That evening massaged, showered and ready to go out, the TV Actor and I went out to hit a gay bar or two. We were staying in Dupont Circle area so this was, allegedly, convenient. So we set out; she in a pair of impossibly high heels, tight leather pants and a low cut silk shirt that displayed her ample cleavage. The first bar we went to was no longer there. The second bar we went to was loud, dark and crowded.
The TV Actor asked me to ask the bartender if they had a VIP lounge. I looked at her incredulously, Really?
"Yes. Please ask. At least it'll be a place for me to sit. These shoes hurt." I took a deep breath, swallowed my pride and went up to the bar. I was embarrassed. I don't like to draw attention to myself. I didn't want to announce who I was here with. And what if they didn't know who she was. That would be awkward. Plus, the place was packed and loud so to get the attention of the bartender to ask a silly question was going to take some doing.
Excuse me, I shouted. Excuse me. The bartender turned a weary eye toward me and leaned in not at all as I sandwiched myself between two unmoving older gays on stools. Hi. I...uhm...I was wondering if you have any kind of VIP area here. You see I'm here with...and I explained the situation as succinctly as I could. He looked at me, as I feared, as if he had no idea who I was talking about. He shook his head no and turned away. I turned back to the TV Actor and she was gone, swept away in a sea of gay. I followed the bar around and saw her in the midst of a crowd, drink in her hand, smiling and entertaining the group with fabulous stories. She waved and motioned me over but I wasn't interested in joining the crowd. I motioned that I needed a drink and that I'd be right back and I pulled my own disappearing act into the crowd.
I bought a beer from the unfriendly bartender who continued to look at me suspiciously and I found the stairs to the second floor, the dance floor. I didn't feel like dancing but I did feel like disappearing in the music. The thumping drew me up and up and the colored lights flashed like a beacon. The dance floor was packed. There was another, smaller bar in the back. It was darker up here than downstairs and that was perfect for disappearing. I looked at my watch. It was late. The bars here close early. I should get my drinking in. I chugged my beer, ordered another and then commandeered a comfortable section next to the wall. I watched the sweaty mass in front of my move as if in unison. Cigarettes, bottles of beer and mixed drinks were held high in the air. Naked torsos twirled, twisted, bent and shook. I inhaled the scent of the place. It was booze and testosterone. I wasn't really looking at specific men; I was more taking in the movement of the mass. Suddenly I felt hot breath on my neck that smelled like whiskey. "Hi."
I turned and there was an older guy in his 60s standing next to me. He had two drinks in his hand, a receding hairline and a tiny paunch. He was wearing a pastel polo and khakis rolled at the bottom. He was leering at me while rocking back and forth on his unsteady legs. I was waiting for him to capsize in the storm around us. "Hi," he said again.
Hi, I nodded and tried not to engage.
"You know why no one here is talking to you?" he leaned in even further and perched one of his drink-heavy hands on my shoulder.
No. No, I don't.
"Because they're scared of you. You look like you don't want to be approached. Your eyes are mean."
I turned my mean eyes on him.
"But I'm not scared of you," he slurred. "I think you're just lonely."
Of course I was lonely. I was in a bar with my back to the wall drink in one hand, cigarette in the other watching people go by instead of engaging. Instead of being a part of the crowd, I was observing it. But I was comfortable in my loneliness. I didn't want to engage at the moment. I needed some time to be with myself even if that meant being alone. I certainly didn't want to fill the void with a drunk, leering 60-year old who needed to hold on to two drinks at the same time.
"You're very handsome though. Your angry eyes are beautiful. I'm very attracted to you."
And out of nowhere another arm slipped around my waist and drew me in. A warm, wet mouth kissed my cheek. An unfamiliar voice said, "Hey baby." I turned and standing next to me was a tall, handsome, young blonde guy with bright blue eyes and a perfect smile. "Is this guy bothering you?"
I turned to the 60-year old and said, I was just waiting for my boyfriend. Then I planted a kiss on the mouth of the guy standing next to me. He tasted of beer and salt. I put my arm around him and his back was wet from dancing. I looked up at him and he dismissed the drunken old man with a nod of the head. The leery one stumbled drunkenly, sheepishly, away disappearing into the dark and swept up in the wave of bodies, left to drown in his own loneliness.
I turned to my savior. Thanks a lot. I thought I was going to be stuck with him for the rest of the night.
"I saw you from across the room and I know how that guy can be so I wanted to help you out."
I really appreciate it. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, you know?
"You're a nice guy."
Yeah. I looked down at the floor. All of a sudden the room was alive with light and the music stopped abruptly. The gay men scattered for the door like cockroaches in a kitchen.
What was that?
"Closing time."
Already?
"It's two."
Oh, shit. I have to find my friend. I left her downstairs a while ago. Listen, I have to go. Thanks again for helping me out. You were great.
And with that I followed the roaches downstairs and found the TV Star just saying goodbye to her newfound friends. She gave me a big drunken smile and threw her arms around me. "Where were you?!"
I got lost in the crowd upstairs.
"We had so much fun down here. These guys are great. I can't believe it's 2am. Let's get the fuck outta here."
Yeah. Let's get out of here. And we stumbled out into the dark, warm, Spring night.
Can you walk? I asked.
"Fuck, yeah." And we headed back to our hotel. I turned and caught a brief glimpse of my saviour standing outside the bar. I gave him a quick wave and a smile. He nodded back.
"Who was that?" the TV Actor asked seductively.
No one. Let's get back to the hotel.
31 March, 2009
30 March, 2009
Dream. Hope. Rock: Part 1
In April of 2000 I unexpectedly found myself in Washington DC for a long weekend. In the early afternoon hours of April 29th I found myself in a van with the TV Star, Ellen Degeneres, Anne Heche, Melissa Etheridge, Laura Dern and a TV crew. We were on our way to RFK Stadium for a sound check.
A few days earlier I had gotten a call from the TV Actor saying that she was going down to DC for the Pride Rocks concert and a brief vacation and had an extra room in her hotel suite for a few days. Did I want to join? Did I?! Things were tough for me at the time. I was working in casting, enough said on that front. Graduate school rejection letters were pouring in. Ok, they weren't really pouring in because I had only applied to three schools: Columbia, Juilliard and Rutgers. I wanted to stay in New York, preferably. If not, the immediate area. After being rejected from both Columbia and Juilliard I was holding out hope for Rutgers. I didn't have much hope left.
Amy Saltz, the acting head of the Directing program at Rutgers University: Mason Gross School of the Arts, had put me through an intensive interview process. I had amazing credentials and stellar recommendations but Amy thought I was "too young" for the program. Reading over the MGSA materials on the program Hal Scott, who started the program, felt that a good director had to be over 30 in order to bring a certain amount of "life experience" to the table. I called bullshit. I had more life experience at the age of 25 than most people had in a life. Amy saw this but was still tentative. We had three interviews. We liked each other. I responded to her gruff, matter-of-fact manner. She was attracted to my passion and ideals. (I was full of both back then.) After our last interview she said she needed some more time to make a decision. Frustrated and thinking the answer would be negative I fell into a slump. My back-up plan of taking the money I had saved over the past few years and going to Italy until it ran out seemed to be the plan of action.
So I was working in casting. I was waiting to here from Rutgers. Present Ex and I were still living together, semi-broken up and semi-together. Relationship limbo. So when TV Actor called with the invite, I jumped. I needed a break from the island and my real life. I didn't really expect to be be in the middle of such an all-star event.
TV Actor and I had become fast friends when I put her in to the national tour of Cabaret. We got into lots of trouble together and enjoyed every moment of it. Whenever I went out to work on the tour, she invited me to stay with her. We laughed a lot. Drank red wine a lot. Smoked Nat Shermans a lot. Danced a lot. Partied a lot. And that was just rehearsal.
Her hotel suite was truly amazing. I hadn't realized the difference between having money and having TV money until I walked in there. Richly furnished and lushly upholstered, it was almost like being in a palace. My room of the suite was so far away from hers we might as well have been on different floors. I hugged her hard and thanked her for the invite. She said she was going to jump in the shower and then we were going to tour the Holocaust Museum. Fun times.
On the way in to DC I had received a phone call from Amy Saltz. I headed to my room in the suite, took a deep breath, swallowed hard and hit redial, bracing myself for the bad news. She answered the phone almost immediately. "Hi, JV. I'm glad you called back so quickly. I wanted to invite you into the Directing program at Rutgers..." And time stopped. The world seemed to move away. I wasn't expecting that. I was prepared for another rejection. I was getting ready to spend months in Italy learning how to speak the language and getting lost among the natives. And Amy talked on about how I would be one of three incoming directors. How we were all so different. How she was excited about each of us. And obviously I said I accepted. Stunned, I went back out to the living room and waited for the TV Star to make her entrance. What better way to celebrate then by experiencing a Holocaust? On the way out, the TV Actor asked the concierge to have a masseuse in our room that night at 10pm and be prepared to spend two hours, an hour for each of us. Nice.
The Holocaust Museum was a truly devastating experience for both of us. Of course, having worked on Cabaret, we talked about it and were familiar with it on an education standpoint, but seeing it in front of you makes the whole experience more visceral, more tangible. I kept myself together for as long as I could until we walked into a room that was, from floor to ceiling, covered in shoes of the victims. I broke down in tears. These relics made it real. These were possessions of people that had been thrown away, destroyed, and all that remained were these thin pieces of broken leather. Stacked behind wired fences the shoes seemed to go straight up to God. And I wanted to reach out and touch them. I wanted to connect with whatever had touched that child, that woman, that man. I wanted to know the person who had chosen that shoe for her daughter, who had crouched down and tied the laces a hundred times until they were stripped of them and kicked aside, now useless. The TV Actor who had been crying for some time now came over and put her arm around me, leading me to a bench outside where I pulled myself together.
"Let's get out of here," she said. "Let's go get a coffee."
I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of lives lost. And as I looked around and realized who I was and where I was and where I was staying at the particular moment in time, I realized just how lucky I was. It was the second (the acceptance into MGSA being the first) of many monumental events to occur that weekend.
A few days earlier I had gotten a call from the TV Actor saying that she was going down to DC for the Pride Rocks concert and a brief vacation and had an extra room in her hotel suite for a few days. Did I want to join? Did I?! Things were tough for me at the time. I was working in casting, enough said on that front. Graduate school rejection letters were pouring in. Ok, they weren't really pouring in because I had only applied to three schools: Columbia, Juilliard and Rutgers. I wanted to stay in New York, preferably. If not, the immediate area. After being rejected from both Columbia and Juilliard I was holding out hope for Rutgers. I didn't have much hope left.
Amy Saltz, the acting head of the Directing program at Rutgers University: Mason Gross School of the Arts, had put me through an intensive interview process. I had amazing credentials and stellar recommendations but Amy thought I was "too young" for the program. Reading over the MGSA materials on the program Hal Scott, who started the program, felt that a good director had to be over 30 in order to bring a certain amount of "life experience" to the table. I called bullshit. I had more life experience at the age of 25 than most people had in a life. Amy saw this but was still tentative. We had three interviews. We liked each other. I responded to her gruff, matter-of-fact manner. She was attracted to my passion and ideals. (I was full of both back then.) After our last interview she said she needed some more time to make a decision. Frustrated and thinking the answer would be negative I fell into a slump. My back-up plan of taking the money I had saved over the past few years and going to Italy until it ran out seemed to be the plan of action.
So I was working in casting. I was waiting to here from Rutgers. Present Ex and I were still living together, semi-broken up and semi-together. Relationship limbo. So when TV Actor called with the invite, I jumped. I needed a break from the island and my real life. I didn't really expect to be be in the middle of such an all-star event.
TV Actor and I had become fast friends when I put her in to the national tour of Cabaret. We got into lots of trouble together and enjoyed every moment of it. Whenever I went out to work on the tour, she invited me to stay with her. We laughed a lot. Drank red wine a lot. Smoked Nat Shermans a lot. Danced a lot. Partied a lot. And that was just rehearsal.
Her hotel suite was truly amazing. I hadn't realized the difference between having money and having TV money until I walked in there. Richly furnished and lushly upholstered, it was almost like being in a palace. My room of the suite was so far away from hers we might as well have been on different floors. I hugged her hard and thanked her for the invite. She said she was going to jump in the shower and then we were going to tour the Holocaust Museum. Fun times.
On the way in to DC I had received a phone call from Amy Saltz. I headed to my room in the suite, took a deep breath, swallowed hard and hit redial, bracing myself for the bad news. She answered the phone almost immediately. "Hi, JV. I'm glad you called back so quickly. I wanted to invite you into the Directing program at Rutgers..." And time stopped. The world seemed to move away. I wasn't expecting that. I was prepared for another rejection. I was getting ready to spend months in Italy learning how to speak the language and getting lost among the natives. And Amy talked on about how I would be one of three incoming directors. How we were all so different. How she was excited about each of us. And obviously I said I accepted. Stunned, I went back out to the living room and waited for the TV Star to make her entrance. What better way to celebrate then by experiencing a Holocaust? On the way out, the TV Actor asked the concierge to have a masseuse in our room that night at 10pm and be prepared to spend two hours, an hour for each of us. Nice.
The Holocaust Museum was a truly devastating experience for both of us. Of course, having worked on Cabaret, we talked about it and were familiar with it on an education standpoint, but seeing it in front of you makes the whole experience more visceral, more tangible. I kept myself together for as long as I could until we walked into a room that was, from floor to ceiling, covered in shoes of the victims. I broke down in tears. These relics made it real. These were possessions of people that had been thrown away, destroyed, and all that remained were these thin pieces of broken leather. Stacked behind wired fences the shoes seemed to go straight up to God. And I wanted to reach out and touch them. I wanted to connect with whatever had touched that child, that woman, that man. I wanted to know the person who had chosen that shoe for her daughter, who had crouched down and tied the laces a hundred times until they were stripped of them and kicked aside, now useless. The TV Actor who had been crying for some time now came over and put her arm around me, leading me to a bench outside where I pulled myself together.
"Let's get out of here," she said. "Let's go get a coffee."
I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of lives lost. And as I looked around and realized who I was and where I was and where I was staying at the particular moment in time, I realized just how lucky I was. It was the second (the acceptance into MGSA being the first) of many monumental events to occur that weekend.
27 March, 2009
A Trip (down memory lane): Part 5
The Grand Finale.
Saturday evening in Milford was spent wrapped in the warm arms of the Hotel Fauchere. The Loved One and I put on some respectable clothes, took the elevator down to the Bar Louis and had a pre-dinner drink. We both stuck with our wine choices from the previous evening; he, the Pinot, and I, the Mercurey.
The waitress who served us the night before recognized us and seemed genuinely happy to see us. I looked around the bar and recognized some familiar faces from the night before: the Miserable Couple (of course), a pair of straight, beer-drinking guys from town, and a young couple who had been a step behind us on our tour of the town all day. I mentioned them to the Loved One and I half-listened to their conversation. It was obvious they were staying at the hotel together but they seemed at the very beginning of their relationship. The conversation was akin to that one would have on a first or second date and I found it odd they were vacationing together.
It reminded me of a couple the Loved One and I had eavesdropped on when we were in Tulum, Mexico last spring. We had toured the ruins and had taken a taxi into town. The driver recommended a place to eat and we grabbed a table outside, ordered Michaladas and looked out on the quiet, dirty, sad streets. It was April and definitely off-season. A young man and woman our age sat at the table next to us. They were obviously traveling together but I couldn't tell in what capacity. The young woman kept talking about some other girl. "Didn't you used to date her?" et cetera. She was fishing for info from this guy and she was way into him. Finally she said about the other girl, "Well. She has cankles." There was a pause. Then to cover, "I mean, she's nice and everything but she's not all that." The Loved One and I almost spat out our drinks and from that point on I stopped listening. If she was trying to get closer to this guy she had just ruined her chances.
The young couple at the Bar Louis were very preppy and very upper class. The girl was very shy and embarrassed by the fact that she didn't know how to pronounce "Kir Royale" from the drinks menu. She was trying to explain the drink to the waitress and finally she grabbed the menu and pointed. The guy asked for their "oldest scotch." I flashed forward to what their lives would be like in 40 years. As soon as the drinks were served they began stressing about the fact that they were going to be late for dinner and they took their drinks upstairs with them, asking the waitress to charge their room and not leaving a tip. I didn't like them.
When they left I noticed D/Nick at a table behind where they were sitting. He was sitting with two men and we made eye contact. I went over to say hello, the Loved One behind me, and thank him again for the tour. He introduced to the men across from him. They also had a llama farm -- only theirs was in upstate New York. How many llama farms are there in the US? Crazy. We went back to our drinks and then up to the Delmonico for dinner.
The maitre d asked if we could wait a few minutes and we said 'of course' and sat on the back porch and paged through magazines. We were sat about five minutes after that. The young woman who had served us breakfast was also working the dinner shift and she also recognized us and greeted us kindly. It feels good when you're staying somewhere and people recognize and engage you.
The owner of the bookstore in town had highly recommended the lamb so when I saw it at the top of the menu, I barely looked further. The Loved One ordered the Delmonico steak which, I have to say, was also very tempting. The Loved One started with the tuna tartar (no thanks) and I had the escargot (perfection). We had another glass of wine and sat in a comfortable silence. I enjoyed watching the other tables, I enjoyed just soaking in the atmosphere of the restaurant. We were in no rush to eat. We were in no rush to leave. The food came out in its own time and I was pleased that we weren't being rushed in and out. For once, we skipped dessert and I regret it now.
The next morning, I awoke already sad that we had to leave. I threw on my jacket and ran to the ATM to get cash for the day. The Loved One met me in the Delmonico for breakfast. Again, we were greeted and recognized by familiar faces and also some new ones. Our waitress at breakfast and dinner the other day was there again and I jokingly asked her is her if she ever took any time off. We had a huge pot of coffee and a seat by the front window so I was able to watch people walking by as well as the other guests of the restaurant. Sunday brunch seemed to be much more popular than Saturday and the restaurant was alive with activity; tables being turned over, food coming out, OJ and water being poured.
After breakfast, the Loved One went to get pastries to take back with us and I went back to the room. I realized that I had forgotten my jacket in the restaurant. The Loved One opened the door with it in his hand. Who gave it to you, I asked? "How did you know?" I realized when I got back to the room. It wasn't Kenda was it? The one who I bugged all yesterday about my ATM card. "Yes." Damn. She's gonna think I'm a moron.
I knew it was Kenda. I had seen her around the lobby area when we went down to breakfast and I knew I was going to have to see her when we checked out. And, seriously. What must she think? She was very kind and I said I was just so relaxed that I kept forgetting things and wasn't usually so stupid. I'm still not sure she believed me. But I wouldn't have believed me either.
And just like that, our stay at the Hotel Fauchere was finished.
We got into the car and I looked longingly up at our room on the third floor. I wasn't quite ready to live Milford. But there were waterfalls to see and perhaps some more fun adventures on the way home. And there were. The waterfalls were beautiful. I'm glad that we stopped and I want to go back in warmer weather to hike those trails. As we made our way down a young guy in sweats, hiking boots, windbreaker and heavy backpack stopped us on the trail and said if we climbed over the fence and worked our way down the view was really amazing. I was enthralled by the metal piercing that went straight through his septum. I thanked him kindly and as we walked away I turned to Loved One and said, I would assume if a fence it there we're probably not supposed to climb over it. He agreed.
On the drive home we encountered one or two lone antique stores. One appeared to be the raised basement of someone's home. A sadness hung over this store. We went through very quickly and then left. The next was called Old Church Antiques or something like that and it was huge. A basement full of crap and a first floor full of crap. By the time we came to the next town, whose name I forget, that seemed to be nothing but antique stores we were spent. We walked around for bit, had lunch and then called it quits. I had had enough of other people's musty old crap. If they didn't want it, I certainly didn't. We had lunch and hit the road. Again.
Of course we came across what appeared to be an outlet center. So we stopped. The bookstore was disappointing. The Bass Outlet was...a Bass outlet. The Izod Outlet was a mess. The coffee was watery. And the cheese shop stank to high heaven in the worst way. Depressed and ready to be home we, once again, hit the road. Both of us were sick of our music but I put on an old Jason Mraz cd for a little life. Sunday anxiety was starting to build in my chest like a shoestring knot. It would tighten and increase with every mile closer to the city.
Happily, we came across a mall. One of the many fascinations the Loved One and I share is with malls. If there is one around, we go. Sociologically, nothing tells you more about a town and its people better than a trip to the mall. I love to look at the people. The mall was called the 'Rockaways' not to be confused, I guess, with Far Rockaway. It was interesting. The Loved One found it depressing. I didn't. Just a little sad. Which most malls are, particularly in a recession.
We walked it in half an hour, stopped at Borders so the Loved One could get a latte and hit the road one, final time.
And so it came to pass, our weekend in Pennsylvania was over. We picked up Ripley at the funeral home and headed to our Greenpoint abode. The daffodils did not bloom in our absence but they had turned yellow and would open any day now.
That was a week ago. And tonight I would like to go to Bar Louis for a glass of Mercurey and some truffle fries.
Saturday evening in Milford was spent wrapped in the warm arms of the Hotel Fauchere. The Loved One and I put on some respectable clothes, took the elevator down to the Bar Louis and had a pre-dinner drink. We both stuck with our wine choices from the previous evening; he, the Pinot, and I, the Mercurey.
The waitress who served us the night before recognized us and seemed genuinely happy to see us. I looked around the bar and recognized some familiar faces from the night before: the Miserable Couple (of course), a pair of straight, beer-drinking guys from town, and a young couple who had been a step behind us on our tour of the town all day. I mentioned them to the Loved One and I half-listened to their conversation. It was obvious they were staying at the hotel together but they seemed at the very beginning of their relationship. The conversation was akin to that one would have on a first or second date and I found it odd they were vacationing together.
It reminded me of a couple the Loved One and I had eavesdropped on when we were in Tulum, Mexico last spring. We had toured the ruins and had taken a taxi into town. The driver recommended a place to eat and we grabbed a table outside, ordered Michaladas and looked out on the quiet, dirty, sad streets. It was April and definitely off-season. A young man and woman our age sat at the table next to us. They were obviously traveling together but I couldn't tell in what capacity. The young woman kept talking about some other girl. "Didn't you used to date her?" et cetera. She was fishing for info from this guy and she was way into him. Finally she said about the other girl, "Well. She has cankles." There was a pause. Then to cover, "I mean, she's nice and everything but she's not all that." The Loved One and I almost spat out our drinks and from that point on I stopped listening. If she was trying to get closer to this guy she had just ruined her chances.
The young couple at the Bar Louis were very preppy and very upper class. The girl was very shy and embarrassed by the fact that she didn't know how to pronounce "Kir Royale" from the drinks menu. She was trying to explain the drink to the waitress and finally she grabbed the menu and pointed. The guy asked for their "oldest scotch." I flashed forward to what their lives would be like in 40 years. As soon as the drinks were served they began stressing about the fact that they were going to be late for dinner and they took their drinks upstairs with them, asking the waitress to charge their room and not leaving a tip. I didn't like them.
When they left I noticed D/Nick at a table behind where they were sitting. He was sitting with two men and we made eye contact. I went over to say hello, the Loved One behind me, and thank him again for the tour. He introduced to the men across from him. They also had a llama farm -- only theirs was in upstate New York. How many llama farms are there in the US? Crazy. We went back to our drinks and then up to the Delmonico for dinner.
The maitre d asked if we could wait a few minutes and we said 'of course' and sat on the back porch and paged through magazines. We were sat about five minutes after that. The young woman who had served us breakfast was also working the dinner shift and she also recognized us and greeted us kindly. It feels good when you're staying somewhere and people recognize and engage you.
The owner of the bookstore in town had highly recommended the lamb so when I saw it at the top of the menu, I barely looked further. The Loved One ordered the Delmonico steak which, I have to say, was also very tempting. The Loved One started with the tuna tartar (no thanks) and I had the escargot (perfection). We had another glass of wine and sat in a comfortable silence. I enjoyed watching the other tables, I enjoyed just soaking in the atmosphere of the restaurant. We were in no rush to eat. We were in no rush to leave. The food came out in its own time and I was pleased that we weren't being rushed in and out. For once, we skipped dessert and I regret it now.
The next morning, I awoke already sad that we had to leave. I threw on my jacket and ran to the ATM to get cash for the day. The Loved One met me in the Delmonico for breakfast. Again, we were greeted and recognized by familiar faces and also some new ones. Our waitress at breakfast and dinner the other day was there again and I jokingly asked her is her if she ever took any time off. We had a huge pot of coffee and a seat by the front window so I was able to watch people walking by as well as the other guests of the restaurant. Sunday brunch seemed to be much more popular than Saturday and the restaurant was alive with activity; tables being turned over, food coming out, OJ and water being poured.
After breakfast, the Loved One went to get pastries to take back with us and I went back to the room. I realized that I had forgotten my jacket in the restaurant. The Loved One opened the door with it in his hand. Who gave it to you, I asked? "How did you know?" I realized when I got back to the room. It wasn't Kenda was it? The one who I bugged all yesterday about my ATM card. "Yes." Damn. She's gonna think I'm a moron.
I knew it was Kenda. I had seen her around the lobby area when we went down to breakfast and I knew I was going to have to see her when we checked out. And, seriously. What must she think? She was very kind and I said I was just so relaxed that I kept forgetting things and wasn't usually so stupid. I'm still not sure she believed me. But I wouldn't have believed me either.
And just like that, our stay at the Hotel Fauchere was finished.
We got into the car and I looked longingly up at our room on the third floor. I wasn't quite ready to live Milford. But there were waterfalls to see and perhaps some more fun adventures on the way home. And there were. The waterfalls were beautiful. I'm glad that we stopped and I want to go back in warmer weather to hike those trails. As we made our way down a young guy in sweats, hiking boots, windbreaker and heavy backpack stopped us on the trail and said if we climbed over the fence and worked our way down the view was really amazing. I was enthralled by the metal piercing that went straight through his septum. I thanked him kindly and as we walked away I turned to Loved One and said, I would assume if a fence it there we're probably not supposed to climb over it. He agreed.
On the drive home we encountered one or two lone antique stores. One appeared to be the raised basement of someone's home. A sadness hung over this store. We went through very quickly and then left. The next was called Old Church Antiques or something like that and it was huge. A basement full of crap and a first floor full of crap. By the time we came to the next town, whose name I forget, that seemed to be nothing but antique stores we were spent. We walked around for bit, had lunch and then called it quits. I had had enough of other people's musty old crap. If they didn't want it, I certainly didn't. We had lunch and hit the road. Again.
Of course we came across what appeared to be an outlet center. So we stopped. The bookstore was disappointing. The Bass Outlet was...a Bass outlet. The Izod Outlet was a mess. The coffee was watery. And the cheese shop stank to high heaven in the worst way. Depressed and ready to be home we, once again, hit the road. Both of us were sick of our music but I put on an old Jason Mraz cd for a little life. Sunday anxiety was starting to build in my chest like a shoestring knot. It would tighten and increase with every mile closer to the city.
Happily, we came across a mall. One of the many fascinations the Loved One and I share is with malls. If there is one around, we go. Sociologically, nothing tells you more about a town and its people better than a trip to the mall. I love to look at the people. The mall was called the 'Rockaways' not to be confused, I guess, with Far Rockaway. It was interesting. The Loved One found it depressing. I didn't. Just a little sad. Which most malls are, particularly in a recession.
We walked it in half an hour, stopped at Borders so the Loved One could get a latte and hit the road one, final time.
And so it came to pass, our weekend in Pennsylvania was over. We picked up Ripley at the funeral home and headed to our Greenpoint abode. The daffodils did not bloom in our absence but they had turned yellow and would open any day now.
That was a week ago. And tonight I would like to go to Bar Louis for a glass of Mercurey and some truffle fries.
26 March, 2009
A Trip (down memory lane): Part 4
As we were wrapping up lunch I was whining to the Loved One again about the loss of my ATM card.
"Give me your wallet," he said.
It's not in there, I assured him as I opened it and showed him the empty space where it usually lay. Not there. Then to further prove my point, I pulled out the assorted receipts and credit cards from another slot in the wallet and low and behold there she was, my brand new Chase ATM card twinkling in the light. I stared at it for a second and the Loved One saw it right away. I shoved it back in the correct place and mumbled, I told you it was in there the entire time.
I don't normally lose things a lot. But when I do, I lose them well. I lost a pair of keys in my backpack for about a month. I was convinced our third roommate at the funeral home had gone in to my bag and taken them while I slept. I moaned about it for days and even paid to have a new set made. One day, at the Loved Ones apartment, they fell out of an inner pocket deep inside the bag. Again, they were not in their usual place. Whose fault is that? And after the Mormon and I broke up I left my ATM card in a bank machine three times in three weeks. Two of those times I had to wait for a replacement card to be mailed to me. It was frustrating but think of all the money I saved in that time. I made no pointless purchases.
Let me go in and tell Kenda that I found it, I said to Loved One.
Sheepishly I walked in and approached her. She greeted me with a warm smile. I just wanted to let you know, uhm...I found my ATM card. "Oh! Good! Where was it?" I looked down at the floor, It totally wasn't in my wallet. She smiled a knowing smile and I waved goodbye and ran right into Marta who was arriving for her shift. "How were the llamas?" We're on our way right now, I said. "Be careful," she cautioned. We laughed and waved goodbye and headed to the car.
The farm was just a few minutes away and we arrived, of course, early. We initially drove past the farm and immediately knew by looking out the driver's side window and seeing a veritable sea of llamas, some lying in the sun; some picking at the grass. We turned the car around and slowly approached Llama Lane. The white gate opened automatically as our powdered blue colored Kia made the slow ascent up the drive. I was a little unclear as to how this was going to work. Was there a group before us? Would someone greet us? The Loved One asked these questions out loud and all I could say was, I don't know. As we were turning the car into a parking space, a tall lanky man dressed like...well, like a modern day farmer gave us a smile and a nod and I said, I guess that's who we see.
We got out of the car and I went up and shook his hand and introduced myself. I thought he said his name was Nick so I proceeded to call him that for the rest of the day. It wasn't until we got back to Greenpoint and the Loved One did some research on the farm that we found that, actually, his name is Dick. Oops. Sorry, Dick. I introduced the Loved One and D/Nick led us into the barn. "Which one of you is from Philly?" he asked. I am, I answered. But originally. We live in Brooklyn now. I grew up in Philly and spent my summer's in upstate PA but, I guess, in a more western section.
"Whereabouts?"
St. Clair. Near Pottsville.
"That's not too far," and then he thought. "Not Pottstown?"
No, Pottsville.
"Well, welcome. This is the llama farm." And D/Nick launched into a very detailed and thorough history of the farm and how he, in 1985, retired as a corporate executive from NYC and bought the farm, which was built and used as a dairy farm in the 19th Century. He knew he needed to maintain it to keep it up and going but he didn't want traditional farm animals. After doing a lot of research he settled on llamas -- which can also be spelled lama. I hurled questions at him like a reporter. The only problem being I wasn't writing anything down so I was trying to retain as much as possible and I had a thousand more questions swimming around in my head.
First, D/Nick took us into the original barn. Posted along the back wall were rows and rows of blue and red ribbons. Next to these were large cardboard cartons, some of which were open and I could see llama hair pouring out. "This is the shearing room," D/Nick explained. He took us over to a large metal contraption that has two long, tufted poles that lock the llama in place so that it doesn't hurt itself while they shear it. There's also another device that lifts the back legs up so the llama doesn't try to sit during the process. I laughed and said, I wish I had one of those for my dog when I give him a bath. "What kind of dog do you have?" Oh, just a little thing but he hates it and squirms like crazy. It drives me insane. Truth to tell, I was a little embarrassed to explain my little gay Havanese pup to this farmer. Ripley is anything but a little gay lapdog but it's hard to describe him without making him seem otherwise. Plus, once you say Havanese you have to go into Bischon and Shih Tsu territory and it just gets gayer and gayer...
D/Nick took us over to the cardboard boxes and told us to feel the hair. I expected it to be coarse and rough but it was very smooth and fine. Then he showed us that his sweater was made from llama hair as well. Although it can be dyed, most llama hair is kept in its natural state and D/Nick explained the various features and colors, etc.
He then took us to the main barn. As he was talking and explaining things to us, suddenly a white head precariously balanced on a long white neck popped up, chewing hay in its mouth and giving us a questioning look. It had the most startling clear blue eyes you could imagine. "That's Bright Eyes," D/Nick said. "I can see why," the Loved One replied. Curiously, Bright eyes made its way over to us. D/Nick stuck out his hand and it sniffed with little interest and then went back to chewing. Suddenly, three or so more llamas came in to the barn. D/Nick knew each and everyone's name. Some came over to check us out, while others went right to the hay. D/Nick explained that the llamas got to know you by sniffing your hair. So if one came over, we bent our heads down and offered up our shiny locks to them to smell. It's a very scary position to be in, I have to say. The llamas look very powerful. And by putting your head down, you're obstructing any view of it whatsoever. What if it bites down on the top of your head? What if it grabs your ear and won't let go? What if it messes up your hair? None of this happened. We got the same half-hearted sniff of interest and then they walked away.
D/Nick showed us the original foundation of the barn and then how he had expanded it and made it bigger, particularly because he was so tall he could hardly stand up in it before. Then he took us upstairs to where the hay was stored and showed us how they could just drop it down to the feeding area below. He pointed out an original feature of the barn. The wood beams that supported the roof were hand cut. You could see each and every hack of the ax that was used to whittle the tree into this state. I had never thought of that. Why would I? When have I ever had to build a house? But I stood there looking at the ax marks imagining the kind of guy who had to build his house and his barn by chopping down the trees around him and then chopping them even further into the appropriate shapes before fitting them together. My mind doesn't work that way. I wish it did. And then I thought, what a great workout. Crunch could introduce Tree Choppin' to its city folk clients.
All this time a cat was following us from one location to another. "He gets all the little critters," D/Nick said. "Obviously, he's solely an outdoors cat." Unwillingly to leave the dark hunting zones of the upper barn yet, D/Nick made sure that the cat could get out from somewhere before we headed back down. We walked through the feeding trough and D/Nick pointed out a large black llama with a large infection around its eye. Oh no, what happened! I exclaimed. "She had an ingrown eyelash," D/Nick explained. "The normal vert wasn't there and the one that was removed the wrong eyelid. So she tears up constantly and it leaves that area all infected like that." As he was telling us this story a chicken wandered in and jumped into a feed trough. D/Nick checked to see if it was laying an egg. "We have a few of these, you'll see around. They only lay about 10-12 eggs a day though." 10-12?! I thought they would only lay one egg a day. So much I didn't know.
There are about 60-70 llamas on the farm. The males are separated from the females and only get it on when D/Nick says so. There's even a breeding booth, as it were. Apparently this is because female llamas ovulate AFTER they copulate. So, I guess, they're guaranteed to get knocked up after sex.
We walked out to where the female llamas were. Most immediately moved down the field, further away from us. A curious, smaller black and white llama named Chicklet was much more curious than her counterparts. She would approach and then back off. We would offer our closed fist or our head and she would approach and then back away. Rinse and repeat. I loved it. We then walked off to another section where the male llamas were kept. Quite different from the females, the males almost stampeded to the gate to greet us as we stood there. One particularly fiesty one, Mitchiko, got on famously with the Loved One; nuzzling him, smelling his hair, sniffing his hand, etc. I had asked D/Nick earlier if the llamas ever made noises. He said occasionally but rarely and only in certain circumstances. All of a sudden, one of the male llamas started making a noise as another male attempted to mount him from behind. We moved away.
We asked about spitting. Everyone has heard about or seen a scene of a movie in which someone gets llama spit in their face. D/Nick explained that it only happens rarely; usually when the llama feels physically or territorially threatened (and usually it spits at other llamas). I was amazed that D/Nick knew each and every llama by name. The creatures don't really respond to call by name but can be trained to. D/Nick pointed out Annie who was his oldest llame (they live to about 20 years). She was blind but still managed to get around fine and follow the rest.
As we moved around the grounds, the curious males followed us as far as they could.
D/Nick pointed out where he was using some of the grounds for selective lumbering. We came across some of his farm hands sifting llama manure to use as fertilizer in the gardens. We walked further out to a large pond. Daffodils were beginning to bloom in patches everywhere. The Loved One told him how ours were almost ready to bloom and we were afraid it was going to happen this very weekend while we were away. D/Nick explained how because he was higher up in the mountains, some 1100 feet above sea-level, the spring thaw took a little longer. As we walked around the pond he said that the koi probably wouldn't be out yet but we saw them in abundance; white koi, orange koi, some almost a foot long swimming lazily through the reeds. Our shoes squished in the mud as we circled the pond and I thought how I would love to sit out here and read or paint or throw parties.
We walked back toward the house and D/Nick showed us the greenhouse and the gardens. He supplies the Delmonico at the Hotel Fauchere with its summer herbs and vegetables. Four or five young guys were working here, getting the ground ready for planting. D/Nick told us that the man usually in charge of all of this had passed away not to long ago. D/Nick had come home to find him passed out from an aneurysm on the floor. In the midst of all this life, there is also death. Sad. I wanted to ask D/Nick more about his personal life but it didn't seem right. Where was his family? Was he lonely out here? Aside from someone named Joe who acted as a kind of manager and some assorted other staff, did he have close friends and people to relate to. But getting so personal, so quickly didn't seem appropriate. I was so fascinated by what this man had done though. Left his life in the city behind and created this successful existence out in the country. How could I do that?
As we stood outside the greenhouse, I stood on a large log that acted as a border to the entrance. The Loved One and I were looking at a beautiful, towering oak tree that hung over the property. I, of course, in my clumsiness managed to dislocate the log from where it had been fixed and couldn't manage to get it back in its proper place. The Loved One stood, amused, in the doorway just watching me trying to fix it.
We slowly walked back to the car. I didn't want to leave but we had taken up almost two hours of D/Nick's time. The chickens and roosters were pecking away in the driveway as we said our goodbyes. Four beautiful guinea hens also made an appearance. From up on top of a hill, I could see Mitchiko the llama looking down at us -- almost wistfully, I thought.
I couldn't thank D/Nick enough for this thorough, extremely educational and fun tour. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to offer him money, and I felt he would almost be offended if I had but he had so graciously offered up so much of his time and energy to us. We shook hands and he said he'd be dining at the hotel later that night and maybe we'd see him there.
The Loved One got in the car and asked me to be on chicken watch in the driveway while he pulled out. A man and a little girl had appeared thought, friends of D/Nick's, and the young girl had chased all the chickens away. The coast was clear.
I plopped down into the passenger seat and turned to the Loved One. Were you bored by that? I asked hesitantly.
"Are you kidding?! I loved it!"
Good. Me too.
Dinner wasn't until 8:30. That meant it was time for a sweet treat, some coffee and a nap before pre-dinner drinks at the Bar Louis.
I want a llama farm, I said as we drove away.
"Give me your wallet," he said.
It's not in there, I assured him as I opened it and showed him the empty space where it usually lay. Not there. Then to further prove my point, I pulled out the assorted receipts and credit cards from another slot in the wallet and low and behold there she was, my brand new Chase ATM card twinkling in the light. I stared at it for a second and the Loved One saw it right away. I shoved it back in the correct place and mumbled, I told you it was in there the entire time.
I don't normally lose things a lot. But when I do, I lose them well. I lost a pair of keys in my backpack for about a month. I was convinced our third roommate at the funeral home had gone in to my bag and taken them while I slept. I moaned about it for days and even paid to have a new set made. One day, at the Loved Ones apartment, they fell out of an inner pocket deep inside the bag. Again, they were not in their usual place. Whose fault is that? And after the Mormon and I broke up I left my ATM card in a bank machine three times in three weeks. Two of those times I had to wait for a replacement card to be mailed to me. It was frustrating but think of all the money I saved in that time. I made no pointless purchases.
Let me go in and tell Kenda that I found it, I said to Loved One.
Sheepishly I walked in and approached her. She greeted me with a warm smile. I just wanted to let you know, uhm...I found my ATM card. "Oh! Good! Where was it?" I looked down at the floor, It totally wasn't in my wallet. She smiled a knowing smile and I waved goodbye and ran right into Marta who was arriving for her shift. "How were the llamas?" We're on our way right now, I said. "Be careful," she cautioned. We laughed and waved goodbye and headed to the car.
The farm was just a few minutes away and we arrived, of course, early. We initially drove past the farm and immediately knew by looking out the driver's side window and seeing a veritable sea of llamas, some lying in the sun; some picking at the grass. We turned the car around and slowly approached Llama Lane. The white gate opened automatically as our powdered blue colored Kia made the slow ascent up the drive. I was a little unclear as to how this was going to work. Was there a group before us? Would someone greet us? The Loved One asked these questions out loud and all I could say was, I don't know. As we were turning the car into a parking space, a tall lanky man dressed like...well, like a modern day farmer gave us a smile and a nod and I said, I guess that's who we see.
We got out of the car and I went up and shook his hand and introduced myself. I thought he said his name was Nick so I proceeded to call him that for the rest of the day. It wasn't until we got back to Greenpoint and the Loved One did some research on the farm that we found that, actually, his name is Dick. Oops. Sorry, Dick. I introduced the Loved One and D/Nick led us into the barn. "Which one of you is from Philly?" he asked. I am, I answered. But originally. We live in Brooklyn now. I grew up in Philly and spent my summer's in upstate PA but, I guess, in a more western section.
"Whereabouts?"
St. Clair. Near Pottsville.
"That's not too far," and then he thought. "Not Pottstown?"
No, Pottsville.
"Well, welcome. This is the llama farm." And D/Nick launched into a very detailed and thorough history of the farm and how he, in 1985, retired as a corporate executive from NYC and bought the farm, which was built and used as a dairy farm in the 19th Century. He knew he needed to maintain it to keep it up and going but he didn't want traditional farm animals. After doing a lot of research he settled on llamas -- which can also be spelled lama. I hurled questions at him like a reporter. The only problem being I wasn't writing anything down so I was trying to retain as much as possible and I had a thousand more questions swimming around in my head.
First, D/Nick took us into the original barn. Posted along the back wall were rows and rows of blue and red ribbons. Next to these were large cardboard cartons, some of which were open and I could see llama hair pouring out. "This is the shearing room," D/Nick explained. He took us over to a large metal contraption that has two long, tufted poles that lock the llama in place so that it doesn't hurt itself while they shear it. There's also another device that lifts the back legs up so the llama doesn't try to sit during the process. I laughed and said, I wish I had one of those for my dog when I give him a bath. "What kind of dog do you have?" Oh, just a little thing but he hates it and squirms like crazy. It drives me insane. Truth to tell, I was a little embarrassed to explain my little gay Havanese pup to this farmer. Ripley is anything but a little gay lapdog but it's hard to describe him without making him seem otherwise. Plus, once you say Havanese you have to go into Bischon and Shih Tsu territory and it just gets gayer and gayer...
D/Nick took us over to the cardboard boxes and told us to feel the hair. I expected it to be coarse and rough but it was very smooth and fine. Then he showed us that his sweater was made from llama hair as well. Although it can be dyed, most llama hair is kept in its natural state and D/Nick explained the various features and colors, etc.
He then took us to the main barn. As he was talking and explaining things to us, suddenly a white head precariously balanced on a long white neck popped up, chewing hay in its mouth and giving us a questioning look. It had the most startling clear blue eyes you could imagine. "That's Bright Eyes," D/Nick said. "I can see why," the Loved One replied. Curiously, Bright eyes made its way over to us. D/Nick stuck out his hand and it sniffed with little interest and then went back to chewing. Suddenly, three or so more llamas came in to the barn. D/Nick knew each and everyone's name. Some came over to check us out, while others went right to the hay. D/Nick explained that the llamas got to know you by sniffing your hair. So if one came over, we bent our heads down and offered up our shiny locks to them to smell. It's a very scary position to be in, I have to say. The llamas look very powerful. And by putting your head down, you're obstructing any view of it whatsoever. What if it bites down on the top of your head? What if it grabs your ear and won't let go? What if it messes up your hair? None of this happened. We got the same half-hearted sniff of interest and then they walked away.
D/Nick showed us the original foundation of the barn and then how he had expanded it and made it bigger, particularly because he was so tall he could hardly stand up in it before. Then he took us upstairs to where the hay was stored and showed us how they could just drop it down to the feeding area below. He pointed out an original feature of the barn. The wood beams that supported the roof were hand cut. You could see each and every hack of the ax that was used to whittle the tree into this state. I had never thought of that. Why would I? When have I ever had to build a house? But I stood there looking at the ax marks imagining the kind of guy who had to build his house and his barn by chopping down the trees around him and then chopping them even further into the appropriate shapes before fitting them together. My mind doesn't work that way. I wish it did. And then I thought, what a great workout. Crunch could introduce Tree Choppin' to its city folk clients.
All this time a cat was following us from one location to another. "He gets all the little critters," D/Nick said. "Obviously, he's solely an outdoors cat." Unwillingly to leave the dark hunting zones of the upper barn yet, D/Nick made sure that the cat could get out from somewhere before we headed back down. We walked through the feeding trough and D/Nick pointed out a large black llama with a large infection around its eye. Oh no, what happened! I exclaimed. "She had an ingrown eyelash," D/Nick explained. "The normal vert wasn't there and the one that was removed the wrong eyelid. So she tears up constantly and it leaves that area all infected like that." As he was telling us this story a chicken wandered in and jumped into a feed trough. D/Nick checked to see if it was laying an egg. "We have a few of these, you'll see around. They only lay about 10-12 eggs a day though." 10-12?! I thought they would only lay one egg a day. So much I didn't know.
There are about 60-70 llamas on the farm. The males are separated from the females and only get it on when D/Nick says so. There's even a breeding booth, as it were. Apparently this is because female llamas ovulate AFTER they copulate. So, I guess, they're guaranteed to get knocked up after sex.
We walked out to where the female llamas were. Most immediately moved down the field, further away from us. A curious, smaller black and white llama named Chicklet was much more curious than her counterparts. She would approach and then back off. We would offer our closed fist or our head and she would approach and then back away. Rinse and repeat. I loved it. We then walked off to another section where the male llamas were kept. Quite different from the females, the males almost stampeded to the gate to greet us as we stood there. One particularly fiesty one, Mitchiko, got on famously with the Loved One; nuzzling him, smelling his hair, sniffing his hand, etc. I had asked D/Nick earlier if the llamas ever made noises. He said occasionally but rarely and only in certain circumstances. All of a sudden, one of the male llamas started making a noise as another male attempted to mount him from behind. We moved away.
We asked about spitting. Everyone has heard about or seen a scene of a movie in which someone gets llama spit in their face. D/Nick explained that it only happens rarely; usually when the llama feels physically or territorially threatened (and usually it spits at other llamas). I was amazed that D/Nick knew each and every llama by name. The creatures don't really respond to call by name but can be trained to. D/Nick pointed out Annie who was his oldest llame (they live to about 20 years). She was blind but still managed to get around fine and follow the rest.
As we moved around the grounds, the curious males followed us as far as they could.
D/Nick pointed out where he was using some of the grounds for selective lumbering. We came across some of his farm hands sifting llama manure to use as fertilizer in the gardens. We walked further out to a large pond. Daffodils were beginning to bloom in patches everywhere. The Loved One told him how ours were almost ready to bloom and we were afraid it was going to happen this very weekend while we were away. D/Nick explained how because he was higher up in the mountains, some 1100 feet above sea-level, the spring thaw took a little longer. As we walked around the pond he said that the koi probably wouldn't be out yet but we saw them in abundance; white koi, orange koi, some almost a foot long swimming lazily through the reeds. Our shoes squished in the mud as we circled the pond and I thought how I would love to sit out here and read or paint or throw parties.
We walked back toward the house and D/Nick showed us the greenhouse and the gardens. He supplies the Delmonico at the Hotel Fauchere with its summer herbs and vegetables. Four or five young guys were working here, getting the ground ready for planting. D/Nick told us that the man usually in charge of all of this had passed away not to long ago. D/Nick had come home to find him passed out from an aneurysm on the floor. In the midst of all this life, there is also death. Sad. I wanted to ask D/Nick more about his personal life but it didn't seem right. Where was his family? Was he lonely out here? Aside from someone named Joe who acted as a kind of manager and some assorted other staff, did he have close friends and people to relate to. But getting so personal, so quickly didn't seem appropriate. I was so fascinated by what this man had done though. Left his life in the city behind and created this successful existence out in the country. How could I do that?
As we stood outside the greenhouse, I stood on a large log that acted as a border to the entrance. The Loved One and I were looking at a beautiful, towering oak tree that hung over the property. I, of course, in my clumsiness managed to dislocate the log from where it had been fixed and couldn't manage to get it back in its proper place. The Loved One stood, amused, in the doorway just watching me trying to fix it.
We slowly walked back to the car. I didn't want to leave but we had taken up almost two hours of D/Nick's time. The chickens and roosters were pecking away in the driveway as we said our goodbyes. Four beautiful guinea hens also made an appearance. From up on top of a hill, I could see Mitchiko the llama looking down at us -- almost wistfully, I thought.
I couldn't thank D/Nick enough for this thorough, extremely educational and fun tour. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to offer him money, and I felt he would almost be offended if I had but he had so graciously offered up so much of his time and energy to us. We shook hands and he said he'd be dining at the hotel later that night and maybe we'd see him there.
The Loved One got in the car and asked me to be on chicken watch in the driveway while he pulled out. A man and a little girl had appeared thought, friends of D/Nick's, and the young girl had chased all the chickens away. The coast was clear.
I plopped down into the passenger seat and turned to the Loved One. Were you bored by that? I asked hesitantly.
"Are you kidding?! I loved it!"
Good. Me too.
Dinner wasn't until 8:30. That meant it was time for a sweet treat, some coffee and a nap before pre-dinner drinks at the Bar Louis.
I want a llama farm, I said as we drove away.
25 March, 2009
A Trip (down memory lane): Part 3
I awoke Saturday morning well-rested and, as usual, before the Loved One. I put on my Hotel Fauchere white bathrobe and curled into the arm chair by the window with A Confederacy of Dunces. I read it once, in high school, and I can't even begin to fathom how much of it was lost on me at the time. However, now, being a devotee of New Orleans and (like Ignatius Reilly) a misanthrope, I understand it on every level. I'm not, actually, a misanthrope. I just think most people aren't as smart as they could or should be, and fewer live up to their potential.
When the Loved One woke up, we immediately celebrated the impending day by scarfing down the complimentary chocolate from the Patisserie Fauchere. It was perfect and stirred my already building hunger. I like to eat pretty much the second I wake up in the morning. Or from a nap. Or anytime at all.
We had a light, lovely breakfast in the Delmonico's porch. I was had one of the croissants I had read so much about in reviews online. It was light, buttery and crispy. It was also about half the size of a regular croissant and I wanted more. But Loved One and I split some eggs and fruit instead. As we ate, the Long Island or New Jersey couple came in looking as miserable in the morning as they did at night. They shot us both a withering look and then took a table in the corner by the back. I watched people run in and out of the patisserie next door and said that we should stop by later for coffee and a treat. The Loved One agreed. A party of older women came in and sat back by the miserable couple. They were too far away for me to hear their entire conversation but I heard talk of scripts and screenplays and a film festival as well as the name Rockefeller dropped, and I wished I could hear more. I'm a notorious eavesdropper. I will listen to any and all of a close-by conversation and then try to whisper what I'm hearing to the Loved One. His hearing is so hot so he usually can't hear what I'm saying and we have to talk about other things instead.
After breakfast, I made the Loved One pose for some pictures around the hotel. He begrudgingly obliged. I've become a big fan of capturing the moment on film and often regret not taking enough photos after an event. And from there we went to explore the town. Our first stop was, happily, Books & Prints at Pear Alley. The moment we opened the door and a huge white poodle came galloping out from around the front desk, I knew we were in the right place.
"That's Molly," the owner said. "I hope she isn't bothering you."
Are you kidding? I love it.
"Well, have a look around and let me know if you need any help."
The Loved One drew my attention to the glass case in front of me. On the second shelf, for $200, was a small piece of paper with a pencil sketch of Archie Andrews on it, signed by Dan DeCarlo who illustrated the comic book character throughout my formative years. In the early 80s I became an Archies Reporter and fan club member by writing in to the comic about my experience playing clarinet in the school band. I won first prize ($6)! My dad made a copy of the check before I cashed it, probably spending it on more Archie comics. It was my first, and only, byline. So far. A few years ago I found the issue I was published in and cut out the article, framed it and put it in the bathroom. The number two article was from a guy who worked part-time in a fast food joint and I couldn't help but wonder how old he was and how we felt getting beat out for first place by a 10-year old....
So I made a pass around the Archie and went, as I normally do, right to the fiction section. I am always in search of 1) a first edition of Patricia Highsmith's 'The Talented Mr. Ripley and 2) any Daphne DuMaurier novel I don't yet own. I rarely find either. After that, I head over to the drama section and look for out-of-print plays. Here, I was blessed with a collection of Random House plays from the 50s, 60s and 70s. I began pulling them off the shelf and making a stack. Before long I was over the $100 mark and I realized that I couldn't/shouldn't buy all of them. So I started going through to see which ones I did not need. I had to buy 'No Time For Sergeants' because it was the third time in three weeks that I had come across it. I had to buy the book of 'Happy Hunting', an Ethel Merman musical I had never heard of. The Loved One ran over with a copy of an original Playbill for "Little Me" in his hands. I was the AD of the Broadway revival. But I barely keep paraphernalia from shows I do work on, so I don't want any from shows I didn't work on.
The Loved One took a look at the stack of books by my side. I told him I couldn't afford them all and was weeding through to see which ones I really wanted. He said he would buy them for me, especially if they were out of print. I said, no. Not necessary and picked up my pile and proceeded to the front. Molly came out and sniffed the stack of books, happy with my purchases. I plopped them down on the counter and, straightforward, asked the owner if she would give me a discount for purchasing in bulk. She didn't even bat an eye. She calculated the price of the complete purchase and then knocked $15 off of it. And that's why you have to ask for what you want!
Then I pulled out my wallet to pay and realized that my ATM card was missing. I frantically looked through my wallet, to no avail. I had paid for dinner with it the night before at Bar Louis so I knew it was in Milford. Beyond that, I didn't know where. The Loved One pulled out his ATM card and saved the day. So he did end up buying the books for me after all.
"Let's drop these off in the car and then ask in the hotel for your card." Also, between the book buying and the stress of no ATM card, it was time to stop at the Patisserie Fauchere to refuel. As we approached the hotel, the female half of Miserable Couple was sitting on the front porch talking loudly on her cell phone. She didn't even glance up as we walked by. The male half was in the reception area where a new woman, a pretty redhead by the name of Kenda, was trying to arrange something for him. He was not happy with having only one time choice as his option and stalked out of the room.
I sheepishly walked up and introduced myself. "Oh, I have your directions to the llama farm!" she exclaimed.
How does everyone here know that I made arrangements to go there?!
I explained about losing my ATM card and she checked in the safe but it wasn't there. Bar Louis wasn't open yet. So it was off to Patisserie Fauchere! I shrugged my shoulders in defeat when I saw the Loved One and we headed next door. The smell of freshly baked...everything greeted us the minute we opened the door. Breads lined the shelves. Pastries shimmered behind the glass and wooden cases. My stomach rumbled. The Loved Ones eyes lit up at the sight of hot cross buns. I wanted everything but decided to get a pain au chocalat, as my croissant desire wasn't particularly satiated that morning. Again, the pastry was delicious but could have benefited from a bit more chocolat in the pain.
We enjoyed just sitting there and watching the locals come in and make conversation with the staff. IN my secret heart of hearts I sometime wish that I could spend the day in a kitchen baking away and making conversation with my fellow bakers and the community. So I was envious of these people who both lived and worked here. It seems a simpler way of life to me. Perhaps that's naive. Whose life is simple?
Coffee and pastries complete, we took off -- once again -- to explore the town. From small antique shops, to trendy stores, to the Velveteen Habit (which we couldn't stop making fun of) we walked the small town. Our favorite place was Old Lumberyard Antiques. They use the word "antiques", I would use the word "junk." But I love looking at it. I was overwhelmed by the amount of racist antiquities I was finding; a postcard with a young black child on it, running and written in "black slang" from the 20s; two cards obviously used as placecards at an event because the names Dr. and Mrs Simcox were handwritten at the bottom, again depicting poor black children referred to as "coons" in the sentence below. I was (and still am) so shocked by them I can't even remember the rest of the sentence. But does it matter? Really? And only $25 for the pair? Tempting. Never too soon to plan the next dinner party. I called the Loved One over and his jaw literally dropped when he saw them.
All of this racism and antiquing obviously made us hungry so it was time for lunch. I ran into the Bar Louis but still no ATM card appearance. And we decided on the Milford Diner for lunch. Our waitress was wonderful. She had dyed brown hair with white roots piled on top of her head and a face filled with deep wrinkles from smoking. She eyes us cautiously at first but took our order. I was wondering if I wasn't sensing some homophobia until she came over with her drinks while I studied a large map of the Pennsylvania area with antiquing locations mapped out.
"What are you looking for, honey"" she asked in a husky smokers voice.
Oh, nothing in particular. We were thinking of possibly going to New Hope and I was trying to figure out how far it was.
Her eyes lit up. "Oh, I just love New Hope. It's so beautiful. And artsy. I was just there a few weeks ago to visit a friend of mine..." and on and on she went. Asking where we were from and why we were here. She was very kind. By the time she was done questioning us the Loved Ones lunchmeat salad (a chef's salad but c'mon, really, it was slices of lunchmeat and cheese rolled up and plopped on top of iceberg lettuce) and my Greek salad (feta cheese, olives and a side of pita does not a Greek make) were ready. Our waitress left the check on our table and went out to smoke.
We had to finish our lunch quickly because we had a date with some llamas!
When the Loved One woke up, we immediately celebrated the impending day by scarfing down the complimentary chocolate from the Patisserie Fauchere. It was perfect and stirred my already building hunger. I like to eat pretty much the second I wake up in the morning. Or from a nap. Or anytime at all.
We had a light, lovely breakfast in the Delmonico's porch. I was had one of the croissants I had read so much about in reviews online. It was light, buttery and crispy. It was also about half the size of a regular croissant and I wanted more. But Loved One and I split some eggs and fruit instead. As we ate, the Long Island or New Jersey couple came in looking as miserable in the morning as they did at night. They shot us both a withering look and then took a table in the corner by the back. I watched people run in and out of the patisserie next door and said that we should stop by later for coffee and a treat. The Loved One agreed. A party of older women came in and sat back by the miserable couple. They were too far away for me to hear their entire conversation but I heard talk of scripts and screenplays and a film festival as well as the name Rockefeller dropped, and I wished I could hear more. I'm a notorious eavesdropper. I will listen to any and all of a close-by conversation and then try to whisper what I'm hearing to the Loved One. His hearing is so hot so he usually can't hear what I'm saying and we have to talk about other things instead.
After breakfast, I made the Loved One pose for some pictures around the hotel. He begrudgingly obliged. I've become a big fan of capturing the moment on film and often regret not taking enough photos after an event. And from there we went to explore the town. Our first stop was, happily, Books & Prints at Pear Alley. The moment we opened the door and a huge white poodle came galloping out from around the front desk, I knew we were in the right place.
"That's Molly," the owner said. "I hope she isn't bothering you."
Are you kidding? I love it.
"Well, have a look around and let me know if you need any help."
The Loved One drew my attention to the glass case in front of me. On the second shelf, for $200, was a small piece of paper with a pencil sketch of Archie Andrews on it, signed by Dan DeCarlo who illustrated the comic book character throughout my formative years. In the early 80s I became an Archies Reporter and fan club member by writing in to the comic about my experience playing clarinet in the school band. I won first prize ($6)! My dad made a copy of the check before I cashed it, probably spending it on more Archie comics. It was my first, and only, byline. So far. A few years ago I found the issue I was published in and cut out the article, framed it and put it in the bathroom. The number two article was from a guy who worked part-time in a fast food joint and I couldn't help but wonder how old he was and how we felt getting beat out for first place by a 10-year old....
So I made a pass around the Archie and went, as I normally do, right to the fiction section. I am always in search of 1) a first edition of Patricia Highsmith's 'The Talented Mr. Ripley and 2) any Daphne DuMaurier novel I don't yet own. I rarely find either. After that, I head over to the drama section and look for out-of-print plays. Here, I was blessed with a collection of Random House plays from the 50s, 60s and 70s. I began pulling them off the shelf and making a stack. Before long I was over the $100 mark and I realized that I couldn't/shouldn't buy all of them. So I started going through to see which ones I did not need. I had to buy 'No Time For Sergeants' because it was the third time in three weeks that I had come across it. I had to buy the book of 'Happy Hunting', an Ethel Merman musical I had never heard of. The Loved One ran over with a copy of an original Playbill for "Little Me" in his hands. I was the AD of the Broadway revival. But I barely keep paraphernalia from shows I do work on, so I don't want any from shows I didn't work on.
The Loved One took a look at the stack of books by my side. I told him I couldn't afford them all and was weeding through to see which ones I really wanted. He said he would buy them for me, especially if they were out of print. I said, no. Not necessary and picked up my pile and proceeded to the front. Molly came out and sniffed the stack of books, happy with my purchases. I plopped them down on the counter and, straightforward, asked the owner if she would give me a discount for purchasing in bulk. She didn't even bat an eye. She calculated the price of the complete purchase and then knocked $15 off of it. And that's why you have to ask for what you want!
Then I pulled out my wallet to pay and realized that my ATM card was missing. I frantically looked through my wallet, to no avail. I had paid for dinner with it the night before at Bar Louis so I knew it was in Milford. Beyond that, I didn't know where. The Loved One pulled out his ATM card and saved the day. So he did end up buying the books for me after all.
"Let's drop these off in the car and then ask in the hotel for your card." Also, between the book buying and the stress of no ATM card, it was time to stop at the Patisserie Fauchere to refuel. As we approached the hotel, the female half of Miserable Couple was sitting on the front porch talking loudly on her cell phone. She didn't even glance up as we walked by. The male half was in the reception area where a new woman, a pretty redhead by the name of Kenda, was trying to arrange something for him. He was not happy with having only one time choice as his option and stalked out of the room.
I sheepishly walked up and introduced myself. "Oh, I have your directions to the llama farm!" she exclaimed.
How does everyone here know that I made arrangements to go there?!
I explained about losing my ATM card and she checked in the safe but it wasn't there. Bar Louis wasn't open yet. So it was off to Patisserie Fauchere! I shrugged my shoulders in defeat when I saw the Loved One and we headed next door. The smell of freshly baked...everything greeted us the minute we opened the door. Breads lined the shelves. Pastries shimmered behind the glass and wooden cases. My stomach rumbled. The Loved Ones eyes lit up at the sight of hot cross buns. I wanted everything but decided to get a pain au chocalat, as my croissant desire wasn't particularly satiated that morning. Again, the pastry was delicious but could have benefited from a bit more chocolat in the pain.
We enjoyed just sitting there and watching the locals come in and make conversation with the staff. IN my secret heart of hearts I sometime wish that I could spend the day in a kitchen baking away and making conversation with my fellow bakers and the community. So I was envious of these people who both lived and worked here. It seems a simpler way of life to me. Perhaps that's naive. Whose life is simple?
Coffee and pastries complete, we took off -- once again -- to explore the town. From small antique shops, to trendy stores, to the Velveteen Habit (which we couldn't stop making fun of) we walked the small town. Our favorite place was Old Lumberyard Antiques. They use the word "antiques", I would use the word "junk." But I love looking at it. I was overwhelmed by the amount of racist antiquities I was finding; a postcard with a young black child on it, running and written in "black slang" from the 20s; two cards obviously used as placecards at an event because the names Dr. and Mrs Simcox were handwritten at the bottom, again depicting poor black children referred to as "coons" in the sentence below. I was (and still am) so shocked by them I can't even remember the rest of the sentence. But does it matter? Really? And only $25 for the pair? Tempting. Never too soon to plan the next dinner party. I called the Loved One over and his jaw literally dropped when he saw them.
All of this racism and antiquing obviously made us hungry so it was time for lunch. I ran into the Bar Louis but still no ATM card appearance. And we decided on the Milford Diner for lunch. Our waitress was wonderful. She had dyed brown hair with white roots piled on top of her head and a face filled with deep wrinkles from smoking. She eyes us cautiously at first but took our order. I was wondering if I wasn't sensing some homophobia until she came over with her drinks while I studied a large map of the Pennsylvania area with antiquing locations mapped out.
"What are you looking for, honey"" she asked in a husky smokers voice.
Oh, nothing in particular. We were thinking of possibly going to New Hope and I was trying to figure out how far it was.
Her eyes lit up. "Oh, I just love New Hope. It's so beautiful. And artsy. I was just there a few weeks ago to visit a friend of mine..." and on and on she went. Asking where we were from and why we were here. She was very kind. By the time she was done questioning us the Loved Ones lunchmeat salad (a chef's salad but c'mon, really, it was slices of lunchmeat and cheese rolled up and plopped on top of iceberg lettuce) and my Greek salad (feta cheese, olives and a side of pita does not a Greek make) were ready. Our waitress left the check on our table and went out to smoke.
We had to finish our lunch quickly because we had a date with some llamas!
24 March, 2009
A Trip (down memory lane): Part 2
I ran out the office door at 6pm like a child running out of class when the final school bell rings at the end of the year. I couldn't get out fast enough. I knew the Loved One would be late but I didn't care. I'd rather wait for him in front of the Port Authority than sit a second longer at my West Elm-purchased, dark brown, faux wood desk.
It was chilly out but the temperature was supposed to go up to the 50s on Saturday and even higher on Sunday.
I stood outside the Port Authority, my hatred for New York City growing with each passing second. I was inhaling more cigarette smoke in twenty minutes than I had in ten years of on-again/off-again smoking. I enjoyed watching the characters come and go. I remembered, as a kid, my dad would park the car here for our day trips. I was terrified. The minute you pulled out of the Lincoln Tunnel you were assaulted by dirty men trying to wash the windows of your car with water dirtier than them. My mother would immediately check to make sure the doors were locked. I would crouch lower in the back seat and raise whatever I was reading to cover my face, my heart pounding. What if they broke into the car? What if they stole me out of the back seat and took me away? What if they made me dirty like them and I had to stand at the base of the Lincoln Tunnel and wash windshields for the rest of my life? Would my parents be able to find me? Save me?
My dad would drive up the long ramp to the dark, shadowed parking lot. He would always park in the space furthest from the elevator and I would clutch my mother's hand as we hastily walked away from the car. The morning rush hour was over by the time we got there so the parking lot was eerily deserted and quiet. Invariably, there was a homeless person slumped in a corner of the waiting area. The smell of piss, shit and dirt hung in the air and I would put my sleeve to my face, my hand rolled into a fist inside hidden away like a turtle and breathe in the scent of the fabric. I hopped up and down, waiting for the elevator to come and hoping that someone would be on it besides us, who wasn't homeless and smelly.
One day we had to take the stairs down and I was on the verge of tears the entire time, certain that someone would jump out and stab my mom and dad, leaving me alone and deserted without a trust fund to live on like Bruce Wayne. I would have to be the one to call my grandparents and tell them what had happened. I'd be an orphan, with a big Italian family. When we got to the bottom of the stairs I made my parents swear that we would never do that again. I was panting from both the exertion and the anxiety of the walk down. I was also anticipating the dreaded walk down 42nd Street with all its porn theatres and sex shops. Scary, ethnic-looking men standing outside calling to us, trying to get us to come in. In many ways, this was the scariest part of the trip that walk down 42nd Street. Because I wanted to know what went on in those stores. I wanted to go into those movie theatre and see what was taking place on the screens. I knew it was dirty and forbidden. And I wanted to be a witness.
This particular Friday in 2009, a New Yorker for some 16 years, I had parked the rental car on the roof of the Port Authority all by myself; waited for the elevator next to a nameless, faceless homeless person, grew tired of waiting for the elevator and took the stairs down. I was a big boy.
The Loved One called at 6:20 to say that he was in a cab and running late. The shady guy next to me left his rolling luggage by my side and went in search of a light for his Newport. He kept walking back and forth in front of me while I was on the phone and I knew he was waiting to ask me if I had one. He looked ghetto thug gay. I kept talking on the phone to no one after the Loved One hung up and waited for him to walk away.
The Loved One arrived and we went to the car. As we were celebrating his birthday, I let him be in charge of music and we happily listened to the new Decemberists cd for the first hour or so of the trip. The Loved One thinks the Decemberists should be the next group of musicians to write a Broadway musical. I'm not as familiar with their stuff as I should be. I tried to listen in the car but I sat in the passenger seat, tightly clutching the Google directions in my hands. I was filled with anxiety. What if we got lost? What if I misread the directions? What if we took a wrong turn? Well...what if, JV? You'd turn around, right? What if the whole weekend was a bust?
Once we were on the road for a little bit and, seemingly, in the right direction, I began to relax. I had been looking forward to this weekend for a long time. I had earned it. I didn't want to think about work or anything related to the city. My only thought about home was, I hope the daffodils in the garden don't bloom while we're away.
The Loved One got a text message when we were about half an hour from the city. It was from his boss. It said something like, 'Have fun. Don't think about work this weekend.' Well, the sentiment is nice but if you don't want him to think about work, boss, don't text him!
We drove and chatted. The Loved One always has so much to say about his job and what's going on with his company and funny little stories about the people he works with. I feel badly because I don't have the same kind of anecdotes to share about my day. I sit at my desk, in relative silence for eight hours. I write here. I work on the play I'm writing. Once in a while, the phone rings. Not for me. Once in a while the Producer and I will share a word or two about some gossip we've heard or a show we've seen. I'll desperately hit the refresh button on Google mail or check Facebook for a message; some sign that someone out there wants to communicate with me. I spend the work day in relative, painful isolation -- counting the hours until 6pm.
We drove into the sunset, the Loved One and I, thrilled that it was after 7 and still light out. We were blessed with open roads and as the scenery began to get more rural, I relaxed into my seat, one foot on the dashboard. Exactly an hour and a half later, we drove into Milford, PA. I breathed a deep sigh out. It was a beautiful town. We passed a lot of Victorian houses, many real estate offices, a great stone building filled with stores and there on our left the beautiful Hotel Fauchere. Grand and white with black shutters, it stood out in its renovated glory; a white beacon in the dark night. We parked our car and hurried in with our bags, hungry and eager to eat something and have a drink at the basement bar, Bar Louis. I could hear the bustle of people in there as we walked by and was relieved that it was busy. The parking lot was full and it seemed like the Delmonico restaurant was also crowded. I had been anxious (again) that we would be the only guests and, while I didn't want to particularly socialize with other guests, I wanted their presence.
We were greeted by a charming Italian woman named Marta. Blonde and robust she asked in that straightforward Italian way, "Which one of you is Mercanti?" That's me, I replied. "Italian?" she asked with the hint of an accent, her blue eyes peering at me questioningly over horn-rimmed glasses. I loved her already. "Yes. Well, Sicilian and Italian." There's a difference, all you non-Italian readers out there. "Hmm. I'm from Venezia. Venice." Ah. I'm Sicial and Abruzzese. "Do you speak Italian?" No. Sorry. This was rewarded with a disapproving glance. I wish I did.
Then with a flourish and a smile she asked, "Did you come from the city?" Yes, New York not Philadelphia. "I would LOVE to live in the city. The past month here was very hard. February. Dark and dreary." It was the same way in the city, I said. "I bet it wasn't," she replied. But it was. Dark and dreary and long. February is always the hardest month of the year.
While we wear having our conversation, the sounds of music and tinkling silverware drifted in from the dining room. The Loved One kept pointing to pieces of furniture in the lobby and mouthing "I want it" to me. I felt my shoulders drop about two inches from my ears. We had made the perfect choice. The Hotel Fauchere was perfect.
"Let me take you to your room," Marta said. We walked past the beautifully restored wooden staircase that led up to the second and third floors. I peered into the Delmonico, tea lights glistening on every table and a fresh cut tulip in a small vase on every table. We stopped at a small elevator that was obviously added when the hotel was renovated. We were whisked quickly up to the third floor. Marta led us to the room. The striped wallpaper, a soft brown and gold, was understated and classy. A beautifully painted landscape hung on the wall over a black lacquered table with a large glass embossed bowl on the bottom shelf. Marta opened the door to our room for the next two nights and wished us well. "Oh, I forgot. You are confirmed for your tour of the llama farm at 2:30 tomorrow. Is that alright?" That's wonderful, I said, my eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Come to the front desk and we will give you directions."
We said goodbye and took it in our surroundings.
The room was small but beautifully appointed. A queen-sized bed with two down comforters folded like sleeping bags lay across the top of the bed. Beautiful, new sconces hung on the wall. A small, antique desk stood in the corner. A large picture window looked down on to the garden. To the left was another window that looked on to the building next door. To the left was a small foyer with a closet, a mirrored wall and the entrance to the bathroom. The bathroom itself is a work of art. Cool, grey-veined marble covers the counter and the walls. The floor is heated from below to keep your feet warm in the cold winter months. The shower is enclosed by a glass door and there are two shower heads pointing down to wash your sins away. The bath towels are hung on heated pipes. This is luxury.
I'm STARVING, I said. Let's go down to Bar Louis.
We locked the door, hopped on the elevator and headed down to the bar. I had read the menu online and was craving the truffle fries I had read so much about. And the minute the elevator doors opened, I could smell them. My stomach grumbled. I needed truffle fries and red wine, as soon as possible.
The Loved One ordered a glass of his favorite, pinot noir. I had a glass of of a red I had never tried before called Mercurey. It was dry and fruity and delicious. For dinner, Loved One had fish and chips and I had a burger, medium rare, and on a whole wheat English muffin. The small piece of bread could barely contain the patty and its juices so I ate most of it with a fork and knife. While we ate, we watched those around us. Some, like us, we obvious guests of the hotel. A couple stood out particularly from being either from Long Island or New Jersey. Her high hair, gold jewelry and their shared apathetic expressions were a dead give away. They sat in front of the brick foundation wall which separated the front bar area from more tables in the back. Two local older guys came in and sat at a high top table, ordering beers. The photograph of Andy Warhol kissing John Lennon loomed over all of us.
Satiated and content, we headed back up to the room. We sank into bed after wrestling with the down comforters and trying to figure out why there were two of them and how to share them. We were both too full to eat the complimentary chocolate from next door's Patisserie Fauchere but it was just one more thing to look forward to in the morning.
I sank into a deep sleep, filled with vivid dreams.
It was chilly out but the temperature was supposed to go up to the 50s on Saturday and even higher on Sunday.
I stood outside the Port Authority, my hatred for New York City growing with each passing second. I was inhaling more cigarette smoke in twenty minutes than I had in ten years of on-again/off-again smoking. I enjoyed watching the characters come and go. I remembered, as a kid, my dad would park the car here for our day trips. I was terrified. The minute you pulled out of the Lincoln Tunnel you were assaulted by dirty men trying to wash the windows of your car with water dirtier than them. My mother would immediately check to make sure the doors were locked. I would crouch lower in the back seat and raise whatever I was reading to cover my face, my heart pounding. What if they broke into the car? What if they stole me out of the back seat and took me away? What if they made me dirty like them and I had to stand at the base of the Lincoln Tunnel and wash windshields for the rest of my life? Would my parents be able to find me? Save me?
My dad would drive up the long ramp to the dark, shadowed parking lot. He would always park in the space furthest from the elevator and I would clutch my mother's hand as we hastily walked away from the car. The morning rush hour was over by the time we got there so the parking lot was eerily deserted and quiet. Invariably, there was a homeless person slumped in a corner of the waiting area. The smell of piss, shit and dirt hung in the air and I would put my sleeve to my face, my hand rolled into a fist inside hidden away like a turtle and breathe in the scent of the fabric. I hopped up and down, waiting for the elevator to come and hoping that someone would be on it besides us, who wasn't homeless and smelly.
One day we had to take the stairs down and I was on the verge of tears the entire time, certain that someone would jump out and stab my mom and dad, leaving me alone and deserted without a trust fund to live on like Bruce Wayne. I would have to be the one to call my grandparents and tell them what had happened. I'd be an orphan, with a big Italian family. When we got to the bottom of the stairs I made my parents swear that we would never do that again. I was panting from both the exertion and the anxiety of the walk down. I was also anticipating the dreaded walk down 42nd Street with all its porn theatres and sex shops. Scary, ethnic-looking men standing outside calling to us, trying to get us to come in. In many ways, this was the scariest part of the trip that walk down 42nd Street. Because I wanted to know what went on in those stores. I wanted to go into those movie theatre and see what was taking place on the screens. I knew it was dirty and forbidden. And I wanted to be a witness.
This particular Friday in 2009, a New Yorker for some 16 years, I had parked the rental car on the roof of the Port Authority all by myself; waited for the elevator next to a nameless, faceless homeless person, grew tired of waiting for the elevator and took the stairs down. I was a big boy.
The Loved One called at 6:20 to say that he was in a cab and running late. The shady guy next to me left his rolling luggage by my side and went in search of a light for his Newport. He kept walking back and forth in front of me while I was on the phone and I knew he was waiting to ask me if I had one. He looked ghetto thug gay. I kept talking on the phone to no one after the Loved One hung up and waited for him to walk away.
The Loved One arrived and we went to the car. As we were celebrating his birthday, I let him be in charge of music and we happily listened to the new Decemberists cd for the first hour or so of the trip. The Loved One thinks the Decemberists should be the next group of musicians to write a Broadway musical. I'm not as familiar with their stuff as I should be. I tried to listen in the car but I sat in the passenger seat, tightly clutching the Google directions in my hands. I was filled with anxiety. What if we got lost? What if I misread the directions? What if we took a wrong turn? Well...what if, JV? You'd turn around, right? What if the whole weekend was a bust?
Once we were on the road for a little bit and, seemingly, in the right direction, I began to relax. I had been looking forward to this weekend for a long time. I had earned it. I didn't want to think about work or anything related to the city. My only thought about home was, I hope the daffodils in the garden don't bloom while we're away.
The Loved One got a text message when we were about half an hour from the city. It was from his boss. It said something like, 'Have fun. Don't think about work this weekend.' Well, the sentiment is nice but if you don't want him to think about work, boss, don't text him!
We drove and chatted. The Loved One always has so much to say about his job and what's going on with his company and funny little stories about the people he works with. I feel badly because I don't have the same kind of anecdotes to share about my day. I sit at my desk, in relative silence for eight hours. I write here. I work on the play I'm writing. Once in a while, the phone rings. Not for me. Once in a while the Producer and I will share a word or two about some gossip we've heard or a show we've seen. I'll desperately hit the refresh button on Google mail or check Facebook for a message; some sign that someone out there wants to communicate with me. I spend the work day in relative, painful isolation -- counting the hours until 6pm.
We drove into the sunset, the Loved One and I, thrilled that it was after 7 and still light out. We were blessed with open roads and as the scenery began to get more rural, I relaxed into my seat, one foot on the dashboard. Exactly an hour and a half later, we drove into Milford, PA. I breathed a deep sigh out. It was a beautiful town. We passed a lot of Victorian houses, many real estate offices, a great stone building filled with stores and there on our left the beautiful Hotel Fauchere. Grand and white with black shutters, it stood out in its renovated glory; a white beacon in the dark night. We parked our car and hurried in with our bags, hungry and eager to eat something and have a drink at the basement bar, Bar Louis. I could hear the bustle of people in there as we walked by and was relieved that it was busy. The parking lot was full and it seemed like the Delmonico restaurant was also crowded. I had been anxious (again) that we would be the only guests and, while I didn't want to particularly socialize with other guests, I wanted their presence.
We were greeted by a charming Italian woman named Marta. Blonde and robust she asked in that straightforward Italian way, "Which one of you is Mercanti?" That's me, I replied. "Italian?" she asked with the hint of an accent, her blue eyes peering at me questioningly over horn-rimmed glasses. I loved her already. "Yes. Well, Sicilian and Italian." There's a difference, all you non-Italian readers out there. "Hmm. I'm from Venezia. Venice." Ah. I'm Sicial and Abruzzese. "Do you speak Italian?" No. Sorry. This was rewarded with a disapproving glance. I wish I did.
Then with a flourish and a smile she asked, "Did you come from the city?" Yes, New York not Philadelphia. "I would LOVE to live in the city. The past month here was very hard. February. Dark and dreary." It was the same way in the city, I said. "I bet it wasn't," she replied. But it was. Dark and dreary and long. February is always the hardest month of the year.
While we wear having our conversation, the sounds of music and tinkling silverware drifted in from the dining room. The Loved One kept pointing to pieces of furniture in the lobby and mouthing "I want it" to me. I felt my shoulders drop about two inches from my ears. We had made the perfect choice. The Hotel Fauchere was perfect.
"Let me take you to your room," Marta said. We walked past the beautifully restored wooden staircase that led up to the second and third floors. I peered into the Delmonico, tea lights glistening on every table and a fresh cut tulip in a small vase on every table. We stopped at a small elevator that was obviously added when the hotel was renovated. We were whisked quickly up to the third floor. Marta led us to the room. The striped wallpaper, a soft brown and gold, was understated and classy. A beautifully painted landscape hung on the wall over a black lacquered table with a large glass embossed bowl on the bottom shelf. Marta opened the door to our room for the next two nights and wished us well. "Oh, I forgot. You are confirmed for your tour of the llama farm at 2:30 tomorrow. Is that alright?" That's wonderful, I said, my eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Come to the front desk and we will give you directions."
We said goodbye and took it in our surroundings.
The room was small but beautifully appointed. A queen-sized bed with two down comforters folded like sleeping bags lay across the top of the bed. Beautiful, new sconces hung on the wall. A small, antique desk stood in the corner. A large picture window looked down on to the garden. To the left was another window that looked on to the building next door. To the left was a small foyer with a closet, a mirrored wall and the entrance to the bathroom. The bathroom itself is a work of art. Cool, grey-veined marble covers the counter and the walls. The floor is heated from below to keep your feet warm in the cold winter months. The shower is enclosed by a glass door and there are two shower heads pointing down to wash your sins away. The bath towels are hung on heated pipes. This is luxury.
I'm STARVING, I said. Let's go down to Bar Louis.
We locked the door, hopped on the elevator and headed down to the bar. I had read the menu online and was craving the truffle fries I had read so much about. And the minute the elevator doors opened, I could smell them. My stomach grumbled. I needed truffle fries and red wine, as soon as possible.
The Loved One ordered a glass of his favorite, pinot noir. I had a glass of of a red I had never tried before called Mercurey. It was dry and fruity and delicious. For dinner, Loved One had fish and chips and I had a burger, medium rare, and on a whole wheat English muffin. The small piece of bread could barely contain the patty and its juices so I ate most of it with a fork and knife. While we ate, we watched those around us. Some, like us, we obvious guests of the hotel. A couple stood out particularly from being either from Long Island or New Jersey. Her high hair, gold jewelry and their shared apathetic expressions were a dead give away. They sat in front of the brick foundation wall which separated the front bar area from more tables in the back. Two local older guys came in and sat at a high top table, ordering beers. The photograph of Andy Warhol kissing John Lennon loomed over all of us.
Satiated and content, we headed back up to the room. We sank into bed after wrestling with the down comforters and trying to figure out why there were two of them and how to share them. We were both too full to eat the complimentary chocolate from next door's Patisserie Fauchere but it was just one more thing to look forward to in the morning.
I sank into a deep sleep, filled with vivid dreams.
23 March, 2009
A Trip (down memory lane): Part 1
The need to escape all things New York, indeed the very island itself, grows stronger and stronger as time passes. There was a time I would laugh in the face of anyone who told me there were other places in the world to live. My one concession was the beautiful, crumbling, haunted city of New Orleans -- one of the few cities in this country I've walked through and felt the power of history in its very bones. But, leave NYC? NEVER!
Until recently. Perhaps, it's a matter of growing older. Perhaps it's a matter of job dissatisfaction. Perhaps it's a matter of wanting something slower, something more my own. Perhaps it's a matter of all of the above. I'm perfectly content now to spend weekends in Greenpoint, making our garden beautiful and cooking dinners and seeing friends, never once setting foot on the crowded, noisy, stinking island off my shore.
The Loved Ones birthday was last week and we usually celebrate occasions like birthdays and anniversaries with trips away, somewhere local. In the past, we've rented a car and headed up to Mt. Tremper, New York the home of Kate's Lazy Meadow. Kate's is a motel run by the infamous Kate Pierson of the B52's. As you can imagine, the motel is just as kooky and eclectic as its owner. Most of the decoration consists of furniture from the 50s and garden gnomes. Yes, garden gnomes. I've taken pictures of many of them. From Kate's, the Loved One and I have taken day trips into Woodstock and Hudson. We've cooked meals in our room. But, it's close to Loved One's home and I felt the need to venture away from familiar territory and someplace, dare I say, a tiny bit classier than Kate's.
After some struggles with the Loved One over the event itself -- he had just helped me configure a budget for myself and thought a taking him away was too much of a financial strain -- I convinced him that this weekend away was as much about me as it was about him. I told him he could rent the car and that seemed to calm the waters.
I thought about places close by to visit. Friends of mine very often drive to New Hope and I thought that might be a very nice, gay friendly place to spend a weekend. As a kid, my parents and I would very often take day trips to New Hope as it was only an hour and a half or so outside of Philly. New Hope was something of an artist's colony but even as a child my keen artistic eye could sense that the American "crafts" and turquoise jewelry displayed in window after window were not, in fact, art. Not compared to the basement of my home. My father, a sculptor for the US Mint, had clay pieces in various stages of completion all over his studio. He had a bust of me he had started when I was nine-years-old and, to this day, remains incomplete. He had various work and personal projects on many an easel.
I remember one day, I came home from school and had nothing much to do so I wandered down into the basement. My father was working on a coin of someone for work, perhaps it was the Statue of Liberty commemorative coin or perhaps it was an Olympic coin. Whatever the case, I decided I was going to help him out and display some of my own creativity. I took a lump of the pasty grey modeling clay and lay it on top of my father's work-in-progress, next to the picture of the original figure.
My father is very precise in his work. He goes through various research books finding images of the subject until he puts together just the right combination of images for the coin. His true artistry lies in the fact that he can see what will look good on the final product, not just in the 12" model he works on initially. My father's work is a marvel of clarity, personality and symmetry. I can always tell what work is his and what is someone else's when I look at a coin. So once he's picked his image or images, he will sketch out various ideas on paper. When he's happy with that, he will transfer the image to tracing paper and then, finally, to another kind of heavier -- almost plastic paper -- this, he lays on top of the clay so he can look at it as he's creating to make his model cohesive.
I, being nine or ten years old (and still today, a little), knew nothing about the complexities of this project. Instead, I threw a lump of clay on dad's image, took one of his tools and started sculpting away. I thought maybe if I got a lot done, dad could play games with me. Well, my intentions were good. The outcome was not. And, boy, did I catch it. It was, as I recall, a leather belt on the behind moment. Of course, I proceeded it with a string of denials, desperately trying to convince my father that I wasn't the one who perpetrated the crime.
I was a notorious liar as a child. I was curious and smart and inventive and precocious. But I was a liar. I don't know where I picked up this particular bad habit. Perhaps I so wanted to get lost in the fictional words I read about and created that the strains of reality were too much for me to handle. But lying always made it worse. And it took me a long time to learn that lesson.
So as I cried, standing in front of the portrait of whomever, steadfast in my denial, I knew that the leather belt would soon be connecting with my bare backside. As my father's hand, strong and rough, clasped around my tiny wrist and pulled me up the stairs to my bedroom, I cried a string of "no's." My mother hovered over a pot in the kitchen, unable to look. She had tried to get me to confess, to no avail and she knew the consequences of my actions. My brother, seven years older than me, looked up briefly from the television and his schoolbooks, shook his head and then went back to work.
Up another flight of stairs and into the bedroom. Pants down and "thwack." Two or three were usually more than my father could handle and I'm sure this is a case of it hurt him more than it hurt me. And I didn't stop lying.
So...hello, non sequitur, back to New Hope.
My dear friends GandA have talked with Joe and I about a day in New Hope. I have fond memories of the town: good food, a nice used book store, a fantastic ice cream parlor that mixes flavors for you, art galleries and lots of movie memorabilia. A trip to New Hope always meant something new item to fuel my Marilyn Monroe obsession (more on that some other time, perhaps). New Hope also has one of my favorite stores in the world, the NYC outpost of which has just closed, Love Saves the Day; the only place where one could buy a vintage wedding dress, an old photoplay magazine and a Han Solo frozen in carbonite figure in one stop.
After extensive online research (meaning I typed "New Hope + PA + gay-friendly bed and breakfasts" into the search engine), I came across a B&B called the Hotel Fauchere in Milford, PA. I had never heard of either the hotel or the town but after reading about both, and seeing the pictures, it seemed right somehow. I sent an email to them asking if they were available and if they were gay-friendly. I hate that it's necessary to ask, but I find it's better to do so then not to. You don't want to show up to some podunk town in the middle of nowhere to find that the only gay people were the happy ones in the 20s and 30s.
The emailed me back almost immediately saying "yes" to both questions. I added it to the list of possibilities and continued my search for other options. Google provided me with lots of research.
About an hour or so later I received another email from the Fauchere, this time from Sean Strub, the president of the hotel and its various outposts around town. He provided me with links to a LOGO review of the facilities as well as an Out Traveler review. He gave me a gay-overview of Milford and its surroundings.
Now, the Loved One and I aren't the kind of gays who want to hit the local bar, pick up a third and come back to the hotel afterwards for a wild night. But, I want to feel comfortable holding his hand at dinner or at the bar, or with his arm on my back as we walk through a store. Mr. Strub's email assured me we would feel more than welcome. So, great. I added another check next to it on my list and emailed Sean to ask if there were other things to do in the New Hope area.
He emailed back, almost immediately, to say that the town of Milford was in fact not that close to New Hope (some two miles away) but that the town was filled with antique stores, a bookstore, famous waterfalls, cafes and such. The Loved One and I love to spend the bulk of our expendable incomes on people's old shit. Not really. But we sure like to look at it. Sean's email was filled with so much excitement and love of the town and his establishment (and I had been such a pain in the ass with questions) that I booked immediately.
I was also intrigued by his offer to set us up on a tour of his business partner's llama farm. What the fuck is a llama farm?
I was going to keep the location a secret from the Loved One but I was so excited about it, I told him the very night I booked it. New adventures awaited!
Until recently. Perhaps, it's a matter of growing older. Perhaps it's a matter of job dissatisfaction. Perhaps it's a matter of wanting something slower, something more my own. Perhaps it's a matter of all of the above. I'm perfectly content now to spend weekends in Greenpoint, making our garden beautiful and cooking dinners and seeing friends, never once setting foot on the crowded, noisy, stinking island off my shore.
The Loved Ones birthday was last week and we usually celebrate occasions like birthdays and anniversaries with trips away, somewhere local. In the past, we've rented a car and headed up to Mt. Tremper, New York the home of Kate's Lazy Meadow. Kate's is a motel run by the infamous Kate Pierson of the B52's. As you can imagine, the motel is just as kooky and eclectic as its owner. Most of the decoration consists of furniture from the 50s and garden gnomes. Yes, garden gnomes. I've taken pictures of many of them. From Kate's, the Loved One and I have taken day trips into Woodstock and Hudson. We've cooked meals in our room. But, it's close to Loved One's home and I felt the need to venture away from familiar territory and someplace, dare I say, a tiny bit classier than Kate's.
After some struggles with the Loved One over the event itself -- he had just helped me configure a budget for myself and thought a taking him away was too much of a financial strain -- I convinced him that this weekend away was as much about me as it was about him. I told him he could rent the car and that seemed to calm the waters.
I thought about places close by to visit. Friends of mine very often drive to New Hope and I thought that might be a very nice, gay friendly place to spend a weekend. As a kid, my parents and I would very often take day trips to New Hope as it was only an hour and a half or so outside of Philly. New Hope was something of an artist's colony but even as a child my keen artistic eye could sense that the American "crafts" and turquoise jewelry displayed in window after window were not, in fact, art. Not compared to the basement of my home. My father, a sculptor for the US Mint, had clay pieces in various stages of completion all over his studio. He had a bust of me he had started when I was nine-years-old and, to this day, remains incomplete. He had various work and personal projects on many an easel.
I remember one day, I came home from school and had nothing much to do so I wandered down into the basement. My father was working on a coin of someone for work, perhaps it was the Statue of Liberty commemorative coin or perhaps it was an Olympic coin. Whatever the case, I decided I was going to help him out and display some of my own creativity. I took a lump of the pasty grey modeling clay and lay it on top of my father's work-in-progress, next to the picture of the original figure.
My father is very precise in his work. He goes through various research books finding images of the subject until he puts together just the right combination of images for the coin. His true artistry lies in the fact that he can see what will look good on the final product, not just in the 12" model he works on initially. My father's work is a marvel of clarity, personality and symmetry. I can always tell what work is his and what is someone else's when I look at a coin. So once he's picked his image or images, he will sketch out various ideas on paper. When he's happy with that, he will transfer the image to tracing paper and then, finally, to another kind of heavier -- almost plastic paper -- this, he lays on top of the clay so he can look at it as he's creating to make his model cohesive.
I, being nine or ten years old (and still today, a little), knew nothing about the complexities of this project. Instead, I threw a lump of clay on dad's image, took one of his tools and started sculpting away. I thought maybe if I got a lot done, dad could play games with me. Well, my intentions were good. The outcome was not. And, boy, did I catch it. It was, as I recall, a leather belt on the behind moment. Of course, I proceeded it with a string of denials, desperately trying to convince my father that I wasn't the one who perpetrated the crime.
I was a notorious liar as a child. I was curious and smart and inventive and precocious. But I was a liar. I don't know where I picked up this particular bad habit. Perhaps I so wanted to get lost in the fictional words I read about and created that the strains of reality were too much for me to handle. But lying always made it worse. And it took me a long time to learn that lesson.
So as I cried, standing in front of the portrait of whomever, steadfast in my denial, I knew that the leather belt would soon be connecting with my bare backside. As my father's hand, strong and rough, clasped around my tiny wrist and pulled me up the stairs to my bedroom, I cried a string of "no's." My mother hovered over a pot in the kitchen, unable to look. She had tried to get me to confess, to no avail and she knew the consequences of my actions. My brother, seven years older than me, looked up briefly from the television and his schoolbooks, shook his head and then went back to work.
Up another flight of stairs and into the bedroom. Pants down and "thwack." Two or three were usually more than my father could handle and I'm sure this is a case of it hurt him more than it hurt me. And I didn't stop lying.
So...hello, non sequitur, back to New Hope.
My dear friends GandA have talked with Joe and I about a day in New Hope. I have fond memories of the town: good food, a nice used book store, a fantastic ice cream parlor that mixes flavors for you, art galleries and lots of movie memorabilia. A trip to New Hope always meant something new item to fuel my Marilyn Monroe obsession (more on that some other time, perhaps). New Hope also has one of my favorite stores in the world, the NYC outpost of which has just closed, Love Saves the Day; the only place where one could buy a vintage wedding dress, an old photoplay magazine and a Han Solo frozen in carbonite figure in one stop.
After extensive online research (meaning I typed "New Hope + PA + gay-friendly bed and breakfasts" into the search engine), I came across a B&B called the Hotel Fauchere in Milford, PA. I had never heard of either the hotel or the town but after reading about both, and seeing the pictures, it seemed right somehow. I sent an email to them asking if they were available and if they were gay-friendly. I hate that it's necessary to ask, but I find it's better to do so then not to. You don't want to show up to some podunk town in the middle of nowhere to find that the only gay people were the happy ones in the 20s and 30s.
The emailed me back almost immediately saying "yes" to both questions. I added it to the list of possibilities and continued my search for other options. Google provided me with lots of research.
About an hour or so later I received another email from the Fauchere, this time from Sean Strub, the president of the hotel and its various outposts around town. He provided me with links to a LOGO review of the facilities as well as an Out Traveler review. He gave me a gay-overview of Milford and its surroundings.
Now, the Loved One and I aren't the kind of gays who want to hit the local bar, pick up a third and come back to the hotel afterwards for a wild night. But, I want to feel comfortable holding his hand at dinner or at the bar, or with his arm on my back as we walk through a store. Mr. Strub's email assured me we would feel more than welcome. So, great. I added another check next to it on my list and emailed Sean to ask if there were other things to do in the New Hope area.
He emailed back, almost immediately, to say that the town of Milford was in fact not that close to New Hope (some two miles away) but that the town was filled with antique stores, a bookstore, famous waterfalls, cafes and such. The Loved One and I love to spend the bulk of our expendable incomes on people's old shit. Not really. But we sure like to look at it. Sean's email was filled with so much excitement and love of the town and his establishment (and I had been such a pain in the ass with questions) that I booked immediately.
I was also intrigued by his offer to set us up on a tour of his business partner's llama farm. What the fuck is a llama farm?
I was going to keep the location a secret from the Loved One but I was so excited about it, I told him the very night I booked it. New adventures awaited!
20 March, 2009
Lesbionic Tendencies
Music has always gotten me through...well, all time. But especially bad. And I regress to high school and a love for the Indigo Girls. As many as my friends point out, my taste in music veers toward "lesbian" and I'm ok with that. I prefer the sound of a female singing voice to a man's. Just the way it is. And as I lie in my bed, night after night, with the door shut and my ipod buds in my ear I listed to two songs over and over again to...I don't know...dull the pain? Alleviate the pain? Encourage the pain?
The first was 'Hope Alone' written by Emily Saliers of the Indigo Girls. It goes something like this:
Let's not drag this out
Everything's in motion
Although I've only ever loved you kind
And with devotion
Remember when I met you
You were leaving from the start
I thought one day you'd probably just come home
And break my heart
It's funny what you know
And still go on pretending
With no good evidence
You'll ever see that happy ending
You were looking for your distance
And sensing my resistance
You had to do your will
I had to learn the hard way
We were just an empty dream too big
For hope alone to fill
I know I'm a dreamer
So I'll give you that
Still I hope I'm more than just a place you laid your hat
You're a land of secrets
Its only citizen
And though I paid my dues
I was never allowed in
And so I am a stranger
Especially today
Cause I get sad and lonely
And you get your way
You were looking for your distance
And sensing my resistance
You had to do your will
I had to learn the hard way
That we were just an empty dream too big
For hope alone to fill
Holding on for change I know
We never stood a chance
So I could only wait
And watch you slip right through my hands
You were always looking for your distance
And sensing my resistance
You had to do your will
I had to learn the hard way
We were just an empty dream too big]
I found this most fitting. No?
The other song was, of course, an Alanis Morissette song. I didn't really discover Alanis in the 90s. Her anger on the Jagged Little Pill album scared me then. It wasn't until Present Ex and I broke up the first time that I learned to appreciate her though the release of the Alanis: Unplugged cd. And then I became a full-force Alanis junkie. It was also at this time that Alanis was performing off-Broadway in The Vagina Monologues. It was a fairly emotional time for me (as opposed to all those unemotional times I experience in life?) and I decided to go. I also decided to call the director, Joe Mantello, and ask him to get me back afterwards to meet her. Which he did. And I did. And I was a blathering idiot. Not really, probably, but in my head I was. I still don't know how to say to an artist whose work you appreciate, Your music has gotten me through a lot. It sounds so cliched. But I told her I was a fan. And she was very sweet and had a wonderful aura about her and just seemed to be having fun. I appreciated it and her.
The Alanis song"Simple Together" was on a little heard cd called Feast on Scraps that consisted of tracks she didn't put on the Under Rug Swept album. I like this cd better than it's predecessor. But I'm always a bigger fan of the underdog.
Youve been my golden best friend
Now with post-demise at hand
Cant go to you for consolation
Cause were off limits during this transition
This grief overwhelms me
It burns in my stomach
And I cant stop bumping into things
I thought we'd be simple together
I thought we'd be happy together
Thought we'd be limitless together
I thought we'd be precious together
But I was sadly mistaken
You've been my soulmate and mentor
I remembered you the moment I met you
With you I knew gods face was handsome
With you I suffered an expansion
This loss is numbing me
It pierces my chest
And I cant stop dropping everything
I thought we'd be sexy together
Thought we'd be evolving together
I thought we'd have children together
I thought we'd be family together
But I was sadly mistaken
If I had a bill for all the philosophies I shared
If I had a penny for all the possibilities I presented
If I had a dime for every hand thrown up in the air
My wealth would render this no less severe
I thought we'd be genius together
I thought we'd be healing together
I thought we'd be growing together
Thought we'd be adventurous together
But I was sadly mistaken
Thought we'd be exploring together
Thought we'd be inspired together
I thought we'd be flying together
Thought we'd be on fire together
But I was sadly mistaken
So I was lying in bed, feeling bad for myself a lot. But with the help of Wellbutrin, therapy, friends and lesbian music I was certain that one day my heart and mind would mend. Eventually.
On one of these warm June nights, a thunderstorm rolled in and as I lay there, watching the lightning bolts and feeling the thunder shake the building I was transported back in my mind to my first summer spent in NYC.
It was the summer between my junior and senior years at NYU. I was taking a class entitled Creating Theatre With Young People through the Department of Educational Theatre. In this three or four week intensive, we had high school kids from all five boroughs under our care and the aim was to devise a completely original piece of theatre written and performed by them. It was a crazy time. The oldest of these kids was 18 and I was barely 20. How was I supposed to be a "leader"? Uncertain as I was on my feet at that time, I had a great time and bonding with those "kids" was a very special experience for me.
Anyway, I was living with my friend Maura and her mother at their apartment on Bleecker Street. Maura's mom worked at NYU and this large apartment is the building that they all grew up in. Maura and I had met doing Spring Awakening and had become fast friends and I was thrilled at being offered a free place to stay for a few weeks.
Now, when I say they grew up in this apartment, I also mean that they never threw anything away. The walls were filled with bookshelves stacked two to three deep. Papers covered the dining room table and pretty much any available space in the living room and dining room. A poor old dog named Cinnamon -- half-blind, partially deaf and matted beyond repair -- staggered aimlessly through the hallways. Two cats, Huckleberry and...I can't recall pounced on every surface. And another cat that Maura's sister had "rescued" and then left in the apartment had taken refuge in the radiator in a bedroom for fear of the other animals.
The apartment was on the 13th floor of the NYU building that has the giant stone Picasso statue in front of it, right off of Bleecker and LaGuardia. There's a big grassy plaza in front of the building and a cobblestone driveway and lots of seating in front of the building, and a playground and smaller plaza in the back. Maura ran down the hall from apartment 13A to greet me with a high pitched "JOHN-VINCENT" and threw her arms around me. She was wearing overalls and had violet paint on them and her nose. "I've been painting."
I can see that, I replied. She introduced me to her mother and I was a bit taken aback. She wasn't what I was expecting knowing Maura as well as I did. Mom, as I fondly came to call her, was perched in her armchair, her feet up, cane by her side and had a very regal aura about her despite the ordinary nature of her appearance. Something clouded her eyes on that first meeting, a steely glance that scared me a little bit. In retrospect, I realize that it was the cool gaze of a nurse sizing up a patient, trying to decide how close she could allow herself to get to this creature who would be in her space for some time. By the end of my stay, we would sit in the living room and watch Jeopardy almost every night, the sun setting behind New Jersey outside the huge picture window.
My first night there I awoke at about 4 in the morning to the cat, Huckleberry, asleep and completely spread out across my face. I am severely allergic to cats. It took a few hours for the swelling of my eyes to go down and for me to get all of the crust out. After three weeks, my allergies no longer bothered me all that much. I didn't have a choice.
One night, about 1am or so, the door burst open and through it came Maura. "John-Vincent," she whispered. "Are you awake?" I was in that foggy plane somewhere between sleep and awake, listening to the thunderstorm outside. It sounded so beautiful and it was lulling me to sleep.
No, I'm awake. Where were you?
"Jones Beach. My friends and I went to a Sarah McLachlan concert."
Cool.
"Get up. I want you to come downstairs."
What? Why?
"It's beautiful. Let's dance in the rain."
Ok. And I pushed myself out of bed, threw on some shorts and a dirty t-shirt and barefoot, plodded down the hallway after Maura. She was talking about the concert and some song called "Chocolate" which was, apparently, the only "happy" song Sarah McLachlan had ever written and how the crowd went wild when they heard it.
The elevator quickly went down the 13 floor, uninterrupted. The doorman gave us a curious look as we made our way through the lobby and out the doors. The warm air hit me immediately and it felt nice. Maura plunged into across the cobblestones and into the grass and I, hesitated a second. Then I leaned out and felt the touch of a cool raindrop on my face. It was cool and refreshing and beautiful. I dashed out to meet her and we danced to the music the rain made around a statue by Picasso.
The building shook and I was awoken from my memory. I wasn't dancing in the rain. I was in Williamsburg, in my bed, and I was a grown up and I had a broken heart.
The first was 'Hope Alone' written by Emily Saliers of the Indigo Girls. It goes something like this:
Let's not drag this out
Everything's in motion
Although I've only ever loved you kind
And with devotion
Remember when I met you
You were leaving from the start
I thought one day you'd probably just come home
And break my heart
It's funny what you know
And still go on pretending
With no good evidence
You'll ever see that happy ending
You were looking for your distance
And sensing my resistance
You had to do your will
I had to learn the hard way
We were just an empty dream too big
For hope alone to fill
I know I'm a dreamer
So I'll give you that
Still I hope I'm more than just a place you laid your hat
You're a land of secrets
Its only citizen
And though I paid my dues
I was never allowed in
And so I am a stranger
Especially today
Cause I get sad and lonely
And you get your way
You were looking for your distance
And sensing my resistance
You had to do your will
I had to learn the hard way
That we were just an empty dream too big
For hope alone to fill
Holding on for change I know
We never stood a chance
So I could only wait
And watch you slip right through my hands
You were always looking for your distance
And sensing my resistance
You had to do your will
I had to learn the hard way
We were just an empty dream too big]
I found this most fitting. No?
The other song was, of course, an Alanis Morissette song. I didn't really discover Alanis in the 90s. Her anger on the Jagged Little Pill album scared me then. It wasn't until Present Ex and I broke up the first time that I learned to appreciate her though the release of the Alanis: Unplugged cd. And then I became a full-force Alanis junkie. It was also at this time that Alanis was performing off-Broadway in The Vagina Monologues. It was a fairly emotional time for me (as opposed to all those unemotional times I experience in life?) and I decided to go. I also decided to call the director, Joe Mantello, and ask him to get me back afterwards to meet her. Which he did. And I did. And I was a blathering idiot. Not really, probably, but in my head I was. I still don't know how to say to an artist whose work you appreciate, Your music has gotten me through a lot. It sounds so cliched. But I told her I was a fan. And she was very sweet and had a wonderful aura about her and just seemed to be having fun. I appreciated it and her.
The Alanis song"Simple Together" was on a little heard cd called Feast on Scraps that consisted of tracks she didn't put on the Under Rug Swept album. I like this cd better than it's predecessor. But I'm always a bigger fan of the underdog.
Youve been my golden best friend
Now with post-demise at hand
Cant go to you for consolation
Cause were off limits during this transition
This grief overwhelms me
It burns in my stomach
And I cant stop bumping into things
I thought we'd be simple together
I thought we'd be happy together
Thought we'd be limitless together
I thought we'd be precious together
But I was sadly mistaken
You've been my soulmate and mentor
I remembered you the moment I met you
With you I knew gods face was handsome
With you I suffered an expansion
This loss is numbing me
It pierces my chest
And I cant stop dropping everything
I thought we'd be sexy together
Thought we'd be evolving together
I thought we'd have children together
I thought we'd be family together
But I was sadly mistaken
If I had a bill for all the philosophies I shared
If I had a penny for all the possibilities I presented
If I had a dime for every hand thrown up in the air
My wealth would render this no less severe
I thought we'd be genius together
I thought we'd be healing together
I thought we'd be growing together
Thought we'd be adventurous together
But I was sadly mistaken
Thought we'd be exploring together
Thought we'd be inspired together
I thought we'd be flying together
Thought we'd be on fire together
But I was sadly mistaken
So I was lying in bed, feeling bad for myself a lot. But with the help of Wellbutrin, therapy, friends and lesbian music I was certain that one day my heart and mind would mend. Eventually.
On one of these warm June nights, a thunderstorm rolled in and as I lay there, watching the lightning bolts and feeling the thunder shake the building I was transported back in my mind to my first summer spent in NYC.
It was the summer between my junior and senior years at NYU. I was taking a class entitled Creating Theatre With Young People through the Department of Educational Theatre. In this three or four week intensive, we had high school kids from all five boroughs under our care and the aim was to devise a completely original piece of theatre written and performed by them. It was a crazy time. The oldest of these kids was 18 and I was barely 20. How was I supposed to be a "leader"? Uncertain as I was on my feet at that time, I had a great time and bonding with those "kids" was a very special experience for me.
Anyway, I was living with my friend Maura and her mother at their apartment on Bleecker Street. Maura's mom worked at NYU and this large apartment is the building that they all grew up in. Maura and I had met doing Spring Awakening and had become fast friends and I was thrilled at being offered a free place to stay for a few weeks.
Now, when I say they grew up in this apartment, I also mean that they never threw anything away. The walls were filled with bookshelves stacked two to three deep. Papers covered the dining room table and pretty much any available space in the living room and dining room. A poor old dog named Cinnamon -- half-blind, partially deaf and matted beyond repair -- staggered aimlessly through the hallways. Two cats, Huckleberry and...I can't recall pounced on every surface. And another cat that Maura's sister had "rescued" and then left in the apartment had taken refuge in the radiator in a bedroom for fear of the other animals.
The apartment was on the 13th floor of the NYU building that has the giant stone Picasso statue in front of it, right off of Bleecker and LaGuardia. There's a big grassy plaza in front of the building and a cobblestone driveway and lots of seating in front of the building, and a playground and smaller plaza in the back. Maura ran down the hall from apartment 13A to greet me with a high pitched "JOHN-VINCENT" and threw her arms around me. She was wearing overalls and had violet paint on them and her nose. "I've been painting."
I can see that, I replied. She introduced me to her mother and I was a bit taken aback. She wasn't what I was expecting knowing Maura as well as I did. Mom, as I fondly came to call her, was perched in her armchair, her feet up, cane by her side and had a very regal aura about her despite the ordinary nature of her appearance. Something clouded her eyes on that first meeting, a steely glance that scared me a little bit. In retrospect, I realize that it was the cool gaze of a nurse sizing up a patient, trying to decide how close she could allow herself to get to this creature who would be in her space for some time. By the end of my stay, we would sit in the living room and watch Jeopardy almost every night, the sun setting behind New Jersey outside the huge picture window.
My first night there I awoke at about 4 in the morning to the cat, Huckleberry, asleep and completely spread out across my face. I am severely allergic to cats. It took a few hours for the swelling of my eyes to go down and for me to get all of the crust out. After three weeks, my allergies no longer bothered me all that much. I didn't have a choice.
One night, about 1am or so, the door burst open and through it came Maura. "John-Vincent," she whispered. "Are you awake?" I was in that foggy plane somewhere between sleep and awake, listening to the thunderstorm outside. It sounded so beautiful and it was lulling me to sleep.
No, I'm awake. Where were you?
"Jones Beach. My friends and I went to a Sarah McLachlan concert."
Cool.
"Get up. I want you to come downstairs."
What? Why?
"It's beautiful. Let's dance in the rain."
Ok. And I pushed myself out of bed, threw on some shorts and a dirty t-shirt and barefoot, plodded down the hallway after Maura. She was talking about the concert and some song called "Chocolate" which was, apparently, the only "happy" song Sarah McLachlan had ever written and how the crowd went wild when they heard it.
The elevator quickly went down the 13 floor, uninterrupted. The doorman gave us a curious look as we made our way through the lobby and out the doors. The warm air hit me immediately and it felt nice. Maura plunged into across the cobblestones and into the grass and I, hesitated a second. Then I leaned out and felt the touch of a cool raindrop on my face. It was cool and refreshing and beautiful. I dashed out to meet her and we danced to the music the rain made around a statue by Picasso.
The building shook and I was awoken from my memory. I wasn't dancing in the rain. I was in Williamsburg, in my bed, and I was a grown up and I had a broken heart.
18 March, 2009
Limbo
I spent the next day in the Producer's office furiously flipping through the Oxford Healthcare book and calling therapists. Some had no times available. Some only had times available in the middle of the day, which was useless to me. One had no times available but referred me to someone else who called me back and could make it work. As I was leaving for Philly in a day for the funeral, she also agreed to see me immediately for a "briefing" before I left.
I needed to figure things out. I needed to understand why I felt responsible for the break-up. Why he left me. Why I wasn't good enough. Or smart enough. Or attractive enough. Or open or honest enough. And maybe, ultimately, why I blamed myself for everything.
But I wasn't there yet.
I wasn't sleeping much, about four to five hours a night. I'd get up and make coffee. Then head in to the gym. I'd write long passages in my journal trying to track the journey our demise. Hindsight is, as always, 20/20 but I was still in the midst of it. I would run for an hour on the treadmill and get lost in the feeling of my feet hitting the moving rubber. I started smoking again. I drank more coffee. And I walked. I walked all over Brooklyn and the island. I crossed the bridge sometimes twice in one day. I would stop in the middle and stare down at the water, at the boats passing by. I would feel the air of the bike riders speed by me.
It seems I felt everything all of a sudden instead of the dull numbness I was accustomed to in situations such as these. And I found comfort in the ground, in the stability of the earth beneath my feet, in the rhythm of the walking, in seeing other people out and about, living their lives. I took comfort in these strangers and I dreaded a trip to Philly to deal with death. But I had to. Present Ex needed me. And his mother was very dear to me.
I took the train in and readied myself for a few days of running from one place to another, saying "I'm sorry" and hand-holding. I had forewarned Mom and Dad about the break-up and that I wasn't handling it well. My first appointment with the Therapist had gone well and I said that I needed to go back on Wellbutrin. She said we'd talk about it next session.
Present Ex was in better shape than I had expected. I didn't mention the break-up as I knew he had other, bigger things to deal with. I just said, Tell me where you need me. Most arrangements had been finished by the time I got there. He went back to his sister's house and I went back to my parents house.
I was sitting on the stairs, taking off my shoes, when I just stopped. I had been moving for so long, in so many different ways, that it all caught up with me and I got overwhelmed. I didn't cry. I just sat there -- one shoe on, the other off -- staring in front of me. My mom walked in to hang up her coat in the hallway closet, saw me and said, "Oh, get over it." Hung up her coat and walked away.
This was uncharacteristically harsh of my mother, usually a pillar of care, warmth and comfort who would take any excuse to put her arms around me. This was a side of her I had never seen. It was her mother reincarnate. It was like a slap in the face. She wasn't wrong. I did need to get over it. I just wasn't sure how to do it yet.
I wasn't anywhere yet. This was limbo.
I needed to figure things out. I needed to understand why I felt responsible for the break-up. Why he left me. Why I wasn't good enough. Or smart enough. Or attractive enough. Or open or honest enough. And maybe, ultimately, why I blamed myself for everything.
But I wasn't there yet.
I wasn't sleeping much, about four to five hours a night. I'd get up and make coffee. Then head in to the gym. I'd write long passages in my journal trying to track the journey our demise. Hindsight is, as always, 20/20 but I was still in the midst of it. I would run for an hour on the treadmill and get lost in the feeling of my feet hitting the moving rubber. I started smoking again. I drank more coffee. And I walked. I walked all over Brooklyn and the island. I crossed the bridge sometimes twice in one day. I would stop in the middle and stare down at the water, at the boats passing by. I would feel the air of the bike riders speed by me.
It seems I felt everything all of a sudden instead of the dull numbness I was accustomed to in situations such as these. And I found comfort in the ground, in the stability of the earth beneath my feet, in the rhythm of the walking, in seeing other people out and about, living their lives. I took comfort in these strangers and I dreaded a trip to Philly to deal with death. But I had to. Present Ex needed me. And his mother was very dear to me.
I took the train in and readied myself for a few days of running from one place to another, saying "I'm sorry" and hand-holding. I had forewarned Mom and Dad about the break-up and that I wasn't handling it well. My first appointment with the Therapist had gone well and I said that I needed to go back on Wellbutrin. She said we'd talk about it next session.
Present Ex was in better shape than I had expected. I didn't mention the break-up as I knew he had other, bigger things to deal with. I just said, Tell me where you need me. Most arrangements had been finished by the time I got there. He went back to his sister's house and I went back to my parents house.
I was sitting on the stairs, taking off my shoes, when I just stopped. I had been moving for so long, in so many different ways, that it all caught up with me and I got overwhelmed. I didn't cry. I just sat there -- one shoe on, the other off -- staring in front of me. My mom walked in to hang up her coat in the hallway closet, saw me and said, "Oh, get over it." Hung up her coat and walked away.
This was uncharacteristically harsh of my mother, usually a pillar of care, warmth and comfort who would take any excuse to put her arms around me. This was a side of her I had never seen. It was her mother reincarnate. It was like a slap in the face. She wasn't wrong. I did need to get over it. I just wasn't sure how to do it yet.
I wasn't anywhere yet. This was limbo.
17 March, 2009
Out of Amber
If you asked me now, I would tell you that the next few days...no, the next few weeks felt like they were covered in amber.
The amber street light outside my bedroom window. The amber street lights around my block where I walked Ripley. The amber lights of the Williamsburg Bridge where I often found myself walking late at night. I was a fly trapped in amber.
The night after the Mormon ended it, I was lying in bed staring blankly at the ceiling. I wasn't moving. I wasn't thinking. I wasn't doing anything. I was staring.
The phone rang and I pushed myself over to look at the caller ID. I was still hoping it would be the Mormon. It was Present Ex. I hadn't told him. I hadn't told him much about the Mormon except that it was serious. I wasn't in the mood to talk about it and at the same time I wanted nothing more than to talk about it. But we were still on tenuous ground when it came to talking about dating and such, Present Ex and I.
I answered, Hello?
There was a lot of street noise and a sound I couldn't make out. I said his name.
"J? J?"
I'm here.
"She's dead." And I realized the sound I heard was the sound of Present Ex crying. He exploded in another round of violent sobs.
What? What? Who's dead?
"My mother. My mother's fucking dead."
And the world started to move again. I had to make my way out of the amber and in to the light. But it wasn't going to be easy.
The amber street light outside my bedroom window. The amber street lights around my block where I walked Ripley. The amber lights of the Williamsburg Bridge where I often found myself walking late at night. I was a fly trapped in amber.
The night after the Mormon ended it, I was lying in bed staring blankly at the ceiling. I wasn't moving. I wasn't thinking. I wasn't doing anything. I was staring.
The phone rang and I pushed myself over to look at the caller ID. I was still hoping it would be the Mormon. It was Present Ex. I hadn't told him. I hadn't told him much about the Mormon except that it was serious. I wasn't in the mood to talk about it and at the same time I wanted nothing more than to talk about it. But we were still on tenuous ground when it came to talking about dating and such, Present Ex and I.
I answered, Hello?
There was a lot of street noise and a sound I couldn't make out. I said his name.
"J? J?"
I'm here.
"She's dead." And I realized the sound I heard was the sound of Present Ex crying. He exploded in another round of violent sobs.
What? What? Who's dead?
"My mother. My mother's fucking dead."
And the world started to move again. I had to make my way out of the amber and in to the light. But it wasn't going to be easy.
16 March, 2009
Locked Out
I had to go back to the old apartment on Grand Street. The roommate and I had left some miscellaneous items there and I also wanted to sweep the place out and leave it in some kind of order.
It was a hot June evening. Hot for New York in June. I had broken a sweat just walking from the new apartment to the old. I wanted to complete this task as quickly as possible. The Mormon and I were meeting later that night and it had been too long since we had last seen each other at the X-Men. I thought maybe things were about to take a change for the better.
As I climbed the stairs to the old apartment, I remembered a dream I had right after we were robbed. I walked into the bathroom at night because I had heard a sound. I slowly opened the bathroom door and the medicine cabinet was open. I looked in and the cabinet itself had been removed and it opened up to another apartment from which the robbers had come in and out of our apartment, stealing our things. I peered in and saw someone move off in the corner and I jumped back and slammed the door, terrified. I stumbled back in to my bedroom and watched the medicine cabinet door open and strange masked men with long, lanky legs and arms climb out one by one. I woke up.
Yes, I was free of this place finally. A quick sweep and gather the remaining stuff and then I was gone. I went down the hallway to our apartment, the hallway that shrouded whomever it was that had come in and out in the middle of the day, and put my key into the lock. It wouldn't go in. Strange. I tried the bottom lock. The same problem. Had the locks been changed already? We still had the lease for another few days as there was an overlap. We didn't tell the landlords we had moved out two weeks early. I looked at the door. There were scratches and dents around the lock. Interesting. Then I peered into the key holes. Ah, yes. There in our reinforced MUL-T-LOCK lock was a broken key.
After the last break-in, we had paid to put in those $500 locks that no one can get through. And this is why. The super who had so easily come in and out of our apartment so many times before had now broken off both his keys inside both locks. I felt a strange feeling of calm wash over me. I was also thrilled that the landlords, who wanted nothing to do with the break-in and failed to take any responsibility, would now have to pay a locksmith or someone a shit load of money to take the door off the hinges to get in to the apartment and even more money for new locks.
And I didn't have to sweep.
So I sent the Mormon a text that I would be available earlier. Just wanted to run home and shower. He said he would pick me up. Weird. When did he fix the problem with his license? Where were we going?
When the doorbell rang, I ran down the stairs. I hadn't planned on it but I was dressed entirely in white. White t-shirt, white shorts, white socks and white sneakers. I threw the door open and threw my arms around him. He slowly unwrapped himself from me and looked me over.
"You look so...pure."
Thanks. I guess. I laughed and asked where we were going.
"Fortunato's for some gelato?"
Perfect.
As we sat in the car I rambled on about the door and the locks and the wasted time. I talked about the new apartment and how our landlord had started taking Ripley during the day into their office to play with Ruby and would leave hysterical cartoons on post-it notes on our door illustrating what mischief they had gotten into during the day.
The Mormon was silent, listening. We found a parking spot easily and went in and ordered our gelato. I always got the same: a scoop of cafe and a scoop of ciacalatto. Delicious and just right for this hot night. The sun was still out and it was a perfect evening.
"Should we walk a little?" the Mormon asked.
Yeah sure, I answered through a mouthful of ice cream.
There was silence and then a deep breath in and then he said, "I think we should see other people."
What?
"It's been a while and..."
Almost six months. The day after tomorrow. Six months.
That was a big deal for me. It was certainly the longest I had been able to maintain a relationship since Present Ex. It was also , I felt, only the first six months. The first six months of a lifetime. I didn't feel as if I had been hit in the stomach. It wasn't that abrupt. I felt like I had been sideswiped. I couldn't see straight. I had lost my balance. I was experiencing vertigo. I didn't know where to focus and couldn't have even if I wanted to.
"Yes," he said. "Almost six months. And I just don't feel like we're going anywhere. It's not changing or evolving. When I look at myself in the future, I don't see you as part of it."
But you said you loved me.
"Yes. I did. JV, you make me feel...light."
What? What the fuck does that mean? Light? As opposed to what? Heavy, I guess. But what does 'you make me feel light' mean? I didn't say that. I couldn't. What could I possibly say?
I had stopped walking, of course, and just stood looking directly at him. I was trying to read something in his behavior that would give me a clue as to what was going on. But he wouldn't make eye contact with me.
"Can we keep walking?"
Sure.
Silence.
"I've enjoyed the time we've spent together. I've had a lot of fun. But I don't feel like this is...forever."
I do. I did. I thought...I don't know what I thought.
We were on Devoe Street, passing the hipsters and the Italian kids playing ball in the street while their parents or grandparents sat on the stoop watching over them. I realized I was standing in front of the building where my friend Carlee used to live before she moved back to Boca Raton. I could feel the cars rushing down the street creating a hot breeze that felt nice on my skin because I had gone cold inside. As we passed a trash can I threw the rest of my uneaten gelato in. I couldn't even look at it anymore. We crossed the street and we were standing in front of his truck. I had to put my hand on the hood to hold myself up and I could hardly see for holding back the tears. Like a scratched record "You make me feel light" kept repeating over and over in my head.
I wasn't going to fight. It wasn't worth it. I didn't want to fight to hold on to a love. That's not the way it should be. And all of a sudden I felt like I was going to vomit. And I couldn't look at him anymore.
I'm going to go, I said.
"Do you want me to drive you?"
No.
"I didn't mean to break your heart." He said that. He dared say that.
I looked at him and said, It's not broken. Only cracked. And it'll heal. And you didn't break it. It was my responsibility. My heart is only mine to give away and I let you have it.
And I turned and walked away. I needed to walk. I needed to walk in a direction where he couldn't or wouldn't pass by in his car. I found myself in a small, noisy triangle of a park right by the BQE. I fell down on a bench and let the sorrow wash over me. Despite all the signs, despite my own reservations, I had held on to the hope that the Mormon and I would live happily ever after. That somehow, we would find common ground and a common language. That we could create something beautiful together out of the mess of our past. But I was wrong. And tears streamed down my face and fluid poured out of my nose and I looked horrible. I felt almost too weak to stand but I knew I couldn't sit there for the rest of the night.
The sun was setting and as I let myself in to the new apartment building I felt the cool that always seemed to be trapped in the first floor foyer and it was nice. I walked heavily up the stairs and heard Ripley bark. He was the last thing I wanted to deal with at the moment. I couldn't take care of anything else but me right now. I opened the door and my roommate was cooking dinner on the stove. Pink and orange light from the sunset cast a glow over the apartment.
"That was fast," she said.
He broke up with me, I mumbled and continued to walk toward my bedroom.
"What? Why? What?"
He broke up with me. I don't know. I'm going to bed.
I walked in to my bedroom and shut the door. I wanted to shut out the world. I looked at the phone hoping I had missed a call or a text from him. Hoping he had changed his mind. Nothing. I curled up in bed and looked out at the evening sky. I wanted to throw myself up into it and float away but I sank like a weight, deeper into the bed. I was so heavy. I made him feel "light" and I was sinking like a stone.
I tried to cry more hoping it would relieve the heaviness but there were no more tears to be had. I lie in bed in silence. I waited for the sounds in the living room to fade away. I waited for the roommate to shut off the tv and go to bed. I waited and waited as the pink and orange slowly gave way to a deep blue and the amber street light outside my window came on and illuminated my room. I shut the shade. I didn't want any light. It hurt my eyes. I heard a whimper outside my door and I pushed myself up and without even getting out of bed, opening it enough to let the dog in. I was still wearing my sneakers. I kicked them off and got under the covers. The dog climbed up on to my chest and licked my face. My tears must have left it salty. When he realized I was being unresponsive, he let out a huff and jumped on to the window sill and lay down, making himself comfortable and watching the people come and go on the street.
I knew sleep wouldn't come that night. But I prayed for it. I needed something to take me away.
It was a hot June evening. Hot for New York in June. I had broken a sweat just walking from the new apartment to the old. I wanted to complete this task as quickly as possible. The Mormon and I were meeting later that night and it had been too long since we had last seen each other at the X-Men. I thought maybe things were about to take a change for the better.
As I climbed the stairs to the old apartment, I remembered a dream I had right after we were robbed. I walked into the bathroom at night because I had heard a sound. I slowly opened the bathroom door and the medicine cabinet was open. I looked in and the cabinet itself had been removed and it opened up to another apartment from which the robbers had come in and out of our apartment, stealing our things. I peered in and saw someone move off in the corner and I jumped back and slammed the door, terrified. I stumbled back in to my bedroom and watched the medicine cabinet door open and strange masked men with long, lanky legs and arms climb out one by one. I woke up.
Yes, I was free of this place finally. A quick sweep and gather the remaining stuff and then I was gone. I went down the hallway to our apartment, the hallway that shrouded whomever it was that had come in and out in the middle of the day, and put my key into the lock. It wouldn't go in. Strange. I tried the bottom lock. The same problem. Had the locks been changed already? We still had the lease for another few days as there was an overlap. We didn't tell the landlords we had moved out two weeks early. I looked at the door. There were scratches and dents around the lock. Interesting. Then I peered into the key holes. Ah, yes. There in our reinforced MUL-T-LOCK lock was a broken key.
After the last break-in, we had paid to put in those $500 locks that no one can get through. And this is why. The super who had so easily come in and out of our apartment so many times before had now broken off both his keys inside both locks. I felt a strange feeling of calm wash over me. I was also thrilled that the landlords, who wanted nothing to do with the break-in and failed to take any responsibility, would now have to pay a locksmith or someone a shit load of money to take the door off the hinges to get in to the apartment and even more money for new locks.
And I didn't have to sweep.
So I sent the Mormon a text that I would be available earlier. Just wanted to run home and shower. He said he would pick me up. Weird. When did he fix the problem with his license? Where were we going?
When the doorbell rang, I ran down the stairs. I hadn't planned on it but I was dressed entirely in white. White t-shirt, white shorts, white socks and white sneakers. I threw the door open and threw my arms around him. He slowly unwrapped himself from me and looked me over.
"You look so...pure."
Thanks. I guess. I laughed and asked where we were going.
"Fortunato's for some gelato?"
Perfect.
As we sat in the car I rambled on about the door and the locks and the wasted time. I talked about the new apartment and how our landlord had started taking Ripley during the day into their office to play with Ruby and would leave hysterical cartoons on post-it notes on our door illustrating what mischief they had gotten into during the day.
The Mormon was silent, listening. We found a parking spot easily and went in and ordered our gelato. I always got the same: a scoop of cafe and a scoop of ciacalatto. Delicious and just right for this hot night. The sun was still out and it was a perfect evening.
"Should we walk a little?" the Mormon asked.
Yeah sure, I answered through a mouthful of ice cream.
There was silence and then a deep breath in and then he said, "I think we should see other people."
What?
"It's been a while and..."
Almost six months. The day after tomorrow. Six months.
That was a big deal for me. It was certainly the longest I had been able to maintain a relationship since Present Ex. It was also , I felt, only the first six months. The first six months of a lifetime. I didn't feel as if I had been hit in the stomach. It wasn't that abrupt. I felt like I had been sideswiped. I couldn't see straight. I had lost my balance. I was experiencing vertigo. I didn't know where to focus and couldn't have even if I wanted to.
"Yes," he said. "Almost six months. And I just don't feel like we're going anywhere. It's not changing or evolving. When I look at myself in the future, I don't see you as part of it."
But you said you loved me.
"Yes. I did. JV, you make me feel...light."
What? What the fuck does that mean? Light? As opposed to what? Heavy, I guess. But what does 'you make me feel light' mean? I didn't say that. I couldn't. What could I possibly say?
I had stopped walking, of course, and just stood looking directly at him. I was trying to read something in his behavior that would give me a clue as to what was going on. But he wouldn't make eye contact with me.
"Can we keep walking?"
Sure.
Silence.
"I've enjoyed the time we've spent together. I've had a lot of fun. But I don't feel like this is...forever."
I do. I did. I thought...I don't know what I thought.
We were on Devoe Street, passing the hipsters and the Italian kids playing ball in the street while their parents or grandparents sat on the stoop watching over them. I realized I was standing in front of the building where my friend Carlee used to live before she moved back to Boca Raton. I could feel the cars rushing down the street creating a hot breeze that felt nice on my skin because I had gone cold inside. As we passed a trash can I threw the rest of my uneaten gelato in. I couldn't even look at it anymore. We crossed the street and we were standing in front of his truck. I had to put my hand on the hood to hold myself up and I could hardly see for holding back the tears. Like a scratched record "You make me feel light" kept repeating over and over in my head.
I wasn't going to fight. It wasn't worth it. I didn't want to fight to hold on to a love. That's not the way it should be. And all of a sudden I felt like I was going to vomit. And I couldn't look at him anymore.
I'm going to go, I said.
"Do you want me to drive you?"
No.
"I didn't mean to break your heart." He said that. He dared say that.
I looked at him and said, It's not broken. Only cracked. And it'll heal. And you didn't break it. It was my responsibility. My heart is only mine to give away and I let you have it.
And I turned and walked away. I needed to walk. I needed to walk in a direction where he couldn't or wouldn't pass by in his car. I found myself in a small, noisy triangle of a park right by the BQE. I fell down on a bench and let the sorrow wash over me. Despite all the signs, despite my own reservations, I had held on to the hope that the Mormon and I would live happily ever after. That somehow, we would find common ground and a common language. That we could create something beautiful together out of the mess of our past. But I was wrong. And tears streamed down my face and fluid poured out of my nose and I looked horrible. I felt almost too weak to stand but I knew I couldn't sit there for the rest of the night.
The sun was setting and as I let myself in to the new apartment building I felt the cool that always seemed to be trapped in the first floor foyer and it was nice. I walked heavily up the stairs and heard Ripley bark. He was the last thing I wanted to deal with at the moment. I couldn't take care of anything else but me right now. I opened the door and my roommate was cooking dinner on the stove. Pink and orange light from the sunset cast a glow over the apartment.
"That was fast," she said.
He broke up with me, I mumbled and continued to walk toward my bedroom.
"What? Why? What?"
He broke up with me. I don't know. I'm going to bed.
I walked in to my bedroom and shut the door. I wanted to shut out the world. I looked at the phone hoping I had missed a call or a text from him. Hoping he had changed his mind. Nothing. I curled up in bed and looked out at the evening sky. I wanted to throw myself up into it and float away but I sank like a weight, deeper into the bed. I was so heavy. I made him feel "light" and I was sinking like a stone.
I tried to cry more hoping it would relieve the heaviness but there were no more tears to be had. I lie in bed in silence. I waited for the sounds in the living room to fade away. I waited for the roommate to shut off the tv and go to bed. I waited and waited as the pink and orange slowly gave way to a deep blue and the amber street light outside my window came on and illuminated my room. I shut the shade. I didn't want any light. It hurt my eyes. I heard a whimper outside my door and I pushed myself up and without even getting out of bed, opening it enough to let the dog in. I was still wearing my sneakers. I kicked them off and got under the covers. The dog climbed up on to my chest and licked my face. My tears must have left it salty. When he realized I was being unresponsive, he let out a huff and jumped on to the window sill and lay down, making himself comfortable and watching the people come and go on the street.
I knew sleep wouldn't come that night. But I prayed for it. I needed something to take me away.
13 March, 2009
X-Men
My parents were sending my brother, sister-in-law, niece and I to see Jersey Boys. Finally.
We had gotten them House Seats for Christmas, and they were returning the favor.
I spent the week trying to secure an extra ticket for the Mormon but it was not possible. JB was at the height of its success and all I could find was a premium, $450 seat.
"Your father can afford it," came the unusually candid reply.
Well, yes. Yes, he probably can. But you can't. And nor can I.
We were on very shaky ground.
As always happens when you're standing on shaky ground, something happens to rock it even more. The morning of the day my parents were arriving I received a text from Arkansas. Arkansas and I had...well, we never really dated but if you were to describe our relationship history on Facebook you would have to put it in the "It's complicated" section. We talked infrequently and saw each other less than that.
So Arkansas sends me a text asking if I'm around and want to get breakfast. Yes. I am. And I do. We meet up very early at downtrodden Kellogg's Diner on Metropolitan and eat dried omelets and burnt toast and catch up. I notice during the meal how nonchalantly I speak of the Mormon. It's as if, in my head, the relationship is over already. Am I doing this because I hope Arkansas will provide me with another opportunity? Or am I speaking from my head for once, not my heart? Because, in my heart, I want things with the Mormon to work out. But in my head the signs are becoming too obviously clear.
Arkansas is single and not really interested in anything serious. Our time together is relaxed and easy considering the dramatic history we shared. I provided the drama. It was breathtaking at times. The fact that he's still even civil to me is spectacular. But I enjoy his company and he makes me laugh. I take things less seriously with him than I tend to with others, especially the Mormon. We part ways and I feel just a little bit lighter from the experience. Talking honestly about my relationship has felt good.
The show is wonderful. The Mormon chooses not to join us for a bbq dinner at Virgil's post-performance. He also informs me that he's "staying in" that night and prefers to be alone. I tell him that I'm in auditions all day Sunday (Gay Pride) and won't be able to see him until later in the day, if at all.
"Auditions for what?"
I sigh. I've told him about the play I'm directing in Texas about fifteen times. There's one role we haven't been able to cast: the leading man. So I tell him again.
"Why aren't I auditioning?" he asks.
My gut reaction is to say, Because you're not an actor. Wanting isn't enough. You haven't trained. You haven't studied. You haven't ever even really acted. And when you sing or perform, you take on this other voice. A voice totally disconnected from who you are as a person; your "performance" voice. It's off-putting. You wouldn't have the skills to take on a role so physically and emotionally demanding.
But I say, Because I won't direct someone I'm dating.
Which is also true.
"Why not?"
Because it's a bad idea. It confuses things. And it's a rule I'm sticking too. So what about later tomorrow?
"I'm having some friends over for a little Pride dinner at my place. Maybe I can see you after that."
Oh. Ok. Bye.
Weird that he never mentioned that before. Weird that I wasn't invited. Weird everything.
We're quickly approaching our six-month mark and he's asked me numerous time about acting opportunities. Every time I point him in a direction, he seems unwilling to take it. He, like many other people in this city, doesn't really want to work for it. He wants it to find him. Actually, I think he EXPECTS it to find him. Like Lana Turner in Schwabs Drugstore, the Mormon is waiting to be discovered sipping a latte in Starbucks. I guess it happens every so often but not nearly as much as people want it too. I wonder where this expectation, this sense of entitlement comes from. He has certainly had to work at most things his entire life. He's in his mid-30s now. He's an....ex-Mormon? I don't know. He talks about it all the time. Maybe it's a Mormon thing, this sense of entitlement. He walks with a strut like the king cock in a room full of hens. It's somehow ingrained in him. I find it infuriating because I don't expect anything. And I've had to work for most all things I've achieved. And I've told him a thousand times I wouldn't cast him in my show. And...and...and...I'm getting angrier and angrier.
I don't particularly care about celebrating Gay Pride so I'm happy to be in auditions all day. It's also nice to finally hear the play (Icarus by Edwin Sanchez) out loud. I've been working on it for months but all the rest of the actors have been cast through offers and the role of Beau, the most difficult in the show, has been a rough road. As I sit through one auditioner after the other thoughts of the Mormon cross my mind. He could never do this. First of all, he's about 30lbs overweight. I find him attractive but he can't play the leading man (named BEAU, for God's sake) looking like that. And he doesn't have the discipline or awareness to lose that weight in two months time.
Harsh. But true.
We meet up a few nights later to see the X-Men sequel. I enjoy the film enough. On the subway ride home we get into a debate about whether or not he would take a pill to make him not gay if it were offered. (Many had speculated that this was the message behind the sequel and I brought this up on the ride home.) Without pause, he said "Yes."
I was stunned. Literally.
But I was not stunned to silence. I was on fire. I kept firing questions at him and he would answer and I would fire back more. To the point where he had to say, "Lower your voice." I couldn't and wouldn't. This was the most interesting and provocative conversation we had ever had. I wasn't going to let it go and I certainly wasn't going to back off because it was making him uncomfortable. I was finding my voice in our relationship, finally, on the L train between Union Square and Lorimer Street thanks to the sequel to the X-Men.
The Mormon asked me, "Wouldn't you take it." And I, unhesitatingly, said "No. Of course not." Why? Why would I need to be straight? I loved being gay. And, when it got down to it, I loved my life and who I was. Gay doesn't define me but it influences me and my art and my relationships and how I deal with the world. And yes, it hasn't always been easy but if it had been I wouldn't be where I was now.
The Mormon looked shocked. I realized, he wanted things the easy way. He wanted a "normal" life. Being gay was an unwanted burden on him. It was his cross. It was one more thing that separated him from his unsupportive Mormon family in Utah. It made him stand out in a way that he didn't want. And then I realized that he wasn't as strong as I had always thought he was. I, in fact, was a stronger man than he was.
I never would have thought X-Men to be so cathartic.
As we walked with the crowd down the platform to where he would catch the G train and I would walk home, I realized that I didn't want to spend the night with him. I needed some space. I needed to be in my own bed, with my dog and my thoughts and a book and some quiet. We stopped in front of the turnstiles the crowd pouring around us and the florescent lights beating down over our heads. I looked up at him and he down at me. He grabbed the collar of my jacket and pulled me into him and said "I love you."
That was the first time he'd ever said it unprovoked. I had said it. He had responded, oftentimes in a whisper or a mutter depending on his mood. Often with a mixture of fear and love and expectation in his eyes.
No, this time it was unflinching, direct and loud. It took me by surprise. I answered back simply, I love you too.
And I kissed him and I walked through the turnstiles, up the dirty stairs and into the cool night air.
I did love him. But how do you love someone who doesn't love himself? A cliched question if ever there was one to be on the table. And what could I do about it?
As I crossed under the BQE I thought about Sally Bowles in the movie version of Cabaret standing under the train tracks and waiting for the trains to go by overhead so that she could scream and let everything out without anyone hearing her. As a truck rumbled by noisily overhead I opened my mouth but no sound came out. I was too afraid. Too afraid of looking stupid. Too afraid of my own voice.
I continued walking not wanting to go home any longer but knowing any other choice. As I unlocked the front door of the former funeral parlor I heard the howl of Ripley upstairs, awoken from a dream and happy to have me home to him. And expecting a walk. Everything, it appeared, had expectations.
What were mine?
We had gotten them House Seats for Christmas, and they were returning the favor.
I spent the week trying to secure an extra ticket for the Mormon but it was not possible. JB was at the height of its success and all I could find was a premium, $450 seat.
"Your father can afford it," came the unusually candid reply.
Well, yes. Yes, he probably can. But you can't. And nor can I.
We were on very shaky ground.
As always happens when you're standing on shaky ground, something happens to rock it even more. The morning of the day my parents were arriving I received a text from Arkansas. Arkansas and I had...well, we never really dated but if you were to describe our relationship history on Facebook you would have to put it in the "It's complicated" section. We talked infrequently and saw each other less than that.
So Arkansas sends me a text asking if I'm around and want to get breakfast. Yes. I am. And I do. We meet up very early at downtrodden Kellogg's Diner on Metropolitan and eat dried omelets and burnt toast and catch up. I notice during the meal how nonchalantly I speak of the Mormon. It's as if, in my head, the relationship is over already. Am I doing this because I hope Arkansas will provide me with another opportunity? Or am I speaking from my head for once, not my heart? Because, in my heart, I want things with the Mormon to work out. But in my head the signs are becoming too obviously clear.
Arkansas is single and not really interested in anything serious. Our time together is relaxed and easy considering the dramatic history we shared. I provided the drama. It was breathtaking at times. The fact that he's still even civil to me is spectacular. But I enjoy his company and he makes me laugh. I take things less seriously with him than I tend to with others, especially the Mormon. We part ways and I feel just a little bit lighter from the experience. Talking honestly about my relationship has felt good.
The show is wonderful. The Mormon chooses not to join us for a bbq dinner at Virgil's post-performance. He also informs me that he's "staying in" that night and prefers to be alone. I tell him that I'm in auditions all day Sunday (Gay Pride) and won't be able to see him until later in the day, if at all.
"Auditions for what?"
I sigh. I've told him about the play I'm directing in Texas about fifteen times. There's one role we haven't been able to cast: the leading man. So I tell him again.
"Why aren't I auditioning?" he asks.
My gut reaction is to say, Because you're not an actor. Wanting isn't enough. You haven't trained. You haven't studied. You haven't ever even really acted. And when you sing or perform, you take on this other voice. A voice totally disconnected from who you are as a person; your "performance" voice. It's off-putting. You wouldn't have the skills to take on a role so physically and emotionally demanding.
But I say, Because I won't direct someone I'm dating.
Which is also true.
"Why not?"
Because it's a bad idea. It confuses things. And it's a rule I'm sticking too. So what about later tomorrow?
"I'm having some friends over for a little Pride dinner at my place. Maybe I can see you after that."
Oh. Ok. Bye.
Weird that he never mentioned that before. Weird that I wasn't invited. Weird everything.
We're quickly approaching our six-month mark and he's asked me numerous time about acting opportunities. Every time I point him in a direction, he seems unwilling to take it. He, like many other people in this city, doesn't really want to work for it. He wants it to find him. Actually, I think he EXPECTS it to find him. Like Lana Turner in Schwabs Drugstore, the Mormon is waiting to be discovered sipping a latte in Starbucks. I guess it happens every so often but not nearly as much as people want it too. I wonder where this expectation, this sense of entitlement comes from. He has certainly had to work at most things his entire life. He's in his mid-30s now. He's an....ex-Mormon? I don't know. He talks about it all the time. Maybe it's a Mormon thing, this sense of entitlement. He walks with a strut like the king cock in a room full of hens. It's somehow ingrained in him. I find it infuriating because I don't expect anything. And I've had to work for most all things I've achieved. And I've told him a thousand times I wouldn't cast him in my show. And...and...and...I'm getting angrier and angrier.
I don't particularly care about celebrating Gay Pride so I'm happy to be in auditions all day. It's also nice to finally hear the play (Icarus by Edwin Sanchez) out loud. I've been working on it for months but all the rest of the actors have been cast through offers and the role of Beau, the most difficult in the show, has been a rough road. As I sit through one auditioner after the other thoughts of the Mormon cross my mind. He could never do this. First of all, he's about 30lbs overweight. I find him attractive but he can't play the leading man (named BEAU, for God's sake) looking like that. And he doesn't have the discipline or awareness to lose that weight in two months time.
Harsh. But true.
We meet up a few nights later to see the X-Men sequel. I enjoy the film enough. On the subway ride home we get into a debate about whether or not he would take a pill to make him not gay if it were offered. (Many had speculated that this was the message behind the sequel and I brought this up on the ride home.) Without pause, he said "Yes."
I was stunned. Literally.
But I was not stunned to silence. I was on fire. I kept firing questions at him and he would answer and I would fire back more. To the point where he had to say, "Lower your voice." I couldn't and wouldn't. This was the most interesting and provocative conversation we had ever had. I wasn't going to let it go and I certainly wasn't going to back off because it was making him uncomfortable. I was finding my voice in our relationship, finally, on the L train between Union Square and Lorimer Street thanks to the sequel to the X-Men.
The Mormon asked me, "Wouldn't you take it." And I, unhesitatingly, said "No. Of course not." Why? Why would I need to be straight? I loved being gay. And, when it got down to it, I loved my life and who I was. Gay doesn't define me but it influences me and my art and my relationships and how I deal with the world. And yes, it hasn't always been easy but if it had been I wouldn't be where I was now.
The Mormon looked shocked. I realized, he wanted things the easy way. He wanted a "normal" life. Being gay was an unwanted burden on him. It was his cross. It was one more thing that separated him from his unsupportive Mormon family in Utah. It made him stand out in a way that he didn't want. And then I realized that he wasn't as strong as I had always thought he was. I, in fact, was a stronger man than he was.
I never would have thought X-Men to be so cathartic.
As we walked with the crowd down the platform to where he would catch the G train and I would walk home, I realized that I didn't want to spend the night with him. I needed some space. I needed to be in my own bed, with my dog and my thoughts and a book and some quiet. We stopped in front of the turnstiles the crowd pouring around us and the florescent lights beating down over our heads. I looked up at him and he down at me. He grabbed the collar of my jacket and pulled me into him and said "I love you."
That was the first time he'd ever said it unprovoked. I had said it. He had responded, oftentimes in a whisper or a mutter depending on his mood. Often with a mixture of fear and love and expectation in his eyes.
No, this time it was unflinching, direct and loud. It took me by surprise. I answered back simply, I love you too.
And I kissed him and I walked through the turnstiles, up the dirty stairs and into the cool night air.
I did love him. But how do you love someone who doesn't love himself? A cliched question if ever there was one to be on the table. And what could I do about it?
As I crossed under the BQE I thought about Sally Bowles in the movie version of Cabaret standing under the train tracks and waiting for the trains to go by overhead so that she could scream and let everything out without anyone hearing her. As a truck rumbled by noisily overhead I opened my mouth but no sound came out. I was too afraid. Too afraid of looking stupid. Too afraid of my own voice.
I continued walking not wanting to go home any longer but knowing any other choice. As I unlocked the front door of the former funeral parlor I heard the howl of Ripley upstairs, awoken from a dream and happy to have me home to him. And expecting a walk. Everything, it appeared, had expectations.
What were mine?
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