TICK TOCK TICK TOCK...

The after party up the block was at one of my favorite hot spots, The Exchange, a chic renovated bistro that has somehow survived the economic downturn and is a sleek, comfortable draw for young professionals…many of them from The Grand (perhaps we alone keep them in business!), and the die-hards who go there on a regular basis were certainly in plentiful attendance.
My cohorts in the Special Events industry had settled into an area of comfy couches and lounge chairs and were just settling in to their heavy apps when I arrived; the theatre crowd assembled at the 8 foot stainless steel high top dividing the lounge, and there was a goodly smathering of guests perching at the bar itself.
The clock was winding down, but there were still so many to spend time with. I worked the room, not something at which I am particularly adept, and then settled down near the group in the lounge area. I treated myself to a BBQ beef quesadilla slice (not a fan of BBQ, but at this point I was FAMISHED; I pretended it was pizza) and chilled with them, knowing that my “work parents,” Sue and Mike, were feeling like I was about to “leave the nest.” And I was; but in hindsight, I realize now that all the loosening up of obligations in my life was preparing me for this. Ever since my last relationship ended, I had been taking a good hard look at my life, and was cutting cords with things that no longer served me. While I enjoy the Special Events industry, it is not my true calling, and so I took it upon myself to wean away from it, and turned it over to my assistant Gina, who is actually passionate about it…she is now in Sue and Mike’s hands, to learn the trade and meet the players. She is in good hands with them, and they, in turn, will be fortunate to have her. It’s not a coincidence either that Gina is planning her own wedding right now, so…the timing couldn’t be more perfect for her to not turn into a Bridezilla.
TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK…
Melissa was holding court by the bar and by the looks of it, the thought of her best friend leaving in the morning for parts unknown was fodder for myriad excuses to order another round. I paced myself with a goblet of Stella Artois, washing down the tangy barbecue in my mouth before it resulted in a matte upon my tongue like burnt wet feathers. I had barely smacked my lips when a hearty hand smacked me upon the back and in utter surprise, I looked up to see the perpetrator was none other than one of my newest colleagues, Patrick Warner, whom I thought had RSVP’d with regrets. In utter shock, I arose to hug him heartily, and we smacked backs like manly men.
Now, you must understand: “Warner” as I call him (so as to not confuse Patricks) is a catch. A straight catch, but a catch. He is, oddly, the perfect embodiment of Disney’s animated character Mr. Incredible (which, not coincidentally, was his costume this past Halloween): robust chest and arms, curly hair (which dyed blond just for Halloween), buns of steel (trust me, I’ve smacked ‘em) and a winning smile, all in one 6’2” gleaming package…every time he smiles I half-expect to hear a “ding” and a see a sparkle appear over his pearly-whites.
Now here’s the catch on this “catch”…he is a relentless flirt. With me, with others. I enjoy the chase, and I take no offense at his hijinx. It’s pure fun, and he laughs as heartily as I do. So it was not long before he and I were out on the front stoop of Exchange…”exchanging” barbs. He went inside to replenish my goblet de la Stella, and Sue’s daughter Rebecca joined me out front to have a surreptitious cigarette away from her mother’s prying eyes. All I could think was that Sue has a history too…oh if only people knew…who was I to judge her daughter, whom I’ve now known for years, watched grow up, go to college, graduate with honors and proceed to graduate school for her masters’ degree? I handed Becca my lighter.
Warner returned, and I introduced Becca (who, too, is a catch – brains and beauty and the same sparkling smile); my goblet now full, I left them to their own exchange; Warner needed no cue from me, of course. I could swear I heard “dings” as they smiled and introduced themselves.
(Alright, alright, so what’s a Yente to do…it was my last attempt at “Matchmaker, Matchmaker…”)
I had one last bit of business to attend to, and that was handing over my car to my good friend Kelley, who played Roxie opposite my Amos in Chicago at New Candlelight Theatre. She will now be the caretaker of “Roxie The Car” which is what I dubbed it since it was an in-kind gift from NCT during that show (I dunno, they wanted to do something silly like: ensure that I show up for performances or something stupid like that). It seemed only appropriate that it should go into the hands of its namesake…my cupcake, my Roxie. Kelley and I have remained good friends since the show, and I cannot wait for her to come out for a visit to practice her own passion, photography, as she creates my new headshots for The West Coast.
After a brief tutorial on Roxie’s idiosynchrosies, like ignore the constant brake light being on, gauge your gas consumption ‘cause Roxie won’t…that kind of stuff…Kelley dropped me back at the burgundy awning and was off in the rain, four wheels and a steering column in her talented hands. Roxie and Roxie…it was meant to be.
I returned to the surplus crowd (I was still in awe and overwhelmed at the response), and then, slowly, once again, the goodbyes began. And my heart began to race as The Exchange drew to a business close.
TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK…
Small But Mighty Karen had returned unbeknownst to me, and suddenly appeared after cleaning up at the theatre lobby. I knew why; one farewell was not enough. Karen needed two: a “bad one” (previously fulfilled at the other venue) and now, a “good one.” With Karen, it’s all about balance, and I was more than happy to restore that. Finally, with a smile, that quickly, she was gone with the wind…I trust her return to my heart when the time is right. Finger Number Two...gone.
Sue and Becca and Mike and Marie bid me farewell under the burgundy awning outside, where I had spent so many a night holding private conferences with friends and colleagues as we “posed” with our cigarettes. As her trio departed across the street to warm up the car, Sue approached me in solitude, our final grasp at connecting one last time in person. She whispered words of wisdom to me as she clutched my hands fervently. They are private, and I shall honor them, and as I watched her clear blue eyes break into a Waterford Crystal haze, I embraced Finger Number Three…gone.
By this point the joint was bare and echoing voices were calling me from the bar as the staff cleaned up and the background music and flat screen TVs were turned off. Warner, Melissa and Genevieve remained. The bartendress and floor manager proffered a complimentary shot to boost my slow intake of Stella (I did, after all, still have a pod to finish packing). By now, Melissa’s indulgences were manifest as Gen, Warner and I (in tandem) flirted altogether too much with her. After a few last iPhone pictures (which, by the way, I have yet to see…blackmail, does after all, have its place in society circles), and a blessing upon the Exchange staff (who knew I’d be hugged by them too?), and we were all out the door…and it was time to go back to the ominous pod.
Warner and I gave our last manly man hug (for now…heh heh…watch out, Warner) and he escorted Melissa to safety. I was not worried about her. Melissa and I have too much history to worry about “what if”…we did what we always do: a hug, a kiss, and a “see ya tomorrow.” She and I understand the concept of living on borrowed time.
Okay, okay, there WAS a moment of eye contact that was a bit of a reality check for both of us…the hug was longer than usual…a moment of “this is it”…but a friendship like ours quickly moves past that…and it’s “on to the next.”
Finger Number Four…gone.
Genevieve and I strolled down Market Street one last time to her car, and as I sat in the passenger seat I relished each sound and sight, taking things in for the last time.
Back at my apartment, we climbed the four flights (if you include the front stoop) and I looked at the 20 some-odd boxes that needed to make their way back down…along with all of my unpacked clothes.
Mea Culpa. Mea MAXima Culpa, mea MAXima, MAXima culpa.
TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK…
I could not possibly impose on Genevieve to assist, and as I hurled up and down the stairs, my thighs burning more than a Suzanne Sommers Thighmaster, I asked her to get some rest. I pulled out the futon I was not going to take with me, and she slumbered as I lumbered. I had promised Gen a “final spoon” before I moved on, and I intended to honor it. It is a tradition of ours to snuggle without words, without expectation; with just: presence. I assured her that, once the pod was packed, I would nestle in for a final respite.
TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK…
If there is any reason to quit smoking (among the obvious ones), moving is it. It was by sheer willpower alone that my excruciatingly-burning thighs (left leg still recuperating from nerve damage from my hernia operation, mind you) even made it back up the stairs once the final set of boxes made it into the pod. Still, I have not learned my lesson…what did I do? Went out on the deck and had a cigarette. Fool that I am.
It was 5 am. Raymond, the limousine driver for The Grand, was coming in half an hour to take me to the airport.
And there was a shitload of clothes on the bed I had not gotten rid of, dust on the ceiling fan I had not wiped, ten to twelve more major items I had not yet packed.
I was fucked. I needed my last Finger.
I disrupted Gen’s futonian slumber briefly as I explained the sitch. Then nestled into Mama Gen.
TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK…
Five minutes was all I had. I left Post-It Notes (insert trademark logo here) on appliances and odds and ends for roommate Karin to have a ball on Ebay. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Gen assured me that the remaining items left on the bed and nearby would make it into the pod. I handed over my spare key to it, along with the entrance keys to my apartment, trudged my flight bag and carryon down the stairs, leaving a last Post-It (insert trademark logo here) on the bathroom door for Karin, saying: “Gen will make sure the rest of this crap gets outta here, love you, me.”
And then I was left in what was now an icy stoop, saying farewell to my Final Finger.
There really aren’t words to explain my relationship with Gen; no one but she and I understand it, and that’s fine by us…it’s quizzical to others…but if I may offer the following mantra between us, it may offer some insight:
“I honor the place in you in which the entire universe dwells.
I honor the place in you which is of love, of truth, of light and of peace.
When you are in that place in you, I am in that place in me.
We are one. Namaste.”
Again, you’d have to experience it to understand it; Gen’s my Anam Cara…and…’s’all I gotta say about that.
We hugged in the mist of rain remnants, and I forbade her from waiting until Raymond’s arrival. I wanted solitude along with my departure, and I had not yet gotten that. It was why I chose a neutral travelling companion to take me to the airport…I needed my separation from this place FIRST – not at the airport.
Gen honored that, and, as I watched her quintessential Audra MacDonald curls swirl away from me as she headed for her car, I knew the moment had come. She drove past me and blew a kiss, and there it was: Finger Number Five…gone.
No one was around to Give Me A Hand.

One Month Later - Brace Yourselves

Tomorrow I will be here an entire month; I should get a gold coin or something, maybe a coupon for a car rental...SOMEthing for having made it through, this far, with two pairs of khakis, a pair of jeans that seem to be slipping of my hips because of my "Maria From The Sound Of Music Trek" up the mountain to my house each day, and ten shirts of varying styles, from Oxfords to wife-beater Fruit Of The Loom tank tees.

I just have simply NOT had time to update. Mea Culpa.

Prepare for a smorgasbord of updates.

Please do some volunteer work on Monday 1/19...keep the dream alive.