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.
###

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.

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.

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.

WE’LL NEVER SAY “GOODBYE” – my heart at its fullest.

…and this is a long one. Brace yourselves.
She burst into tears upon seeing me; she had thought she had missed the opportunity to say goodbye. Pam, of all people, was the last one I expected to cry at my farewell…not. She and I had had our share of tears with each other in terms of office troubles, but I was not expecting this well of waterworks. She had to go on home to take care of her young ‘uns, and 20 minutes in, had to go, thinking she would not see me again.
The long hallway begged to differ.
We embraced as we never had, and she knew full well that in the lobby, a slew of people had already assembled…she encouraged me to traverse the hall, and we bid a quick farewell. Quick is best, and we both knew that…and we also knew this would not be the end; just a temporary distraction from seeing each other every day. I knew I would miss her, but something was telling me…this wasn’t over yet. Not with Pam. I strode along, and as I turned the corner to enter the lobby, I heard that familiar echoing clink of the double metal doors on the opposite end of the corridor…that quickly she was gone…the first.
I opened the lobby doors.
I don’t suppose anyone was expecting me to enter from anyplace except for the main entrance…in fact, many had their backs to me in anticipation of my arrival; it was like the surprise party gone wrong – everyone suddenly turning around, re-acclimating themselves to my understated entrance. The hugs and hellos commenced and I was astounded by so many dear and familiar faces…young and old, theatre and non, family and friends, co-workers, colleagues…and a few recent newcomers into my life.
The lobby was already decked out for the Christmas Show at the theatre, and the theme continued with a long set of tables spread center with sandwiches and crudite, snacks and sweets, festively dressed in holiday decor. The Christmas tree was lit, and there was a piano and microphone set in place…hmm. The bar was open, and my favorite Grand volunteers were standing at the ready. Along one side, a miniature “shrine” was laid out, with scalped photos of me downloaded from my Facebook page, all framed in splendor, along with the quintessential photo of me: the one that was also on my goodbye cake…the “yes, it IS my job” photo of me bussing tables at The Grand’s Season Preview. As I continued hugging and saying hellos, I also found out why everyone was facing the main entrance: there was a sandwich board with a large-scale photo of me on both sides out on the sidewalk with an arrow pointing inside. I laughed out loud when I saw it…a frightening marquee, if ever there was. I was additionally giddy at the current art exhibit on the walls of the acrobatic Three Little Bakers…my face had been cut and pasted into almost every one of them, and taped over the face of the unsuspecting Bakers…odd to see me in black and white unitards…haven’t seen that since college. I was filled with mirth.
My heart was particularly touched when I saw our Vice Chairman of the Board, and the Co-Chairs of Board Development appear, with hearty congratulations and best wishes. They three are some of the closest colleagues I have had on the board, and I was touched that they came…we laughed and recounted many a tale – of old and new regimes—and they each in their own way stated how they wondered how The Grand will go on without me. I assured them it would, because they would be the ones to see to it. I encouraged them to proceed to “the shrine” and drop a note in my “memory box”…a large colorful box brightly on display with paper and pens nearby. The only thing I asked of anyone coming to my farewell: let me take my memories with me. Everyone seemed to be in compliance.
And then I noticed a figure dressed in black, her strawberry blond hair resting gently on her shoulders; she was sipping a glass of wine. Laney was not expected. In fact, she and I had had some words about my leaving. But I had hoped against hope we would mend…that’s what friends do…they can fight, and tell it like it is…and then…move past it. Laney and I seem to have that kind of strength in our friendship. She is one of my “five little fingers.” By that I mean, there is a longstanding theory I have adopted ever since my father’s funeral. My brother Jimmy, his namesake, gave his eulogy, during which he relayed this perspective from my dad (one which, I unfortunately did not learn until he had passed): “If you have five good friends,” he said, flexing his thumb, index, middle, ring, and pinky fingers, “they will give you,” (here he reached out) “…a hand.”
Laney is one of my fingers. The index one, in fact. The maiden mother, the pointer in right directions, the pointer of shame, the pointer of emphasis and “listen to me.”
I had thought my index finger was “broken.” But here she was…reluctant, unwilling, reserved. I approached her softly, and we embraced. Unlike we’d ever have…it almost felt like it could not ever end…such strength, such depth, such emotion attached…it was surreal.
She did not wish to stay long, and continued to insist that “this isn’t happening.” We spoke intimately, and made peace. Spoke from the heart, and spoke truth. Again, I assured myself, this isn’t over yet. And with her trademark softest kiss in the world on my tear-lined cheek…she was off.
That was two.
But my finger felt better.
More hellos, more hugs…it was beginning to get crowded…I was not expecting this. My boss, Steve Bailey, arrived with his wife, Maryann, and their two Cairn Terriers in tow: Jack and Gracie (my adopted “kids”…I would sit for them often while the Baileys would travel to Florida or Montana…and exercise some discipline with them…they are not wonderfully trained – cause they’re spoiled – but they are responsive:) .
Jack and Gracie flitted about, obviously turned on by the smell of the food display, and searching for remnants between visits to my calves and scraping me in their traditional pawing at my legs. Steve and Maryann met me with quiet determination – knowing the inevitable, we all went on to mingling. Clearly, they were headed to the bar to improve their steely resolve.
Melissa zoomed in to me as I petted the doggies. She uprighted me and turned me in the direction of the main entrance to the lobby…asking me if I’d seen who had arrived. I was stunned. There he was, Damian, my best friend from high school, along with Ann Pinto McCarney, whom I’d known since we were 10, along with her darling husband Dean. All my worlds were colliding. But in a good way. I could not believe my eyes. We embraced as if it were yesterday. Oh my, how time goes by. They knew so many others in the room as well that I knew they were in excellent company, and I promised myself I would catch up in moments…again, best laid plans. I was stupid not to dedicate every precious moment I had to them. No regrets, Patrick, no regrets. Here they were…wow…what an honor.
I spent a goodly amount of time with the Robsons, David and Sonja, and their daughter Ingrid…whom I’d not really seen since 1995 (well, Ingrid wasn’t part of the equation back then). David, a playwright, and Sonja, his actress wife, and I had done work together to Christen City Theater’s Pub Plays in “the old days.” Our tour de force was Christopher Durang’s Naomi In The Living Room…my first real excursion at drag (and my last!). We were briefly interrupted by board members from another theatre at which I worked, New Candlelight…Sue and Tom Hornung…I was so very surprised and delighted at their arrival…what a compliment. And how enthusiastic they were, despite my loss as a fellow board member.
And then: Mother arrived.
With big brother Jimmy in tow…I was glad they’d endured the weather and the half-hour trek from outside Philly to come down to lil’ ol’ Wilmington. Famished, she immediately grabbed a sub sandwich and a plate, took a seat, and chowed down as I got her a VO Manhattan. Mother’s not shy; there’s a reason she goes by “Auntie Mame.” (“Felize”…her other nickname, is another story entirely.) She handed me a card and then another card from my Godmother Aunt Bernie…and said, “Now don’t spend it all on pizza.” My mom knows how obsessed I am with pizza. She doesn’t hesitate to remind me; and I don’t hesitate to remind HER that pepperoni pizza is the best of the best when it comes to representing the four Food Groups: meat, dairy, bread, and veggie. True?
[Editor’s Note: Please substitute the word Pizza in the above paragraph with “Beer.” But the Pizza thing is true, too.]
The Robsons joined us at our table and Jimmy and Mom (a bit out of their element with “theatre folk” as they always are) actually engaged in great conversation with them…I suppose Ingrid Robson, a darling beauty, their daughter, helped break the ice. Soon Melissa joined us (my middle finger, the “rebellious” one who just simply tells me like it is, or just tells me off), and then, Steve Bailey took the floor by taking the mic. I gathered it was now “showtime.”
Steve was sturdy as he awaited silence among the cast of characters assembled. He was endearingly gracious as he attested to my years of service at The Grand, but I was moved when he started to talk about where I was off to. “Patrick is going to a place where he can truly follow his heart and his passion for the theatre, something The Grand cannot offer him here, and he is daring to take that chance to go and follow his heart” was the general gist of it…but I was really taken with the fact that at this very moment, he truly understood me. Understood my choice, my motivation…Steve – finally – “got” me. He raised his glass, along with the rest, in an unexpected toast to my future…I was beginning to well up.
“And on with the show,” Steve continued, handing the mic to Melissa, as my dear friend Steve Weatherman took to the piano.
I was not prepared for this. I dashed to the bar for “A Slice Of Pizza.”
Melissa Joy Hart, ever the professional Cabaret Artist, began the first in a series of dedication songs. I don’t know where she found the strength…she and I have a tumultuous history…the stuff of bestsellers (and it will be)…but lo and behold, she belted out “Listen To My Heart” (our song forever) with finesse and flair and I was on the first of my series of waterworks. I had never heard such gusto come from her…it reminded me how much I am attracted to her talent…which is the understatement of the year. My best friend gave me the greatest gift of all…her heart…and I embrace it daily. “Listen to my voice, and it will tell you everything: all about the life, that’s just about to start, so if you want to know how much I love you, listen to my heart.” I’m always listening.
Not that she could be trumped, but if there was ever a gift of love coming at me, it was next: Melissa (Bernard) Dammeyer, my pioneer with City Theater. Melissa is an actress. Got that? ACTRESS. She doesn’t sing…but this night, she did…and she stepped up, singing what has become City Theater’s theme song, “Young At Heart”…quaking lyrics in hand, trembling in her voice…it didn’t matter…this Melissa was singing, actually singing…just for me…and she later said, it was ONLY because of me that she did that. It was a double whammy…freely given with love. “And here is the best part; you have a head start; if you are among the very young,…at heart.” Never were words more true.
I was surprised at the next performer…my first love, Michael Gray…we go a long way back…and we have an unending connection that defies comprehension…even ours. A creative connection, a brain drain, an understanding: he thinks something and I know how to make it into words – or a picture. I laughed at the intro to his song, “Anyone Can Whistle” (we’re both Stephen Sondheim whores, and this show is the one we always promised we’d do together, …cause NO ONE does it…best laid plans, ah well…story’s not over yet). He sang the title song with his sublime baritone, and all the wasted time with him (or so I’d ever thought) was worth every second. You never forget your first love. Michael and I will always be connected. “Maybe you could show me, how to let go; lower my guard; learn to be free; maybe if you whistle…whistle for me.” I definitely will.
I continued wiping tears as I hugged his rippled figure…there is not one in my life who has the strength to break my back the way Michael does…and then, adjusting the mic to her her 4’11’’ stature, stood Karen…duly dubbed “small but mighty” by me. She is the pinky. (Jury’s not out on this amongst the fingers, but I know my own hand.) The one that somehow keeps the others connected. Not an easy task…which is why she is small but mighty.
I knew the music immediately…again, “our song.” “Trust The Wind” is especially important to Karen and Me…she is a triple Air sign…it’s an astrology thing…but she and I get it, and that’s all that matters…she is in many ways, wind beneath me (differently than Melissa, my Air polarity…again, I digress) and Karen knows how important this song is to me…sometimes you just have to trust. And that’s what I was doing…it was a truly blessed gift from her to lend her voice to its message…again, I was waterworks. “I know wherever breezes blow, wherever winding rivers flow, I’m going where I need to go. I can TRUST the wind.” I have, and I do.
But no one could prepare me for the last presentation. Genevieve (Gen, my Anam Cara, my spiritual soul connection) was suddenly in the lineup. I didn’t see her arrive; I just saw her suddenly there. I heard the first few chords of her song and was shocked to stillness. The one I had asked her to learn so many moons ago: “Ship In A Bottle” …I thought it would be a good audition song for her soprano and her belt…an eclectic mix that she has, not unlike Melissa. I turned to one side, realizing that Steve and Maryann Bailey were right at my side, watching…watching…watching me watching her. I moved closer to them. Maryann put her arm around my waist and held me fast. The tears just didn’t stop, hearing the lyrics of “a little boy sailor…taking his chances on the wind and the sea.”
I was a fucking mess.
I was asked to approach the mic, to give a “speeeeech….speeeeech”…not exactly my thing, but I conceded.
Jack licked at my heels as I started speaking…thanking everyone (many of whom I’d not even said hello to yet, and arrived mid “Cabaret”). I didn’t have many words, except of thanks to The Board and The Staff of The Grand…to everyone who made the evening possible, my five little fingers…to friends, old and new, and with thanks for their support and encouragement this night…and I quickly closed (cause I am NOT a speech maker) with a quote from my friend Steve Weatherman, the man who had so graciously dedicated his piano talents to each song that night…he and I had had a discussion about this whole huge transition and how serendipitously all the elements fell into place: the job, the apartment, the whole new life. He had turned me on to a quote by Goethe: “Act courageously, and you will attract mighty forces.”
It was the last thing I said to everyone. I encouraged everyone to act courageously. And then…the party continued.
It was time to turn to my Ring Finger. Sue Werb. She had arrived with all of my closest professional colleagues in the Special Events Industry.
But she and I go way deeper than that. She is my mother, my sister, my friend, my coworker, my heart…my…words can’t say.
She is the Ring Finger. My commitment. To love. To know that love is possible. My protector, my maternal instinct, my provider instinct…my teacher. There really just aren’t words. She is so much of my hand all rolled into one fiery, fierce fist…(make a fist and see for yourself which finger hits the palm first)…there is just nothing else possible without love. She knows that. As do I. She totally represents that to me.
And I will miss her greatly. But if I went on about her, she’d be embarrassed…so I shall honor that.
After some time, Mother and Jimmy said goodbye, thanking me for knowing how much I was loved and how many people cared about me; Jimmy later said to my mom: “I’m sorry I never saw more of his shows…he’s done good.” I don’t begrudge this. Jimmy and I are just fine; there is always something inherently connected between the oldest and youngest of siblings.
Mom and Jimmy seemed to start the trend: the period of goodbyes.
They started to waterfall over me, and there is too much to recall; who they were, what they mean, how they impacted my life…there just aren’t words…and time is fleeting; which is why I asked them all to contribute to the “memory box.” That was the point. To remember. To take each of them with me.
There were photos, relegated to “respective theatre companies only” that I had worked with…there was my roommate, Karin, and her friend Sarah, with whom I’d spent the last year bonding with, only to have this bond severed. There was Bee and Denny and scores of friends…how lucky was I.
There were goodbyes with Ann and Dean and Damian…my best friends of all time and all years. The Robsons gave me a collective hug (including Ingrid, who gave me multiple memories in my box…having only just met her).
Things were winding down.
I was pulled aside by Steve Bailey near my memory box, and he wanted a moment alone. He didn’t want to leave things to chance when I would open his “memory”…which he promptly handed me, a slick, 10 x 1 inch neatly and tightly wrapped gift…I was befuddled at his insistence.
As I opened it, he started to speak, saying he was looking for the “right” thing to give to me…that he really didn’t quite know, but he was standing at his dresser and this came to mind…the gift of time. It was at that moment I had unwrapped the package, like Charlie from the Chocolate Factory, looking at a golden ticket. There it was: his Prized Wittnauer Watch…his favorite…black leather band and gold encrusted with diamonds…rectangular in shape…I was reminded of the ghetto “claw watch” I got from Dave & Busters with Jen and her brother Don in Irvine…which, remarkably, had just STOPPED working that night, otherwise I would have worn it. Steve is a collector of watches and I know how much this particular one means to him; for him to pass it on to me was a generational, intimate, moment…this was one of his babies. I was an unexpectant heir to his fortune.
I looked at him with tears in my eyes (and my eyes only, he wouldn’t have stood for otherwise)…he embraced me with a half armed hug…his style…and he too had reticent tears in his eyes as he said with a choked up voice…”you take good care of that.”
Not knowing how to respond, I said, “I will. Time’s on my side now.”
He and I, duly parted now, looked at each other one last time. He went off to wrangle Jack and Gracie.
And I was left with a series of more goodbyes. But not before a last “hello.”
Tom Shade, my longtime friend, my City Theater director, muse, and confidante, had just arrived….he’d missed the festivities, but there he stood…in line as I bid my farewells over and over again…just to say hello.
It was an exhaustive wait for him, I am now certain…the photos, the posing, the long goodbyes…Tom has always been patient. It has always been his strength…especially when dealing with me. I was enthralled by his presence…I mean…presents. His presence WAS a present.
I had one more goodbye to say as he waited, scruffy beard, tousled hair…the Tom I know and love. I was wondering where his wife and children were, but, from Towson, MD, I’m sure it would’ve been a hike.
Steve Bailey was waiting with the dogs off to one side of the lobby…I had a lovely redhead in front of me, Steve’s wife, Maryann, who, whether she realizes it or not, is the start of my “second set of fingers to give me a hand”…she is class with a capital C. And we have grown close these last two years…for a lot of reasons…none the least of which is: we both have taken care of the same School Boy lo all this time…we share the same heartache, heartburn, heartlift.
She couldn’t believe it as much as I could, that this was a last hug. She held fast to me with her Taurean stability. I couldn’t let go either. “It’s only California” we agreed…for someone who goes to Ohio, LA, Montana and Florida…it was a simple solution to wipe our tears. She did however walk away from me with her own full teary eyes…she turned her back and I watched her pull her hand to each side of her face to wipe her tears…I know Maryann has the strength within her to move past all this. She and I and Steve have been through worse.
Tom was waiting…and it was only fitting that he and I connected once again as the event breakdown occurred. Tom and I quickly caught up, but the scenario was subsiding…and there were a few guests waiting up the block at The Exchange, a local pub that has survived the Wilmington Renaissance and has actually thrived…I am optimistic for Wilmington in this regard.
I watched as the staff of GOH cleaned up…it was weird not to be part of that. I was accustomed to cleaning up after myself…this time, however, it was all taken care of. I hugged Melissa, saying I would see her later up at The Exchange.
And then Small But Mighty was reluctantly nearby for me to say farewell as she tidied up the lobby. There is something to be said about 6’1” hugging 4’1”…it’s a good fit. Karen was, I dare say, flummoxed, that “this” was “it.”
She held fast to me, and I to her…neither of us wanting to trust the wind. But we knew we must. With some strength, from God Only Knows Where, we were able to let go…nah, probably a better term is: let be.
I walked past the Almighty Grand Opera House for the very last time, up to The Exchange, where a bit of an AfterParty awaited.
I had a Relocation Pod still to pack, but each moment was now precious. Time. My new friend. Was now on my side.

FEARING A FAREWELL - time is not on my side

The day had arrived; a blustery and cold day, but sunny enough to tend to packing up “some” items in the ominous pod. It was strange to carry things down four flights of steps (my thighs would pay for it later) and, while I hoped I would’ve been further along, I just simply…was not.
I had to have an exit interview with HR, to finalize my keys, my phone, my pension, my last paycheck…oh the details. I finally handed off my keys to Christine, like a yoke lifted off my neck. She accepted them with a certain reluctance, knowing that there were a bunch more of facility keys in her newly inherited desk. There is a bit of power that comes with keys…if you can open doors, then you can do pretty much anything. It was a gift bestowed upon me that I took for granted; I hope she does not do the same.
And while I can’t quite recall all the details, because I had to say good bye to so many in the building in so many varying places, I finally walked out of The Grand…keyless…and I decided to take the main entrance, those looming 14’ doors that have been so welcoming for so long. I turned and glanced at its Parisian cast iron façade once more; the sun was starting to set, and…as I was just about to walk on and due to the setting sun, the sensors for its multicolored lights illuminated its 5 glorious stories…I was being bid farewell even by she herself; The Grand. I smiled in awe and wonder. Then turned away.
Errands to the bank, errands to the stores, I was quickly up the stairs of my four flight apartment, and finalizing a few more boxes and streamlining my thoughts: this was it. Tonight was my going away “gala” and then…off I would go, in less than 12 hours.
My roommate Karin arrived at the apartment, her custom, around 6 pm…we only had about an hour left to be with each other. Karin has been a true blessing; she comes from San Francisco after living in DE for most of her life; but California was where she, too, bloomed. Perhaps it was another one of those serendipitous moments that she joined me as my roommate a year ago…perhaps she was laying a foundation for me with all her glorious tales. We spent many a night out on “the moondeck” (as she Christened it with twinkle lights and candles), and had our share of spats as to who was to provide toilet paper versus paper towels. One thing I admire about Karin (among many things), is her ability to get the job done; she waits for nothing…lesson learned. I only hope my landlord, now in her hands, can oblige…if not, he’s gonna have to deal with her fiery energy, of which mine pales in comparison.
She was coming to the Farewell, and we worked out minor details of what her inheritance would be: largely, everything I had already inherited and was in the apartment…with the exception of my massage reading chair, and the bistro kitchen table set. Other than that, she got it good. I was off to a fully furnished place, and did not need much. She and I held fast with a strong hug; she knew that she would not get to spend much time with me at the Farewell.
But I later learned that she had rearranged everything she inherited in the apartment (what, less than a week later??); her call. I am glad things now suit her needs.
I put on my best Californian jeans (compliments of my excursion with Sean back over Thanksgiving), and my favorite orange oxford (a gift from my ex Steve, with whom I had recently made peace after our breakup in April…another catalyst in this process…but not THE REASON…I am not running away, I am running TO)…I added my favorite new shoes, and as I was futzing with my hair (always a challenge), Melissa called me: it was exactly 7 pm. I assured her I was on my way…and I put on my windbreaker and hood, because the cold had given way to a small rainstorm…I worried about my mother driving in this weather.
Fifteen minutes later, I had parked at the lot where I had done so for six years, climbed the hill a bit, and decided to go into the back entrance of the building…knowing full well that, without keys, the only thing “still intact” was my keycode to the pad outside its entrance.
I opened the door and shook off the rain. I stared at the long hallway which I had tread for so many mornings I simply cannot count; then a similarly cloaked figure started walking down the same hall towards me. The fluorescent lights did not reveal, and I had already taken my glasses off to wipe off the mist. The petite figure ran for me as I put on my specs and my eyes adjusted.