Another note to self: When driving across a desert, buy sunglasses FIRST.
Newly ordained with confidence from MJ’s trusty radiator cap, I recalculated my timeline as I headed (this time, correctly) on I-15…having already been on the road for 3 hours, I figured Vegas was a trip to the beach. Imagine my surprise when the first sign indicated that it was 380 miles away. I was hoping to have dinner and a quick visit with friends right after their workday; now, by all indications, it was going to be a later arrival than I thought. It was then that I received the first of many texts.
Jenn Hook Kratochowill is a former colleague from The Grand and a friend you simply can’t forget. She moved to Vegas when she married her husband Chris, an audio engineer who does primo work for some of the major casinos, including the up and coming “largest ever,” The Aria. Jenn now works with the Nevada ballet, and while I have always stayed in touch over the years, I have never had the pleasure of visiting. This was to be my first destination.
Her text was simple: “On time?” to which I responded (after pulling over), “Waylaid. 5 hours?” She was quick on the reply, “No prob. BE CAREFUL.”
Of course I was being careful, I thought (this, the first of many such thoughts, would turn out to be multiple conversations with myself, God, and many other Sybil-like personalities I had not yet met). How could I not be careful? This is everything I have, my whole life, all I own, in this truck; I’m going to guard it with my life.
And then the first series of slopes and curves really started to kick in. I was suddenly in mountainous terrain, surrounded by streaks of deserts here and there…all very much in the middle of nowhere. It made me wonder where the hell all this traffic was coming from. And moreover, where they were going. I could feel the tremendous weight on the bed of the truck as gravity pushed down and Jesse’s Girl sloped with the road. The tractor trailers whizzing past didn’t help, and I reached across to pull the passenger window down a crack to create an air vent for the vacuums they generated.
I decided to be more careful.
After several scathing remarks where the first of Sybil’s voices started to reveal themselves, I found myself out of the major traffic and on level land. Very. Level. Land. The beginnings of the Mojave were in plain view, and plain is the word. At first. The sun continued its beating, and the road began to take on the effect of that blurriness that occurs over a charcoal grill…the gaseous wavy lines rising above. By now I was realizing two things: my hands were hurting from the decades old steering column that was not exactly designed for a comfort grip, and my face was hurting from squinting so much from the glare, and (not realizing it) the sunburn I was getting from the reflection off my hood.
Jenn continued to text me as I continued along the straight, unending, bleak road before me. The mountains in the distance seemed so miniscule; I wondered if they would ever rise. The sun on my neck started to creep to the left, as time marched on, and I tried to keep on keeping on. I was starting to feel a little dazed and confused, but just then something caught my eye.
The mountains, all around, ahead, and in the distance, started to come to life. The setting sun was beginning a game that has to have been going on since the dawn of time: shadow play. The left sides of the mountains were highlighted in radiant golds, ambers, rusts and reds, as the right sides started to deepen their hues and often take on the shapes of faces and figures. As the game continued, I was grateful to witness it; a natural wonder viewed by fresh eyes. I was grateful too, for my overheated temperature gauge, for without that delay, I may not have borne witness to this tete a tete between earth and sun. The game continued for some time, and instilled me with new energy.
My landmark prior to Vegas was an armpit of a town called Baker, which really is a last resort before you hit the Mojave heading the other way. The Mayor of the City of Wilmington is named Baker, and the irony was not lost on me as I laughed at the cosmic coincidence that I was “heading home.” Armpit that it was, it was a welcome stop, and as I careened into a convenience store parking lot, I was blanched into a cool spot of shade on the far façade. My squinting eyes peeled open with some resistance as my pupils dilated.
More texts from Jenn, as the 8:00 hour approached. “You’re about 40 min away. Call when you get to Vegas exits,” and after a quick stretch (and with growing concern over losing sunlight), I was struck by one more irony, the last exit in California before the state line: Bailey Road (my old boss’ name…hmmm). Without fanfare, Nevada’s state sign “welcomed me” and then about 10 minutes into the area, the fanfare really began, as a series of twinkling lights, mini casinos, questionable bars and neon-everything started to light the way.
Jenn had told me that she lived in a new development that was “hardly Vegas,” but I nonetheless had to cruise through the cotton candy lights ahead to find it. Upon several missed exits (stranger in a strange town, it happens), I called Jenn, and said three things to her: “I’m stiff, I’m sunburned, and I’m sober.” She laughed and quipped along with alliteration: “Well, I got Solarcaine.” Her husband Chris got on the line and gave me comprehensive directions, due to Jenn’s confession that she essentially drives only to work and home. Before long, I was on a beltway around the City of Sin, and cruised into the lovely development of Summerlin.
My last visual memory of Jenn was at her wedding, with her long tendrils of chestnut hair cascading through her veil. As my pickup turned onto her street, I slowly revved up alongside the house, partially obstructed by several trees. From the porch light glow behind one of them stood a new shadow play: that of a familiar figure stooped over to one side as if in anticipation. Familiar, with the exception of one thing.
Jenn had bobbed her hair.
It was Throroughly Modern Mille, Vegas style.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Read The Map
Note to self: When departing on a cross country trip, read the map FIRST.
The 11 AM California sun was already beating down in full force, something to which I’d only recently grown accustomed; 11 AM to 6 PM in California is like Noon to 3 PM back east, and today in particular had an additional haze to it. As I stashed my bottles of Dasani into every available nook and cranny in the passenger seat, I reinforced my undiagnosed OCD and surveyed the dashboard for all necessities to get me started (notice I didn’t say, “finished”). With a flutter in my chest, I sighed heavily as I pulled out onto Main Street and passed the few sights that had become familiar to me: the merchants I frequented, my drycleaners, the mall…all soon to become memories as I took the exit for Route 126 toward Santa Paula (at least that’s what the AAA map “triptik” said to do).
I became immediately conscious of the direction I was heading, largely due to the sun’s apex. The ocean was behind me now, and mountains were in front. I was heading east. Considering that I’d only ever headed north and south in the sleepy town of Ventura, it took me a minute to get my bearings. “Here you go,” I thought, “once again to the point of no return. Don’t look back.” The mountains continued to loom ahead, and after about an hour, became much more detailed in their appearance. But then I was to take a detour, according to the map, to find my way to I-15, which, ultimately, would lead me to Las Vegas.
The first couple of connecting routes seemed to regurgitate me onto similar back roads, and I thought at times I was going in circles…these areas were really back road Americana with their convenience store shacks, fruit stands, scrap metal yards, and…telephone poles. Miles and miles and miles of telephone poles. Dirt roads would suddenly become tar, then would abruptly break into dirt patches again…I consulted the map frequently; I had not made a wrong turn, despite my concerns at seeing several road signs that looked like they had been absconded from the M*A*S*H sound stage. I was about two hours into my trip when I pulled over at a particularly more appealing convenience shack than some of the others I’d seen…that’s when I noticed my temperature gauge was starting to run hot.
Oh boy. Please, no.
The shack clerk had to be all of 15, with her hair drawn up in a scrunchie right out a Madonna video, with a mismatched plaid shirt tied at the ribs and leggings. She was clearly irked at the customer before me, a dingy maven with matted straw hair, who was only asking for a water cup. I suppose every part of the world has its pecking order, but this seemed a bit off to me, and I offered one of my Dasanis to the woman, who politely declined, opting instead for a triangulated paper cup from the clerk. Feeling a fish out of water, I paid for my sundries and checked the temp gauge and the map. I could not see a reliable AAA recommended auto shop for another sixty miles. I imagined having a rosary.
An hour later, I got turned around by poor signage trying to merge onto I-15, and wound up heading south…a bit of a blessing when I realized it, really, for off the exit I chose to turn around, I was astonished to survey my choice of auto body shops…one after another after another. I started to head towards a recognizable shop, but the mechanic said they only did quick fixes, not diagnostics, so he directed me across the lot to MJ’s Japanese Auto…a fitting welcome to my Mazda.
MJ was a typically short middle aged man of Asian descent, who listened intently as I explained my cross country plight, the history on Jesse’s Girl, and my concern about overheating. He pointed to his rate sheet and headed to the hood of the truck as I simultaneously filled out paperwork for him. While he tinkered away, I called my mother to relay that I was on my way and would be in Vegas by nightfall. I didn’t even hint at the fact that I might have a major problem under the hood; I simply couldn’t even begin to imagine explaining THAT.
MJ broke his silence in an equally broken Asian accent, explaining that the radiator cap was not fitted properly with the right size air/release hole (whatever that meant), and I would need a new one. He called for a moose of a man working in the shop on another import, and sent him over to one of the adjacent shops to pick one up. While waiting, he did a quick radiator flush (I later learned this is usually a very expensive task). After Moose returned, he showed me the new cap, and explained the difference in the vent holes…personally I couldn’t tell, but clearly, he felt it made a difference.
While he calculated his labor, he explained that he would not be able to provide me with a receipt as his printer was down, but he assured me that he would send the receipt to my new address back east. While I was at first immediately suspicious, I was also quickly reassured that if he was going to send a receipt there, he was confident that I would MAKE it there.
Expecting a hefty bill, I looked at the charges of $56.84 in disbelief. He wished me well on my journey, and said I should not have anymore potential overheating problems… “smooth sail,” said he.
That was good to know. I was about to hit the Mojave desert…at two in the afternoon.
The 11 AM California sun was already beating down in full force, something to which I’d only recently grown accustomed; 11 AM to 6 PM in California is like Noon to 3 PM back east, and today in particular had an additional haze to it. As I stashed my bottles of Dasani into every available nook and cranny in the passenger seat, I reinforced my undiagnosed OCD and surveyed the dashboard for all necessities to get me started (notice I didn’t say, “finished”). With a flutter in my chest, I sighed heavily as I pulled out onto Main Street and passed the few sights that had become familiar to me: the merchants I frequented, my drycleaners, the mall…all soon to become memories as I took the exit for Route 126 toward Santa Paula (at least that’s what the AAA map “triptik” said to do).
I became immediately conscious of the direction I was heading, largely due to the sun’s apex. The ocean was behind me now, and mountains were in front. I was heading east. Considering that I’d only ever headed north and south in the sleepy town of Ventura, it took me a minute to get my bearings. “Here you go,” I thought, “once again to the point of no return. Don’t look back.” The mountains continued to loom ahead, and after about an hour, became much more detailed in their appearance. But then I was to take a detour, according to the map, to find my way to I-15, which, ultimately, would lead me to Las Vegas.
The first couple of connecting routes seemed to regurgitate me onto similar back roads, and I thought at times I was going in circles…these areas were really back road Americana with their convenience store shacks, fruit stands, scrap metal yards, and…telephone poles. Miles and miles and miles of telephone poles. Dirt roads would suddenly become tar, then would abruptly break into dirt patches again…I consulted the map frequently; I had not made a wrong turn, despite my concerns at seeing several road signs that looked like they had been absconded from the M*A*S*H sound stage. I was about two hours into my trip when I pulled over at a particularly more appealing convenience shack than some of the others I’d seen…that’s when I noticed my temperature gauge was starting to run hot.
Oh boy. Please, no.
The shack clerk had to be all of 15, with her hair drawn up in a scrunchie right out a Madonna video, with a mismatched plaid shirt tied at the ribs and leggings. She was clearly irked at the customer before me, a dingy maven with matted straw hair, who was only asking for a water cup. I suppose every part of the world has its pecking order, but this seemed a bit off to me, and I offered one of my Dasanis to the woman, who politely declined, opting instead for a triangulated paper cup from the clerk. Feeling a fish out of water, I paid for my sundries and checked the temp gauge and the map. I could not see a reliable AAA recommended auto shop for another sixty miles. I imagined having a rosary.
An hour later, I got turned around by poor signage trying to merge onto I-15, and wound up heading south…a bit of a blessing when I realized it, really, for off the exit I chose to turn around, I was astonished to survey my choice of auto body shops…one after another after another. I started to head towards a recognizable shop, but the mechanic said they only did quick fixes, not diagnostics, so he directed me across the lot to MJ’s Japanese Auto…a fitting welcome to my Mazda.
MJ was a typically short middle aged man of Asian descent, who listened intently as I explained my cross country plight, the history on Jesse’s Girl, and my concern about overheating. He pointed to his rate sheet and headed to the hood of the truck as I simultaneously filled out paperwork for him. While he tinkered away, I called my mother to relay that I was on my way and would be in Vegas by nightfall. I didn’t even hint at the fact that I might have a major problem under the hood; I simply couldn’t even begin to imagine explaining THAT.
MJ broke his silence in an equally broken Asian accent, explaining that the radiator cap was not fitted properly with the right size air/release hole (whatever that meant), and I would need a new one. He called for a moose of a man working in the shop on another import, and sent him over to one of the adjacent shops to pick one up. While waiting, he did a quick radiator flush (I later learned this is usually a very expensive task). After Moose returned, he showed me the new cap, and explained the difference in the vent holes…personally I couldn’t tell, but clearly, he felt it made a difference.
While he calculated his labor, he explained that he would not be able to provide me with a receipt as his printer was down, but he assured me that he would send the receipt to my new address back east. While I was at first immediately suspicious, I was also quickly reassured that if he was going to send a receipt there, he was confident that I would MAKE it there.
Expecting a hefty bill, I looked at the charges of $56.84 in disbelief. He wished me well on my journey, and said I should not have anymore potential overheating problems… “smooth sail,” said he.
That was good to know. I was about to hit the Mojave desert…at two in the afternoon.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Fare Thee Well, City Of Fortune
(N.B. There is quite a gap in the storyline here, but suffice it to say: it didn’t work out.)
My last few days in Ventura were some of the most troubling I’ve had to deal with; a lost job, the prospect of a cross-country trip on my own, disappointed friends who would not have a chance to say goodbye – the list goes on. I was at the point where I was just gonna say forget it and throw everything out and just fly back; at least I’d be home. I went into lockdown, not responding to phone calls or emails, or texts – for almost three solid days, while I deliberated.
But my newly re-charged truck would be my only source of transport upon my return, and it was that deciding factor that allowed me to throw caution to the wind, load her up (easier said), and prepare to depart. So many people to thank, so many small “re-gifts” and giveaways (small legacies to those with whom I’d grown close).
By some small miracle, my cherished landlady Doris was in Minnesota for the July 4th weekend. This would give me a few days reprieve to create some chaos in the apartment and surrounding areas, run a few loads of uninterrupted laundry, and generally tidy up. Strange, in all these six months, that the last time I would see her would be at the office; but it’s how I’d like to remember her: a spritely young 80-something in a straw hat and floral band, in flowing chinos, carrying her volunteerism bag, heading off to her next assignment. Of course, when I arrived home, there was another “Note From Doris” (I’ve saved them all) with some final matters to attend to: return the keys, garage opener, trash removal, mail to bring in with newspapers in her absence…then, in typical fashion, a simple smiley face (with a frown), and a large “D.”
I will miss her.
My friend DMK and his new love, Nancy, were kind enough to have me for a tri-tip barbecue Sunday evening. Their Boxer pair, Buster Brown and Pepper Laurie, bustled about, but behaved in my presence (generally : ) and as the sun began to set, I had an emotional burst of tears, holding on to Buster, my pride and joy, who went from a rambunctious pup (hence his name) – how far in his training he’s come, and he’s a good example for Pepper; she’ll come around.
The following morning was D-day, but I still wanted to say goodbye to Cindy, my fellow nomad, with whom I’d grown very close these last few months, emotionally, spiritually, professionally. I had picked some lemons from the tree in my yard, and had already left some other odds and ends for her that I thought would go well in her apartment.
Ironically, she texted me early in the am, asking if I was still around. We rendezvoused at Palermo, where she had first taken me back in November, when all of this began. The AD of the theatre “crashed” our visit because she wished to say goodbye; it was oddly relaxing and we laughed quite a lot, we three. Once left to our own, I bequeathed the lemons to Cindy with a quip: “When life hands you lemons, make grape juice, “ and as she smiled at me, I finished with, “then sit back and let everyone wonder how you did it.”
Shortly thereafter, I was in my truck; I looked at the clock: 11:11 AM - I made wish. "I wish to make it to Vegas."
And off I went.
###
My last few days in Ventura were some of the most troubling I’ve had to deal with; a lost job, the prospect of a cross-country trip on my own, disappointed friends who would not have a chance to say goodbye – the list goes on. I was at the point where I was just gonna say forget it and throw everything out and just fly back; at least I’d be home. I went into lockdown, not responding to phone calls or emails, or texts – for almost three solid days, while I deliberated.
But my newly re-charged truck would be my only source of transport upon my return, and it was that deciding factor that allowed me to throw caution to the wind, load her up (easier said), and prepare to depart. So many people to thank, so many small “re-gifts” and giveaways (small legacies to those with whom I’d grown close).
By some small miracle, my cherished landlady Doris was in Minnesota for the July 4th weekend. This would give me a few days reprieve to create some chaos in the apartment and surrounding areas, run a few loads of uninterrupted laundry, and generally tidy up. Strange, in all these six months, that the last time I would see her would be at the office; but it’s how I’d like to remember her: a spritely young 80-something in a straw hat and floral band, in flowing chinos, carrying her volunteerism bag, heading off to her next assignment. Of course, when I arrived home, there was another “Note From Doris” (I’ve saved them all) with some final matters to attend to: return the keys, garage opener, trash removal, mail to bring in with newspapers in her absence…then, in typical fashion, a simple smiley face (with a frown), and a large “D.”
I will miss her.
My friend DMK and his new love, Nancy, were kind enough to have me for a tri-tip barbecue Sunday evening. Their Boxer pair, Buster Brown and Pepper Laurie, bustled about, but behaved in my presence (generally : ) and as the sun began to set, I had an emotional burst of tears, holding on to Buster, my pride and joy, who went from a rambunctious pup (hence his name) – how far in his training he’s come, and he’s a good example for Pepper; she’ll come around.
The following morning was D-day, but I still wanted to say goodbye to Cindy, my fellow nomad, with whom I’d grown very close these last few months, emotionally, spiritually, professionally. I had picked some lemons from the tree in my yard, and had already left some other odds and ends for her that I thought would go well in her apartment.
Ironically, she texted me early in the am, asking if I was still around. We rendezvoused at Palermo, where she had first taken me back in November, when all of this began. The AD of the theatre “crashed” our visit because she wished to say goodbye; it was oddly relaxing and we laughed quite a lot, we three. Once left to our own, I bequeathed the lemons to Cindy with a quip: “When life hands you lemons, make grape juice, “ and as she smiled at me, I finished with, “then sit back and let everyone wonder how you did it.”
Shortly thereafter, I was in my truck; I looked at the clock: 11:11 AM - I made wish. "I wish to make it to Vegas."
And off I went.
###
Thursday, April 9, 2009
An Exhaustive Recap
Forgive me gentle readers, for I have committed the sin of omission…it is worse than lying…”not knowing “ is probably the worst offense in my eyes. So – mea culpa. There’s no real excuse, except for the incredibly hectic schedule I inherited.
Rather than bore you with details, I thought I would do my best to do a “Heroes/Lost/The Bachelor/Dexter/Extreme Makeover” edition of this blog to catch you up. Essentially, you are about to encounter a 3 month summary account of the strengths/weaknesses/personal moments/hatred/love and goals I have experienced these last few months.
When last we left, it was December, just before Christmas, and I had landed safe and sound on my Tempurpedic bed, ready to face the day at my new job. Alone in a new world.
So. In one VERY long paragraph, mostly a run-on sentence, loosely-structured with dangling participally-phrased sections along with grammatically incorrect and sometimes even politically incorrect (like I care) observations, may I offer the following:
I woke up and went to work then discovered I work in a basement office which is fine, but it was cold and damp but nonetheless homey; I was blessed to have a friend in DMK who gave me a beautiful office environment as best he could, complete with a gift of holiday candles. Cindy was prepping for her trip back East to see her own family for the holidays, so I had very brief time with her. I spent a lot of time in my office alone learning the ropes as I planned out: -an End Of Year Phone campaign;-a New Year’s Eve VIP holiday dinner with cast members performing from the currently running holiday show;- a Sneak Preview celebration for 2009/10, followed the next day by;-a volunteer luncheon with an additional Sneak Peak of the upcoming two shows: Virginia Woolf and Fiddler On The Roof. Oops sorry. Virginia Woolf and Fiddler On The Roof, in italics…apparently a style point that cannot be ignored.
…not to mention daily contributions, prepping for two new officemates after the New Year, and monitoring all these voluminous RSVPs from strangers about whom I knew nothing. That aside, here’s what’s happened since:
Body clock adjusting-fireplace comfort-Christmas Eve tacos with Doris and family-first show at RTC: Rubicion Family Christmas-emotionally available-overwhelmed by performers-comfort from memory box-completely quiet Christmas-learning that my rental car has to be extended due to holiday hours and I must pay more-reuniting online with estranged Aunt-Tastykake gift boxes and goodies-rearranging furniture-cold, weak in comparison to east coast-limited clothing-New Year’s Eve private party planning-end of year calls-quiet office-flashing forward-missing family & friends-major sponsor Preview Party-exhausted Fundraiser Luncheon next day-disheartened co-workers-plugging on-multiple special events for Virginia Woolf-missing leadership-connecting with immediate manager-Opening Night trials-visit from former boss-more emotional questions-connecting with co-workers-feeling not so bad-learning anomalies of living on a mountain-needing a car-running scared-neglecting Facebook lifelines-visits with local friends in SoCal and LA-rejuvenation-board management and typing up minutes-undue pressure on tasks previously categorized as “other duties as assigned”-allying with senior management-losing a key colleague-laying low-slander-sitting pretty-kudos and credits-new software training-largest cast to be dealt with ever-challenges with monitoring a nicety, not an obligation-research, research, research- vain attempts at competency-reclusiveness-forgetting my feast day-retreating to the brink-monitoring others’ dilemmas and feeling needed-body clock still adjusting three months later, waking at 6 am-questioning purpose-difficult contact for Fiddler Opening Night-secrets unveiled about which I knew nothing-questioning hierarchy-bullish actors-cash flow, professionally and personally-there is so much more…but it’d be a chore to get through. And finally: a reprieve.
A visit from a long lost friend from Cape May. And suddenly, the curtains were drawn, and the light was let in.
Rather than bore you with details, I thought I would do my best to do a “Heroes/Lost/The Bachelor/Dexter/Extreme Makeover” edition of this blog to catch you up. Essentially, you are about to encounter a 3 month summary account of the strengths/weaknesses/personal moments/hatred/love and goals I have experienced these last few months.
When last we left, it was December, just before Christmas, and I had landed safe and sound on my Tempurpedic bed, ready to face the day at my new job. Alone in a new world.
So. In one VERY long paragraph, mostly a run-on sentence, loosely-structured with dangling participally-phrased sections along with grammatically incorrect and sometimes even politically incorrect (like I care) observations, may I offer the following:
I woke up and went to work then discovered I work in a basement office which is fine, but it was cold and damp but nonetheless homey; I was blessed to have a friend in DMK who gave me a beautiful office environment as best he could, complete with a gift of holiday candles. Cindy was prepping for her trip back East to see her own family for the holidays, so I had very brief time with her. I spent a lot of time in my office alone learning the ropes as I planned out: -an End Of Year Phone campaign;-a New Year’s Eve VIP holiday dinner with cast members performing from the currently running holiday show;- a Sneak Preview celebration for 2009/10, followed the next day by;-a volunteer luncheon with an additional Sneak Peak of the upcoming two shows: Virginia Woolf and Fiddler On The Roof. Oops sorry. Virginia Woolf and Fiddler On The Roof, in italics…apparently a style point that cannot be ignored.
…not to mention daily contributions, prepping for two new officemates after the New Year, and monitoring all these voluminous RSVPs from strangers about whom I knew nothing. That aside, here’s what’s happened since:
Body clock adjusting-fireplace comfort-Christmas Eve tacos with Doris and family-first show at RTC: Rubicion Family Christmas-emotionally available-overwhelmed by performers-comfort from memory box-completely quiet Christmas-learning that my rental car has to be extended due to holiday hours and I must pay more-reuniting online with estranged Aunt-Tastykake gift boxes and goodies-rearranging furniture-cold, weak in comparison to east coast-limited clothing-New Year’s Eve private party planning-end of year calls-quiet office-flashing forward-missing family & friends-major sponsor Preview Party-exhausted Fundraiser Luncheon next day-disheartened co-workers-plugging on-multiple special events for Virginia Woolf-missing leadership-connecting with immediate manager-Opening Night trials-visit from former boss-more emotional questions-connecting with co-workers-feeling not so bad-learning anomalies of living on a mountain-needing a car-running scared-neglecting Facebook lifelines-visits with local friends in SoCal and LA-rejuvenation-board management and typing up minutes-undue pressure on tasks previously categorized as “other duties as assigned”-allying with senior management-losing a key colleague-laying low-slander-sitting pretty-kudos and credits-new software training-largest cast to be dealt with ever-challenges with monitoring a nicety, not an obligation-research, research, research- vain attempts at competency-reclusiveness-forgetting my feast day-retreating to the brink-monitoring others’ dilemmas and feeling needed-body clock still adjusting three months later, waking at 6 am-questioning purpose-difficult contact for Fiddler Opening Night-secrets unveiled about which I knew nothing-questioning hierarchy-bullish actors-cash flow, professionally and personally-there is so much more…but it’d be a chore to get through. And finally: a reprieve.
A visit from a long lost friend from Cape May. And suddenly, the curtains were drawn, and the light was let in.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Flights of Fancy
Raymond’s towne car was a welcome relief from the droplets of rain and sleet beginning to pummel my windbreaker. He was belatedly punctual by a few minutes, and I was so exhausted by this point that I was running on pure adrenaline and my emotions were in turmoil; I could have easily been aggravated but what would have been the point…I was on time, and there was little to no traffic ahead…I would make my flight. He courteously stashed what would become my sole source of clothing in the trunk, and I clung to my carry-on for dear life: tickets, money, IDs, precious memories pulled from the box of love given to me just hours before.
I downed a container of OJ from the amenities section of the car; it was quite cushy and plush, and I was able to stretch out fully for a few moments of shut-eye. I begged Raymond’s forgiveness at not being social…he turned up the soft jazz with no apologies and told me to just relax.
As 40 winks turned into 80, we arrived at PHL, and this really was the moment. Raymond attempted to provide this trip to me gratis, but I absolutely insisted he be compensated and given gratuity; I had a moving expense account, so he obliged with some reticence…I’ve known Raymond for years and he has been a very loyal and giving man who has serviced The Grand well. He deserved it, and he did the most important service to me of all, remaining neutral and unemotional as the last person to see me off on my journey. With a professional handshake, he bid me well, and I entered the bowels of the terminal, ticket in hand.
A one-way ticket.
I slept restlessly throughout the flights, dealing with delays of course, from pressure/air conditioning concerns to runway backups. By the time I was on the final leg to Santa Barbara, I was on a small 70-passenger jetliner, where turbulence was abundant by the Santa Ana and Pacific Coast winds…our tiny plane fluctuated up and down, and at times, I thought I was gonna hurl. The odd part about Santa Barbara airport is the flight descends the demarcation of the coastline and swirls around over the ocean before landing. Again, insert hurling stomach here.
But probably the most memorable part of the journey is the fact that you actually descend the staircase from the plane onto the tarmac. Feeling presidential, or at least ambassador-esque, I took each step with precision as I actually felt my feet LAND on ground. A very different experience than being shucked through to a terminal.
Santa Barbara airport is tiny and almost feels like a series of cabana huts. One for luggage, one for coffee, one for car rentals…I was in awe of the landscape: the mountains to the north and the ocean surrounding me. The palm trees were abundant, and the sun was in full force. It was now close to 4 pm, several hours beyond my expected arrival. Rubicon expected me at noon, so the day’s business there was a complete wash. Turning on my previously-prohibited cel phone, I left multiple messages to that effect, and headed toward the Enterprise hub.
Car rentals can actually go quite smoothly if you just simply smile. Rental agents don’t often get that from customers, so take heart. Remember: they are just doing their jobs…and yes, you have an agenda and a timeline, but a little kindness goes a long way. With a series of maps in my lap and personal service from the agents, I was on my way with very specific directions to my destination and an upgrade from econo to luxury car (just because I smiled…I’m not kidding). The 101 freeway beckoned, as soon as I could figure how the hell to get out of the airport maze.
After two u-turns and a few pullovers to get my bearings, I was finally on the right track: 101 South, from Santa Barbara to Ventura, and boy was it worth it. The sun over the ocean and cascading through mountain shadows made indelible images in my mind as I literally hugged the coastline. I was cautious as a grandma driving in the right lane, allowing the natives to furtively pass me. Exit 71 welcomed me without incident, and it spat me onto Main Street at the exact perpendicular spot where Cindy had taken me to the beach back in November. I felt a strange sense of home, or at least familiarity, now knowing where the hell I was.
I did not relish the town as much as I had recalled, but from this perspective it was in great display: the entire thoroughfare was twinkling with lights from streetlight to streetlight, and shoppers were bustling about. As I slowly made my way through main, honoring the Californian pedestrian laws of passage, I recalled from whence I came: a slow and sludgy main street just begging to be the same.
Emerging from the downtown, I passed my new building, the Rubicon, which “anchors” the start of downtown…I had ten more blocks to go. I considered stopping in to the office, but figured by this point, why bother.
Turning left at Catalina, the landmark High School on my right, I started the slow steady climb to the apex where I was about to unpack my long day’s journey. I had been awake now for close to 28 hours.
And there she was: 2010 Sunset Drive. The sun, literally moments from setting, shone across the ocean view as I pulled into the driveway. I had forewarned my landlady Doris of my impending arrival, and there she was, welcoming me with open arms – and a smile.
We descended the cement stairs to the right of the house, and across the pebble veranda that I was now to inherit. She opened the door to what was now…my home.
Inside, the fireplace was roaring, the lights were dimmed, and she escorted me to what she considered to be a “welcome bar” where she had chilled a bottle of chardonnay, plated a tray of cheese and crackers and created a small but thorough dessert spread of chocolate covered pretzels, shaped in the format of reindeer, with miniature M&Ms as eyes and noses, and small pretzel sticks as antlers.
Doris rocks.
She informed me that she had turned down the master bed, knowing I was probably exhausted, and had laid out towels and linens in the bath. I teared up at her hospitality, and she pressured me to just “stop” and relax. By now the sun had just settled in for the night, and the two bay windows of my new residence started to blacken.
Handing me a loaf of bread (a tradition of “abundance” in her family) she darted out as quickly as she welcomed me.
Overwhelmed, I informed those closest to me by text that I had arrived safely. I called my mother as I opened the wine. Voicemail.
I lounged on the brown leather loveseat and took a sip of wine as I tried one of Doris’ reindeer treats.
My body now sufficiently confused, I set the wine and the sugary treat aside, moving sluggishly to my new master bedroom.
I drew the curtains open, and at 6 PM, fell upon the Tempurpedic mattress for the first time. As I drifted off to sleep, the just-waning Leo moon glistened as it moved into Virgo over the ocean; enough about me - it was time to get to work.
I downed a container of OJ from the amenities section of the car; it was quite cushy and plush, and I was able to stretch out fully for a few moments of shut-eye. I begged Raymond’s forgiveness at not being social…he turned up the soft jazz with no apologies and told me to just relax.
As 40 winks turned into 80, we arrived at PHL, and this really was the moment. Raymond attempted to provide this trip to me gratis, but I absolutely insisted he be compensated and given gratuity; I had a moving expense account, so he obliged with some reticence…I’ve known Raymond for years and he has been a very loyal and giving man who has serviced The Grand well. He deserved it, and he did the most important service to me of all, remaining neutral and unemotional as the last person to see me off on my journey. With a professional handshake, he bid me well, and I entered the bowels of the terminal, ticket in hand.
A one-way ticket.
I slept restlessly throughout the flights, dealing with delays of course, from pressure/air conditioning concerns to runway backups. By the time I was on the final leg to Santa Barbara, I was on a small 70-passenger jetliner, where turbulence was abundant by the Santa Ana and Pacific Coast winds…our tiny plane fluctuated up and down, and at times, I thought I was gonna hurl. The odd part about Santa Barbara airport is the flight descends the demarcation of the coastline and swirls around over the ocean before landing. Again, insert hurling stomach here.
But probably the most memorable part of the journey is the fact that you actually descend the staircase from the plane onto the tarmac. Feeling presidential, or at least ambassador-esque, I took each step with precision as I actually felt my feet LAND on ground. A very different experience than being shucked through to a terminal.
Santa Barbara airport is tiny and almost feels like a series of cabana huts. One for luggage, one for coffee, one for car rentals…I was in awe of the landscape: the mountains to the north and the ocean surrounding me. The palm trees were abundant, and the sun was in full force. It was now close to 4 pm, several hours beyond my expected arrival. Rubicon expected me at noon, so the day’s business there was a complete wash. Turning on my previously-prohibited cel phone, I left multiple messages to that effect, and headed toward the Enterprise hub.
Car rentals can actually go quite smoothly if you just simply smile. Rental agents don’t often get that from customers, so take heart. Remember: they are just doing their jobs…and yes, you have an agenda and a timeline, but a little kindness goes a long way. With a series of maps in my lap and personal service from the agents, I was on my way with very specific directions to my destination and an upgrade from econo to luxury car (just because I smiled…I’m not kidding). The 101 freeway beckoned, as soon as I could figure how the hell to get out of the airport maze.
After two u-turns and a few pullovers to get my bearings, I was finally on the right track: 101 South, from Santa Barbara to Ventura, and boy was it worth it. The sun over the ocean and cascading through mountain shadows made indelible images in my mind as I literally hugged the coastline. I was cautious as a grandma driving in the right lane, allowing the natives to furtively pass me. Exit 71 welcomed me without incident, and it spat me onto Main Street at the exact perpendicular spot where Cindy had taken me to the beach back in November. I felt a strange sense of home, or at least familiarity, now knowing where the hell I was.
I did not relish the town as much as I had recalled, but from this perspective it was in great display: the entire thoroughfare was twinkling with lights from streetlight to streetlight, and shoppers were bustling about. As I slowly made my way through main, honoring the Californian pedestrian laws of passage, I recalled from whence I came: a slow and sludgy main street just begging to be the same.
Emerging from the downtown, I passed my new building, the Rubicon, which “anchors” the start of downtown…I had ten more blocks to go. I considered stopping in to the office, but figured by this point, why bother.
Turning left at Catalina, the landmark High School on my right, I started the slow steady climb to the apex where I was about to unpack my long day’s journey. I had been awake now for close to 28 hours.
And there she was: 2010 Sunset Drive. The sun, literally moments from setting, shone across the ocean view as I pulled into the driveway. I had forewarned my landlady Doris of my impending arrival, and there she was, welcoming me with open arms – and a smile.
We descended the cement stairs to the right of the house, and across the pebble veranda that I was now to inherit. She opened the door to what was now…my home.
Inside, the fireplace was roaring, the lights were dimmed, and she escorted me to what she considered to be a “welcome bar” where she had chilled a bottle of chardonnay, plated a tray of cheese and crackers and created a small but thorough dessert spread of chocolate covered pretzels, shaped in the format of reindeer, with miniature M&Ms as eyes and noses, and small pretzel sticks as antlers.
Doris rocks.
She informed me that she had turned down the master bed, knowing I was probably exhausted, and had laid out towels and linens in the bath. I teared up at her hospitality, and she pressured me to just “stop” and relax. By now the sun had just settled in for the night, and the two bay windows of my new residence started to blacken.
Handing me a loaf of bread (a tradition of “abundance” in her family) she darted out as quickly as she welcomed me.
Overwhelmed, I informed those closest to me by text that I had arrived safely. I called my mother as I opened the wine. Voicemail.
I lounged on the brown leather loveseat and took a sip of wine as I tried one of Doris’ reindeer treats.
My body now sufficiently confused, I set the wine and the sugary treat aside, moving sluggishly to my new master bedroom.
I drew the curtains open, and at 6 PM, fell upon the Tempurpedic mattress for the first time. As I drifted off to sleep, the just-waning Leo moon glistened as it moved into Virgo over the ocean; enough about me - it was time to get to work.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, January 16, 2009
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.
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.
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