching 50s, who I had met at the bar and become friendly with. He made me laugh and he was smart and interesting. We discussed theatre, books and movies. We cruised guys. We got along well. HE lived around the corner from Metropolitan. When I first met him, the PRA was a DRINKER. He would be at the bar when I got there around 6:30pm or so and still hanging on, drinking, when I stumbled out at 2am or so. And he'd be there the next night too.

Metropolitan is a gay bar that needs to be experience to really understand it. As soon as you open the creaking door, you're hit with the smell of booze, bleach and dirty boys. In the days of smoking in bars, you couldn't really smell the bleach or the boys. The bar is extends along the left hand side and red lights glow, Hell-like, from above. To the right is a game machine, a pool table, two seating areas and two fire places. Then there's the stink bathrooms, a room no one ever uses and then the back yard which is crowded to the point of overflowing during the summer Sunday BBQs. It's gross and dirty and I love it. I've made a lot of friends there, surprisingly.

So the PRA and I meet there and I order a jack and coke while Perpetually Recovering orders an orange juice, cranberry and seltzer. We spend some time catching up and I'm happy to have a conversation with a man that does not involve assaults, or veiled threats or withholding or forced improvisations. I order another jack and coke.

The place starts to fill up and I'm glad we've secured ourselves a comfortable spot at the bars. The bartenders who know me by name are being generous with their pours and joining our conversation from time-to-time. I'd forgotten what it was like not to be constantly on my guard. I'd forgotten what it was like to just have fun. I was happy to not talk about the Actor and our non-relationship. When my phone vibrated and his name appeared on the screen I hit the button that put him directly into voicemail. Suddenly I turned around and was face-to-face with a really handsome man who was talking to the PRA.

We smiled at each other and kept making eyes but PRA did not introduce us. I ordered another jack and coke.

PRA and I talked a little more. I didn't press for an introduction. Handsome man was sitting with his back to the fireplace so I could through glances and smiles his way every now and again. Why didn't he come back over and talk to both of us? The ball was in his court here since he knew PRA. But, no. Nothing. PRA decided it was time to leave.

I decided to give Handsome Man a bit more time so I kissed PRA goodbye and ordered another jack and coke. It was right about here that I realized how drunk I was. People around me were moving in a blur. The drink didn't taste like anything really. I couldn't feel my legs. And I wasn't thinking too clearly. Perhaps this wasn't the best time to talk to Handsome Man. I quickly finished the drink. Because I paid for it. And stole a few more furtive glances at Handsome Man. Smiles exchanged. Still handsome.

I slowly stood up from my perch and began putting on the necessary layers of clothing for the long December night walk home. I turned around and Handsome Man was gone. Fuck. Hiccup. Shit. For the best. I was drunkity drunk drunk. I walked toward the front door, zipping my jacket and looked up and there he was, sitting on a stool, by himself, by the pool table. His face had red light from the bar shining on one side of his face and white light from the pool table on the other. I caught my breath and he said "Hey," in a deep, rich baritone.

"Hi. How are you?" I mumbled but I didn't stop walking. I was so drunk that all I could think about was moving and I had to move quickly or I would fall. I pushed myself out the door and a blast of cold air smacked me in the face and, briefly, brought me back to reality.

What the fuck was I doing? He talked to me. Go back and talk to him. I can't go back now. I already left. It would look stupid. It would not look stupid. You've been making eyes at him for an hour just do it. I've had way too much to drink, I wouldn't be able to say anything coherent or interesting. He was really cute. Go home. You can get his email or phone number from PRA tomorrow. Good idea! Now, cookies.

Notice that not once in this exchange with myself did I take into account the Actor or his feelings. As far as I was concerned, it was already over with him. I had moved on. It only took five jack and cokes and eyes from a stranger to clarify.

I stumbled home with a quick stop at the deli to buy cookies and immediately emailed PRA asking PRA for his friend's contact.

PRA being an addict was, of course, awake. He immediately emailed me back to say that he wasn't comfortable giving Handsome Man's information to me but he would email Handsome Man my info.

Fine. That was better than nothing.

My phone started vibrating. It was 2:30am. It was the Actor. Straight to voicemail.

Top of the Rock

The Actor. I was depressed all weekend after revisiting the memory of the Actor last week.

What a bad time for me. Let's remember some more, shall we?

Aside from feeling continuously assaulted by me and my invisible army, the Actor had a slew of other issues. The biggest one being, he wasn't really out to that many people. In normal times, this is something I would not have taken any part in. I've been out since I was 19. My sexuality does not define me but it's an undeniable part of who I am and to deny it would mean to deny lie to myself. I was, however, still deep in the depths of the Hep-B-No-One-Should-Ever-Love-Me Phase of my life.

The Actor portended to be a master at improvisations. He studied at a place called The P.I.T in Manhattan. It's aptly named. The PITS is an offshoot of Upright Citizen's Brigade and there's apparently a rivalry between the two about which is better/more authentic/more a waste of time and money...something like that. Anyone who knows me, knows I hate stand up comedy (for the most part) and improv. I think the only people who enjoy improv are the ones performing it. It's really hard to be funny.

So finally the Actor asks me to come to one of his improv performances. I'm really hesitant. If I see him and he's bad, I will have to break up with him. At this point, I have yet to see that he's bad for me in so many other ways. We have dinner at some half-priced sushi joint next to the PITS. I don't like sushi and I don't trust any place that charges "half price for it." Is it "half fresh?" And this woman is sitting at a table behind me and the Actor is going on and on about how she's the best improver in the field. NY Magazine did a piece about her. She's been at the PIT forever. She's a second away from being famous. I'd never heard of her. I have still never heard of her. When she walked by the table on her way out, Actor greeted her and she looked at him like he had 3-heads. Maybe she was improvising?

Actor then proceeds to pull out a copy of GQ magazine and desperately search for his photo because he did a "shoot" months ago with someone where he was a groom and this woman was a bride and they were in bed together and it may end up in GQ. He has done this search now every month for three or four months. I don't know how to tell him it's never going to be in there. Never. Ever. Really. It's not. I just now. For real.

So he leaves me to go "prepare" and I say I'll see him after. He tells me to get there early because the place "really fills up." Yes, if ten to fifteen people constitute "filled up" then it certainly was. The audience was made up of mostly other students in the PITS and friends and, I guess, people like me dating closeted, improvising actors. The sets begin. The Actor says nothing in his first skit. Well, at least he wasn't bad. In his second he talks more but nothing is really funny. Everything feels forced and he is supremely disconnected from his partners. But they all seem to be disconnected so I'm assuming that's the "style" of PITS improv. After an endless number of sketches/skits/shit the evening finally comes to a close. I go outside and wait patiently for him. I do not have flowers or anything. His friends friends mill about in a corner and I don't really like them so I choose not to associate. Finally he comes out and I go up to him to give him a hug and he puts his hands on my shoulders, pushes me away and at the same time leans in and says, "I'm not out here." I do an award winning double take and stutter out, "WHAT?" He repeats, "I'm not out here." Wow. And in my head I think, 'How can you study improv and not be you? I mean, don't you have to be in touch with all your facilities in order to be any good at it.'

But I don't say that. I say, Ok. And I pat his back. I. Pat. His. Back.

We go downstairs and his and his friends start rolling their own cigarettes (pretentious) and smoking. The Actor has now put on his red knit cap that he wears to cover up the fact that he's balding and his best friend (I'm positive they both have crushes on each other) says, "You know, you're one of the few people who could pull off wearing a woman's hat and looking good." The Actor bristles and I snort.

The group then goes into a discussion about how they never sing barbershop quartet any more. Did I know how cool this was? Did I realize how much fun this was? Did I sing harmony? Did I want to? No. No. No. And no. And, for good measure, No. But some fat friend comes waddling along and he gets excited about it and there in the middle of some dirty street in the West 30s they start singing barbershop quartet. Badly. This really is the PITS. I've had enough and I wave goodbye since I can't hug him in front of his friends and I know that I'm certainly not going to get a kiss anyway and wish him a good night.

I am mad at myself. But I am undeterred.

The next morning I'm watching the Today Show and they're going on and on about how the very evening is the grand opening of Top of the Rock at Rockefeller Center. It looks fun and beautiful and what a cool New York thing to do. And how romantic. So I get to work and go online and immediately get us two tickets for that night. I'm thinking if this doesn't get me laid nothing will. Or maybe even a make out session. It's been months and we have yet to revisit the passionate making out of our first, post-Philharmonic, pre-Hep B revealing date. I tell Actor to meet me Rockefeller Center at 8pm. And that he can NOT be late.

For a change, he shows up on time. As he's always running late in the mornings I'm certain he has no idea what Top of the Rock is as he wouldn't have caught the Today Show. So I take him. And it is fun. The lobby has the amazing Swarvoski Cystal chandelier. There's a fun interactive video where you can walk across a beam and look down at the dizzying city underneath you, as the men who built Rockefeller Center would have experienced it. And then there's the elevator ride up. You go up and up and up, exiting into another lobby and then, finally, on to the beautiful Art Deco sculpted roof. It really was breathtaking to be up there. It was cold and the bracing wind hit you the minute you opened the doors but there was the city, lit up and beautiful before you. There weren't all that many other people up there, perhaps 20 - 30. I thought the place would be packed but I guess word hadn't gotten out yet. I walked to the edge and looked over my city. She was something. The Actor wandered off on his own. I walked the perimeter of the building, looking for and finding all my favorite landmarks. I kept waiting for the Actor to come and put his arms around me and tell me how beautiful it was. He didn't. So finally I went up and stood behind him and said so. "Yes," he replied. "It's stunning." It sounded rehearsed but I'll take it. Then he turned to me and looked in my eyes and said, "Thank you, JV. Thank you for this." Then he turned back to the view.

"Uhm...I'm kind of cold so I'm gonna go back in," I said not quite sure of what to make of this performance.

After a few moments of this, he came back inside and asked me if I wanted to spend the night. I said, Yes. Of course. Called my roommate and told her to walk the dog and walked with him to Hell's Kitchen. We watched some TV. Got into bed. He fell asleep.

Nice.

Years later, the Loved One told me that he had been there the same night, probably the same time as me. And we didn't even notice each other. Isn't the island funny that way?

Uninvited

I worked in casting on and off for ten plus years. Plenty of stories there yet to come.

A few years ago I was sitting at my desk when a random IM popped up on my screen from an actor I met through a friend a few years earlier. I was semi-interested in dating at the time we met, but he wasn't and, for once in my life, I didn't push it. Now, two years later here he was.

I should have know immediately that trouble was on the horizon by his AIM screenname: all4actorsnamehere.

The actor and I IM'd for a few days before he finally invited me to the NY Philharmonic with him. I said, sure. He seemed smart, funny, charming and caustic on the internet and I assumed he would be in person as well. And on the first night, he was. He met for sushi. We were both dressed up for the event. It was fun. It was a fancy Upper West Sider thing for the Williamsburg boy to do. After the concert, we walked back to his place in Hell's Kitchen, talked a bit and had a furious make out session. We then embarked on a 6 month relationship and that was the last time we had any kind of physical contact.

Part of this came, I'm sure, from a confession I had made the following day. I had chronic Hepatitis B, and it was under control but a fairly contagious virus. I never knew how I acquired this lovely little burden but there it was. It took me a long time to deal with it. That's another story. But Actor was the first person I had dated in almost two years since the diagnosis and I needed to be up front with him. He seemed ok about it. Except for the whole not touching or kissing me thing.

Our relationship was rocky from the get-go. For example, my parents were in town for Thanksgiving and I invited him to dinner with us before the theatre. He showed up almost 45 minutes late. His perpetual lateness was something I couldn't abide. I thought it was rude and selfish and he thought it was just part of his "character." And, let me tell you, he was very much always presenting a "character" instead of himself. But I forgave him so many things because I felt I deserved someone like this because of my Hep B. I somehow deserved less. I lived in this state for a good three years.

So there was the lateness. The next sign of trouble came when I asked him to come to the first preview of a show I had worked really hard on; a new Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. I was really proud of my work. So he came, he was late of course. And when he found out that the rest of the casting office was there he clammed up and didn't say a word for the rest of the evening. Finally, after a walk in silence back toward his apartment, I asked what was wrong.

"I felt ambushed."

Huh?

"I didn't realize that the casting office was going to be there and this isn't how I wanted to meet them, or be introduced to them."

"I told you it was the first preview and we were all going."

"I felt ambushed."

"Uhm. Ok. Sorry."

I got quiet. Instead of speaking up and defending myself and questioning his odd behavior, I swallowed my voice as I had done so many times in the past. I deserve this. I'm lucky someone will take me as I am.

Another night, I took him to see Alanis Morissette at Roseland. I was very excited for this concert. Alanis has gotten me through some pretty tough times. I ran up to the Actor's apartment after work. We were going to grab a quick bite and then go to the show. I buzzed his bell and got no answer. Weird. Is he late again? I thought. Not even home yet? I sighed and leaned on the front door of the building and it opened. Oh. Cool. I won't have to wait out here in the cold. So I treck up the flights of narrow stairs to his apartment.

The Actor shares a 3 bedroom apartment with two girls. It's a railroad and his apartment is at the front of the building and has his own entrance. I forgo the front door and knock on his bedroom door. No answer. I go back to the front door and knock, no answer. I try the knob and it's open. So I walk in. I hear that he's in the shower and I think, Oh. He's running late so he left the door open for me.

I sit on their ratty, dirty couch and turn on the Simpsons. And I wait. Finally, he pokes his head out the bathroom door, "Hello?"

"Hey. It's me. The door was open so I just came in."

Silence.

"So I'm just watching the Simpsons."

Silence. He comes out of the bathroom, in his towel. Storms across the tiny kitchen directly into the tiny living room, grabs the remote control, turns off the tv, storms through his roommates bedroom and into his room.

Ok.

"Is there a problem?" I ask.

"I feel like you ambushed me. How could you just let yourself into my apartment? How could you just make yourself at home and think that was all ok? Can't I get a little bit of privacy. I wanted to come home, chill out, take a shower and get ready to see you. I didn't expect you to be sitting in my living room when I got out of the shower. You totally ambushed me, JV. I feel ambushed."

I feebly mumble something about the doors being open and thinking that he did that for me so I could wait and I look at the floor the entire time.

"Well you ambushed me."

"I'm sorry."

I go back to the living room and put the tv on. He dresses and meets me out there. We walk in silence to a diner on 52nd and 8th. We eat in silence. We go to Roseland in silence. MY biggest beef about Roseland is that you have to stand. But I'll do anything for Alanis. The concert starts and we've still said very little. And I'm so mad at myself. Mad at myself for making one mistake after another. Mad at myself for being a bad person. Mad at myself for not knowing my boundaries. Mad at myself for these limits that other people have placed on me.

My anger lifts as the concert goes on. Ironically, the Actor touches me, puts his arms around me during Uninvited:

Must be strangely exciting
To watch the stoic squirm
Must be somewhat heartening
To watch shepard meet shepard
But you're not allowed
You're uninvited
An unfortunate slight

Like any uncharted territory
I must seem greatly intriguing
You speak of my love like
You have experienced like mine before
But this is not allowed
You're uninvited
An unfortunate slight

I don't think you unworthy
I need a moment to deliberate

At the end of the song, I pulled away from him. I think, my first active sign of defiance in the months we had been "dating."

I was high after the concert but certainly not on the Actor. We walked back to his apartment in silence. My silence being incredibly active and aggressive this time. I was angry.

"Are you coming up?" he asks as we stand outside in the cold.

"No" I say, simply.

"Yeah, I didn't think so."

Silence.

"So we'll talk tomorrow?" He asks, hopefully.

"Yeah. Sure." I say and I walk away from him and up to 57th Street.

There was so much inside of me at the time that was coming alive. So many things that had ben germinating for years had finally taken root and were beginning to grow, sprout and expand. But there was also so much I couldn't see. I couldn't see where I was. While things were taking root in my, I still was not firmly planted anywhere.

I was uninvited in my own life.

Spring Awakening

Before it was a critically acclaimed Broadway musical, Spring Awakening was just a rarely performed play by Franz Wedekind that somehow managed to get produced at NYU's School of Ed in my second year.

At the time I auditioned for the play, I was not anywhere near being out of the closet.

The initial audition was just a monologue. The piece I always did was from a very bad, never produced play called The Girl's Guide to Chaos, or something like that. In performing the monologue I had to act put upon and make puppy dog eyes, actions I was very very good at. Good enough to get a call back. The callback was scene work! Great. I excelled at this.

The scene could not have been more appropriate: act two, Hans and Ernst. I was to read Ernst, the naive young man who kisses another boy for the very first time. So, again, puppy dog eyes were called for. As we waited in the classroom for our audition, someone came in and wrote the names of the pairs who would be reading together on the chalkboard. Everyone in the room seemed to know each other which, strangely, didn't bother me. Most of them seemed to be students of Tisch School of the Arts. This didn't bother me so much as fuel an intense jealousy. They were real actors. I was only pretending. Suddenly, I heard someone calling out my name. Was it my turn already? I looked up and raised my hand. A tall, lanky blonde boy with a prominent nose sauntered over to me.

"You're John-Vincent?" (I had yet to edit myself to initials).

"Yes."

"I'm the one auditioning with you."

"Hi."

"It says in the script that they kiss. I'm gonna kiss you."

And he walked away.

I swallowed hard and called out vaguely, "Ok."

And he did. Halfway through the scene, there we were, sitting on the floor of the black box theatre and he reached over and touched my face and pulled me in and kissed me long and deep on the mouth. Spring Awakening! This was the first time a boy had kissed me.

The only other person I had seriously kissed up to this point was a young girl named Mary. I took her to a dance at school, probably Homecoming or something. Her parents had picked us up in their big, white, dirty, messy mini van. I remember her parents being professors at U of Penn and their house and car were filled with books. Mary's mom picked us up and drove me to our modest row home in South Philly. I said good night and jumped out of the sliding door and was about to close it when I realized that Mary was right behind me. I don't know how she got out so quickly. Before I knew it I was pinned to against the side of the truck and Mary's mouth was on top of mine, her tongue making huge wet circles. As she did this I stared blankly at the empty dark school yard across the street. Mary pressed herself in to me and I could feel saliva dripping down my face. I placed my hands on her hips and gently shoved her away and said, "I had a great time. Thanks. I'll call you later." And walked up the stairs into my house. I felt nothing.

As this stranger dropped his hands from my face and pulled away, I felt a kind of nothingness and a kind of everything at the same time. I wasn't attracted to him but I certainly was attracted to the idea of a man kissing me. And I wanted to do it again. But we had to go on acting and I'm sure that whatever followed in the scene came across as very authentic. Because it was.

I was cast in the play. In a small part that didn't even make it into the musical. That's ok. It was something. Rehearsals were a blast and it was great to be doing a show again. More than anything, there were three gay boys in the show and I wanted to come out. So badly. But I didn't know how. And they all thought I was straight. I mostly stayed quiet and observed, which is my general MO anyway.

The show was set to go up in the spring. Auditions must have been toward the end of February with rehearsals through March and opening in April. One beautiful Saturday afternoon a few of us were hanging out in the park and the Wendla and Melchior decided to rehearse the switch scene.

Do you know what this is?

Wendla runs into Melchior and tells him that one of her friends gets beat by her father. Wendla says she's never been hit in her entire life and would Melchior do it, with this stick? And Melchior does do it. And Melchior gets into it, to the point of calling Wendla a "little bitch."

So after running the lines a few times, our Wendla and Melchior decide to do it all out in Washington Square Park. Other cast members have drifted away by this point but I'm there, front and center, watching. And the switch comes out. And Melchior starts to hit Wendla. And it escalates. And a man comes running over and pulls the switch out of Melchior's hand screaming, "What do you think you're doing? Are you crazy? I'm calling the cops!"

We do our best to talk him down and explain that we're rehearsing and it's a play and he seems to get it but he suggests, through gritted teeth, that we best practice scenes like that indoors and what kind of play is it anyway.

Melchior and Wendla wander away. I'm done for the day and I wander over to the fountain and right into Moritz who I have the biggest crush on, and he's gay.

We chat for a little and lean our heads against the back of the fountain. I look at him and he has his eyes closed and a faint smile on his mouth as the sun shines brightly on his face. We sit in silence for what seems like forever and then suddenly rain drops start to fall. We jump up and he pulls out an umbrella and we begin walking up University Place to our respective dorms. He offers me space under the umbrella but I politely decline, "I love the rain."

It starts to pour down harder and harder. The walk seems endless and it's almost time to say goodbye and there's something I still have to do.

I'm completely soaked through at this point and I've walked four blocks out of my way when Moritz says, "Well. Ok. This is where I turn off." He starts to walk away when I choke his name out of my throat.

He turns. "Yes?"

"Would you, uhm,..." I can't look at him. I look at my sneakers standing in a rising puddle and feel the sticky wetness of my shirt clinging to me. "Would you, uhm, like to go out some time?" And in my head I'm saying, please don't make me say more than that. You know what I mean. Please say Yes. Please say Yes.

He looks startled and then uncomfortable. And I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes and I thank God for the rain.

"Aw. That's sweet. Thanks, but I don't think that's a good idea."

"Yeah. Ok. Cool. I'll see you at rehearsal."

And I walk through the rain, back to my dorm.

Wallpaper

Monica. Before I was born my parents were so convinced that I was going to be a girl that they picked out a name for me. Monica. They did not stop at the name, no. They went so far as to decorate my bedroom for their little girl. Oh, yeah.

There were two different wallpapers in the room separated by a chair rail. The bottom wallpaper was striped, thin lines of no more than a quarter of an inch, colored red, yellow, green and white. Ok. Fine The chair rail was a bright, sunny yellow. And the wallpaper on top, oh, the wallpaper on top was very special. The background was that grassy green color so typical of the seventies, but the main attraction of the wallpaper were these large, multicolored flowers of red, white and yellow petals that dominated the entire canvas, as it were.

The flowers were about as big as my hand is now and equally spaced in diagonal lines running from the ceiling to the chair rail. Connecting each and every one of these large flowers-it was a small room but there were hundreds of these fuckers-was a line of smaller flowers, similarly colored. So gay.

As I got older ad sleep started to escape me, I would lie in bed at night and count the small flowers until sleep finally claimed me. Sometimes I would get to sixty or seventy, sometimes into the hundreds. I could see the flowers because I always slept with the light on, terrified that someone would break into our house and kill us all in our sleep. Of course, sleeping with the light on doesn’t really make all that much sense, in retrospect, cause if you can see them they can see you…

I also slept with one of those hospital guards on the side of my bed because I was then, and still am, a fitful sleeper and I would often wake up at some point in the night on the floor next to my bed.

Finally, when I was about thirteen, my parents finally agreed to change the wallpaper. I wanted this football themed paper that had the helmets of every the professional teams all over it. I had never watched a football game in my life. I just wanted something masculine, you know. We settled on grey. Grey on top, white chair rail and a different grey on bottom. Boring but better.

I stopped sleeping with the light on but I was still scared. I started sleeping on my stomach with the covers pulled over my head as tightly as possible, leaving a little space for my mouth and my nose so that I can breathe. To this day, I still sleep with the covers over my head. The problem now is that I’m trapping myself with the monsters in my head. And they’re so much more destructive than the ones in the real world.

Stones From a Garden

When I was accepted into grad school, things moved pretty quickly.

The Present Ex and I had been living together for almost two years. We had broken up during this time and spent many painful months living together in our tiny one bedroom on the 5th Floor of 336 E. 95th Street and had only recently reconciled and gotten back together.

Now, with the prospect of moving to New Jersey for three years or so, everything was in disarray and there was no time to think about it.

My parents bought me a 1990 Silver Honda Civic. I spent weekends traveling to the Edison/Metuchen/New Brunswick area looking for apartments with a friend. We finally found a huge two bedroom, one and a half bathroom, full dining room, recently renovated for about $1000 a month. Insane. New Jersey.

Present Ex couldn't find a place. He spent some time commuting and some time crashing on friends' couches.

Chloe went to live with my parents as I wouldn't have the time to take care of her and pets weren't allowed. Present Ex worked crazy hair dresser hours and would never be around. She would be safe in South Jersey.

Movers were called. Clothes and sentiment were packed up.

Some of these clothes had recently been unpacked when Present Ex and I were separated and he found out that I went out on a date. Dancing at 1984 at the Pyramid Club in the East Village. I came home tired and sweaty to five huge garbage bags in the hallway filled with my clothes and Present Ex sitting on the couch smoking. "Get out", his first words to me. A huge screaming match followed. Chloe hid under the bed. Present Ex threw a glass of water at me (the water not the glass) when I turned my back on him.

I loved this tiny apartment. I was sad to leave it and afraid of the unknown in New Jersey. But I needed to do this for me. And off I went, leading the movers in my Honda Civic, down the NJ Turnpike and to Edison, NJ. Present Ex went off to work and I'd pick him up at the train station later.

It all happened so quickly and I was in a state of denial that I never said goodbye to a neighborhood that had been my home.

And then, Chloe died. A victim of a one in a million reaction to a yearly shot, she quickly succumbed to anemia. I was in Italy when it happened.

And I needed to say goodbye for real.

My boss asked me to go around the Upper East Side and ask stores to put the poster for the revival of Fiddler on the Roof in their windows. I guess Upper East Side automatically suggests Jews who go to the theater?

First stop, our first apartment on 72nd Street. I stood across the street for a while and just looked at the building. The hallway walls were still painted that awful, dull institutional green. I crossed the street and peered in the front door. I could see the mailboxes, the steps up to the higher floors, and there -- in the back -- the door to our apartment. I remember Chloe running down that hallway after we had been on a vacation to Florida for a week. I remember carrying bags and bags of groceries -- so many that my hands were hurt, twisted and red -- because we were trying to save money and cook more. I remember my excitement as I rollerbladed down the hallway on my way to the new apartment on 95th street.

And so off to 95th I went, up York. This neighborhood that so many people deride was beautiful to me. We didn't live in the high rises but we could still see the sky. And walk to the river.

As I entered the East 90s the streets became a little tougher, a little dirtier and much more like home. The projects on 1st Ave loomed over me and it seemed like the same people were hanging out on the benches in front. I stopped in the deli where I often ran out to buy OJ on Sunday mornings; it was as filthy and disgusting as ever.

My dad would always park on 94th street and take the stones from a garden and put them in his car for the huge rock wall he had constructed around his house in New Jersey. "Dad, you can't take those." I tried to explain. "They're part of the building."
He would look at me, laugh and say, "They're just lying there." I gave up.

95th Street was strangely industrial. There was a garage or two close to the corner. Hogs and Heifers sandwiched between 95th and 96th, although I'd never been in friends had ventured in during parties at our place.

And finally I was there in front of 336 E. 95th clutching a pile of Fiddler on the Roof posters with tears in my eyes. Unsure of what I had done, punishing myself for the things I hadn't done and completely uncertain of what was to come.

I imagined Present Ex bounding through the doors being pulled by Chloe. I imagined walking up the short staircase, pulling out my keys and going into the elevator and up to the 5th floor and smelling gravy cooking on the stove, Chloe scratching on the door because she knew I was there.

I remember how much we hated the countertop in the closet-sized kitchen so went to the hardware store and bought green-marble contact paper to cover it up. I remember telling Mom that story and her asking seriously, "Are there hardware stores in New York? I've never seen any."

I cursed my imagination. And I said goodbye. But it's never really goodbye if it's living inside of you. And as I walked up the hill to the 6 train stop on 96th street I was forced to remember walking Chloe up this same path every night to meet Present Ex on his way home from work. Memories everywhere.

Haunted Rooms

I think I mentioned how my dorm room on 10th & Broadway had a door to the roof of the building in it. We were in the Penthouse. When you exited the elevator you almost walked directly into the study lounge for the dorm. In that room, to the left, were two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, framing a fireplace. These bookshelves once served as the entrance and exits to a speakeasy. You could see the hinges that had been painted over thousands of times. Now, three dorm rooms lay behind there but reached by a separate, not-as-sexy corridor.

On the day I moved into this room on the 16th floor, my roommate did not happen to be there with the roof key. So Mom, Dad and I climbed up onto the toilet, on to the sink and shimmied out the window and on to the roof. We, all three, were skinny enough that we didn't suffer a Marilyn Monroe-stuck-in-the-porthole-window moment. But it was a small window and it was 16 floors up and it was narrow.

I loved it out on that roof. We had to be very careful though because other residents could see us out there if they looked out the window at the right time.

I tell you all of this to establish the history of the dorm. It was a hotel at one point. Speak easy, etc...

So one night, I'm alone and sleeping peacefully when I'm awoken by....well, by a sense that I'm not so alone any more. The Texan liked to mess with me and I was convinced he was up to something. Always the first to declaim himself straight, he was also always trying to climb into bed with me. And too many nights among friends were spent playing truth or dare with the Texan and I locked in a closet together.

Anyhow, I'm lying in bed facing the wall and convinced that I am not alone. I call out the Texan's name. No response.

I turned over in bed very quickly and was glad that I had left the bathroom light on. I saw a shadow race across the wall of my room and into the bathroom hallway and then disappear. I waited for the door to slam shut. Or something. I call the Texan's name again. No answer. Once more. No answer. So I turn the light on next to my bed and get out and go into the hallway. There's no one there. There's no one in the Texan's bed. There's no one in the hallway. There's no one in the closet. (Well...) There's no one in the bathroom. I start shaking, uncontrollably.

I race back to my bed and pick up the phone and call the Texan at his "girlfriend's" room a few floors down. She answers.

"Is the Texan there?"

"Yes."

"Has he been there all night?"

"Yes."

"Are you guys fucking with me? "

"No. What are you talking about?"

"Put him on the phone right now."

So the Texan picks up and he's there and there's no way he could have gotten from our room down to hers so quickly. So I tell him to get his ass up here pronto and he's sleeping with me that night because I ain't staying in that room alone.

That wasn't the last time I slept in a bedroom with ghosts I couldn't define haunting me.

Climbing

I’m at least 30 feet above the ground and I’m holding on for dear life. My fingers hurt from clutching the small hooks. My toes are straining through the thin shoes, precariously perched on a ledge.

Getting up was easy. I didn’t think twice about it. I surprised myself at the ease and speed with which I was able to scale the wall. Hand here, leg there. Push up. Pull. Repeat. Now I’m up here and I realize I have to get down.

My friends down below call out to me words of support and encouragement. I only hear sounds. And, unfortunately, this causes me to look down. I swoon. I clutch the hooks even harder and I hear something snap in my finger.
I’m in Texas and rock climbing for the first time in my life. Every day you should do something that scares you. Sometimes that’s just getting out of bed,

The trainer is below me. She’s a tiny girl, no more than 25 years old. She can’t weight more than 125lbs. How the fuck is she holding me? Anchoring me? I fear that if I let go, I’ll go plummeting down to the ground and my force and weight will cause her to counteract my downward spiral and she’ll rocket up. Ok, you know what, I’m just afraid that I’m going to plummet. I don’t care about her.

She starts to talk me through it, in her heavy Texan accent.

“Sit back in the harness like you’re sitting in a chair.”

“Uh huh,” I say as I do it. Ok. That wasn’t so bad.

“Good. Now let go of the rock and grab on to the rope in front of you.”

(Pause.)

“What?”

“Let go of the rock and grab on to the rope in front of you.”

“Uhm…”

I’m not good at letting go. Never have been. I’m in therapy to learn how to let go.

Let go, JV. And being up here I remember him. How he used to tell me I had the perfect body for rock climbing. How I never thought I had a perfect body for anything. I wish he could see me now. I’m doing this for him. I can’t let go of him. The Mormon.

Ok. One hand off of the wall and onto the rope. Not so bad. Now I need to breathe.

Now the next hand. Breathe. Let go, JV.

Ok. My finger is sore and beginning to swell.

That wasn’t so bad.

“Good,” she says. Her voice is not soothing. “Now I’m going to lower you down.”

I can feel the rope slacken. I can feel myself beginning to move down. The only problem is, my toes refuse to let go of the ridge they’re gripping. I start to spiral on the rope.

“JV, you have to let go.”

JV, you have to let go. You can’t stay up here forever.

So I do. And in the most awkward, ungraceful way imaginable I go spinning down to the ground. Holding my breath and my eyes clenched tight. I know there must be an easier way to do this. My feet instinctively reach for the wall and find another ridge to grip. The do so and this fucks up the entire descent. I spin harder.

“No, just let go. I’ve got you.”

How do I trust that, you know? How do you trust that someone can hold on to you as you fall? It’s never happened before.

And then I’m on the ground.

The entire experience couldn’t have last more than three minutes, but it felt like a lifetime.

I want to do it again.

My friends congratulate me and make fun of me at the same time. But I did it. And I’m ready to do it again.

I watch them go up. None of them go up with the same speed and ease as I do. They’re thinking too much, strategizing. “If I put my hand here, where will I put it the next time?”

Their descents, however, are smooth and graceful. Some walk down the wall, calm and easy. Some push off with their legs, drop, land against the wall further down, push off again, and so on until they reach the ground. I watch and try to learn.

Finally, it’s my turn to go up again. A different course this time, not quite as easy. The ascent is a little more difficult but, instinctively, I know where to grab and where to put my feet, how much strength I need to push and pull myself up. I look up, not down. I could climb forever.

There’s a terrifying moment when I realize that the only way to reach the next handle to pull myself up is to let go of both hooks I’m holding on to and push up. I breathe and I let go, pushing myself up, propelling straight up into the air, suspended for a moment in mid air. And I grab on to the hook. And I only hold on to it for a split second before continuing my ascent.

Suddenly I’m at the top but I want to keep going. I’m free on this wall. I can’t think about anything but where to put my hand next, where to put my foot. I’m lost in the motion. I don’t think about work. I don’t think about my heart. I don’t think about how lonely I am. None of that matters here. I can only climb.

But the wall has ended and now I need to go down.

The young girl begins to talk me through it again. I concentrate on putting action to word. I push the fear aside. I sit back in the harness. I grab on to the rope in front of me. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I push off the wall with my legs. No walking down for me.

And, as always, I’m not aware of my own strength. I push so hard and there’s so much slack that I thrust myself more than a few feet away from the wall. It’s like I’m flying. It’s thrilling, terrifying. I look down for a second and see the woman below me, and my friends behind her and I look over my shoulder and see the sky. I’m dizzy and weightless. I hit the wall about halfway down and I push off again, trying to use less force. Again, I’m flying. And then I land on the soft ground.

I look up and I realize just how high I was. My entire body starts to shake and I feel tears well up behind my eyes. I try to take the harness off but my hands won’t stop shaking. I can’t catch my breath. I’m choking back the tears. I want to get away, from all of them. I don’t want them to see me like this. The woman comes over and undoes the harness, pushing it down to the floor so that I can step out of it.

I push forward and collapse on a bench, shaking uncontrollably. Is it fear? Exhilaration? Adrenaline? Loneliness? Yes.

I light up a cigarette. I think about how he my body was perfect for something.