I am Michael, hear me Rohrer

My Life on Delay

2012-01-28T08:30:00.000-05:00

Picture it. Paducah, Kentucky. A small city airport. Instead of arriving two hours before my flight (as I’ve pretty much done since 9/11) I arrived just over an hour before take off. I expected people to already be going through security. I tried to stay calm and not let my later-than-usual-arrival bother me. Paducah airport employees are notorious for sending us through security early. I was already checked in and had paid for my bag so there was no reason to fear. Of course Paducah’s airport is so small that they aren’t equipped with the scanning equipment that would allow me to go green and scan my boarding pass on my iPhone. But I digress. I knew I was going to have to turn in the bag and get it tagged as well as get a boarding pass when we got there. Still, no real reason to worry.

There was a severe thunderstorm heading into the area that evening, but I had checked the weather for my departure time out of Paducah, my departure time out of Chicago and my arrival time in NYC. Each flight seemed to be departing and arriving without major weather interference. Again, trying to maintain calm.

As I stood in the line to get my boarding pass and bag claim ticket, one of the TSA employees noticed my dad. She knew him. She came over to talk to us. Introductions were made. Blah, blah, blah. Then she asked me what flight I was on. A stupid question really considering Paducah was only connecting to Chicago. I told her I was flying to NYC through Chicago and she quickly blurted out, “It’s been delayed.” The words connected with my brain as I was looking at the smile on her face. It was almost as if she was finding some pleasure in this information. I know that she wasn’t, but I couldn’t let go of the feeling. I asked her why. She had no explanation to give me. I was standing there stunned and my heart sank into the pit of my stomach. Seriously, I could not believe that this flight was delayed. And not just delayed a few minutes. Delayed by a couple hours.

When I finally made it to the front of the line the man I spoke to was very calm and reassuring. He was doing a great job at not letting the frustrations of the travelers get him down. Gold star! The reason for the delay: fog in Chicago. I had a connecting flight in Chicago that was to depart at 6pm. We were pushed from 2:49pm to 4:55pm for our departure. That meant I had no chance of making that connection. The 7pm out of Chicago was already sold out, but the 9pm still had seats. Great! I’m tentatively booked on the 9pm departing O’Hare at the time I was supposed to be arriving home in NYC. Beggars can’t be choosers. I wanted to get home. For no other reason than I just wanted to.

So, at this point I was still on the 6pm flight in case the pilots decided when the plane arrived from Chicago that they were going to turn right around and fly back, but I was also tentatively booked on the 9pm in the event that we really were delayed. To delay or not to delay. That is the question. Give me some answers.

As I sat in the airport with my parents I realized that I might be frustrated, but there was no reason to be angry. All of this was out of my control. There was nothing I could do but wait. If for some reason I couldn’t get out of Paducah that evening then I would go back to my parents’ house and spend the night. It really wasn’t that dire a situation. It was merely frustrating. I tried to let go.

Four fifteen and we’re going through security. I have to pause here for a moment of sincere tenderness. I bought my mom The Help before I had even read it myself based on recommendations of others. I then read it and of course loved it. She also loved it. We each saw the film version and I asked for it on DVD for Christmas. I have watched the DVD already, but wanted to take it with me to my parents’ house so that my mom and I could watch it together. I cried just like I have every time. Every time! I love it. Anyway, mom stood in front of me. We were facing each other with a light grip on each others upper arms. She said to me, “You is kind. You is smart. You is important.” When she started saying the words I joined her and we said them in unison. It reminded me of a time back in the late 90’s when I had taken a Greyhound Bus to Nashville, Tennessee for an extended stay at my parents’ house while I waited for the theatre where I worked to book a new show. At that point Wide Open Spaces by the Dixie Chicks was a hugely popular album; the title song a bonafide hit. When the time came for me to actually head back to NYC (two weeks later), she and dad drove me to Nashville. I went though the doors and started to climb the steps of the bus. Mom opened the door and said, “Check the oil,” a lyric from the song "Wide Open Spaces" about a girl getting ready to drive away and begin her own life. It puts a smile on my face any time I think about. The line from The Help now joins the ranks. I’m a sentimental fool. Any thoughts on where I get it?

So learning from each trip through security how to separate my belongings for the X-ray, I grabbed three tubs. One held my boots. One held my coat and scarf. One held my computer and iPhone. I sent my bag through by itself. At LaGuardia on the way to Kentucky they had to send it through a second time on its own, so I started there this time. Everything in its neat little line, feeding through the X-ray machine, I looked at the TSA agent and awaited her motion for me to walk through the metal detector. I beeped. I took off my bracelet and threw it into the tub with my boots which had yet to make it into the black box and the eye of the X-ray. I walked back through. I beeped. I removed my belt and threw it into the tub with my still waiting boots. I never beep. Ever. This was frustrating for me. The delay, the beeps, the frustration. I walked back through. No beep. Not this time. But something new. I got sent to the side for a pat down. A pat down! It was the woman who knew my dad. I’ve never had a pat down in my life. So there I was standing in my sock feet, jeans, no belt, no bracelet and no beep getting a pat down in Paducah, Kentucky. My parents stood just beyond the separating glass watching as I was checked for security issues.

Then the trouble I had taken to send everything through the X-ray so that it could all be examined easily hit a snag. For the second time in a row my Marc Jacobs bag had to be sent through again. The TSA agent asked if it was my bag. I answered affirmatively. She said she needed to open it. I nodded approval. She took out my coin purse, which had my Sugar lip moisturizer inside, and sent the bag through again. At that point I was thinking they might not let me take the Sugar on the plane. It is not inside a 1-quart bag and I guess it could be dangerous. I did get a pat down after all. I must look suspicious. The frustration continued to stew. Sugar is not cheap. I was already thinking that I would have to control my anger if this Podunk airport wouldn’t let me take it on the plane when it got through security in NYC with no problem.

Turns out it was the change purse and its contents that were throwing them off. I’m not sure what it looked like on the X-ray machine, but they deemed my bag okay after a second go through. They also didn’t take my Sugar. Crisis averted.
I waved a final goodbye to my parents, redressed myself then headed to the waiting area on that side of security. From one blue seat to another. Separated by glass walls. Sitting and waiting.

Finally we started boarding the plane. Every one was onboard. The flight attendant had counted, people had changed seats, the flight attendant had counted again, seat belts had been fastened and the flight attendant spiel has been spieled. Then the door was closed and locked. It was at that point that our captain told us that Chicago has cleared us for a 5:30pm departure. Collective groans. See, we’re on the plane for a 5pm departure being told we’re going to be sitting in the closed plane for at least half-an-hour more before departure. In a codicil to the aforementioned announcement, we were told that our departure could be later. There was not only fog in Chicago, but due to the snow they’d received the day before they had limited runways in use. I was thinking that our small plane must be unimportant to the powers-that-be in the tower at O’Hare.

As we sat their waiting to depart we were informed that due to the fog there was a chance we couldn’t land in Chicago. If this was the case we were going to divert our landing to Cleveland, Ohio. Another groan. Really? There we were trapped in this flying, tin tube, being told we might not even land where our connecting flights are departing. I started pondering why hadn’t the 5:30pm departure been told to us before the door locked us in? Why hadn’t the possibility of a Cleveland landing been disclosed to us? The frustration was building yet again, but then I remembered that all of this was out of my control. There was nothing I could do. I had to - HAD TO - roll with the punches.

I pulled out my book and started to read. I already knew I was going to miss my 6pm connection to NYC in Chicago so I had been officially rebooked on the 9pm flight. I just had to sit and wait for the plane to roll and the wheels to lift off.

The flight was uneventful. We departed at 5:30pm and we landed in Chicago. No Cleveland. No Betty White. Sigh of relief. Then we sat. On the plane. Waiting. Limited runways meant we landed far enough away from our gate to taxi for a while. Then we waited at the gate for the bags that were to be picked up curbside to be taken off the plane. The man next to me was frustrated. No, I would say angry. When the flight attendant announced the information about us waiting for the bags, my seat mate yelled, “Not everyone has a bag to pick up and some of us have tight connections.” His voice was as arched as my uplifted eyebrows. I’m not sure if it was his yelling or if the arrival of the bag cart coincided with it, but the doors opened almost immediately. We began to exit. I let him off in front of me. I had no where to be. My layover was now 2.5 hours. I was stuck. From one blue seat in a waiting area in Kentucky to a blue seat in a waiting area in Illinois. My ass was tired of those blue seats. I was tired. The waiting sucked.

Gate B8 was my departure gate out of O’Hare. I found its waiting area to be empty and inviting. The gate agents were nice enough. The man was a little snippy, but I’ve been that too at the end of a long day of work. I’m sure the weather knocking out flights didn’t help any agent’s disposition that day. The woman was funny with a sense of humor I recognized as my own. I asked her for an aisle and she obliged with one that put me closer to the front than my already assigned window seat. I thanked her. She told me my request had been an easy one.

I chose a seat from all the empties and sat. I people watched. I smiled at cute guys. I bemoaned to myself how many of them were straight. I played Hanging With Friends on my iPhone and sent texts. Ah, the ways of passing time while waiting in an airport.

Soon enough the female gate agent with the sense of humor made the announcement that our gate had changed. Not a big deal. We moved from B8 to B9. It was just on the other side of security. I made my way to B9 and sat in yet another chair.

People started to filter into the gate area. I happened to look up at the television screen that was showing our flight number and indicating the names of people eligible for upgrades, etc., when I noticed it said we were delayed to 9:20pm. My heart sank. First flight delayed by 2.5 hours. Missed connection. Second flight delayed by 20 minutes. What could I do? Nothing but wait. I couldn’t allow myself anger. It would have been stupid. I was at the mercy of someone else and the weather. It was out of my control.

The board then changed from 9:20pm to a delay of 10pm. That now meant a 2am arrival in NYC. I rolled my eyes. I became droll as I passed on the information to asking passengers. The reason on the screen said: Operations. What did that mean? It didn’t say weather. It didn’t say fog. Operations? Is that mechanical? The arriving flight that would then be restocked and take us to NYC had not arrived yet. I heard a gate agent tell someone else that prized piece of information. Okay, so maybe that was what “Operations” meant.

Finally the flight arrived. I watched the people deplane. They looked okay. No one looked thankful to just be on the ground. I always check for that as an indication that maybe the flight was turbulent or something.

More people began arriving in the gate area for the 9pm departure. Reactions were mixed as they discovered the flight’s delay to 10pm. Most just sat to wait. Some wanted to rebook for the morning and go to a hotel. I’m not kidding. It was delayed an hour and a group of seven people contemplated going back to their hotel. Come on! I could keep the stupid thoughts about them from scrolling across my brain.

There we were, the passengers and the flight crew, sitting, waiting for our moment to board. It came as a shock to all of us when the voice of the gate agent, the one I had overheard tell of the arriving plane’s lateness, boomed over the speaker that he was sorry to inform those of us on United flight 762 to LaGuardia that our flight had been cancelled. Cancelled! No explanation. Nothing. Just cancelled. Please go to Customer Service. I was defeated. People ran to the Customer Service desk. The line was ridiculously long. It seems more than one flight had been cancelled. I don’t understand what the delay of “Operations” meant and I don’t understand why they didn’t tell us the reason for the cancellation. The frustration was boiling up. I knew I would be doing nothing but hurting myself if I got angry though. I guess that’s growth.

I joined the line and began my wait. Waiting had been the theme of the day. I had packed at my parents’ house and waited to leave for the airport. I had waited for the delayed boarding and departure in Paducah. I had waited through the layover time in Chicago and those delays. Now I was waiting in a cancellation line. My life was existing on delay.

I overheard the man behind me in line talking to an agent on the phone. He was rebooking his flight without the need of talking to one of the very-much-in-the-distance Customer Service people. As his voiced silenced I turned to him. I asked him who he was speaking to. He had called his travel agent. He informed me that the 6am and 7am flights were already full, but there were seats still available on the 6:20am flight. I looked at my place in line and the number of people in front of me. I had no illusions that there would be seats left on that flight by the time I made it to the front of the line.

I pulled out my iPhone and opened an email from United. I accessed the Contact Us section and called the number. Three minutes later I had an agent on the phone, happy and willing to help rebook me on a flight the next morning. The 6:20am still had seats and in less than five minutes I was on it. I exited the line and went straight to a kiosk where I checked in for that flight and printed my boarding pass. See ya later, suckers, waiting for an agent. It’s funny how almost all of us had smartphones, but everyone wasn’t smart enough to use them. Glad my ears perked up to the man’s conversation behind me. Unintentional eaves dropping can pay off sometimes.

Now to get a room. The shittiest part of the entire delayed/cancelled flight day was the fact that it is United’s policy NOT to pay for hotel rooms when flights have been cancelled. I heard the United employee extolling this information to us mention that they do not pay for reasons of weather, but I didn’t hear him mention “Operations.” I would still like to know what the hell “Operations” meant. Anyway, he gave us vouchers for a discount. A discount.

I couldn’t help but think about the industry in which I work - theatre. When Hurricane Irene blew through NYC and shut down our subway system and caused the cancellation of all Broadway and off-Broadway shows for the weekend, the question of refunds was moot. A cancelled show equals automatic refund. That’s just how it is. The show didn’t go on; we can’t keep your money. In the case of a cancelled flight, they keep our money because they rebook us on another flight. I get that. However, United gave us nothing for the inconvenience. They got my money for the flight and then I had to pay extra to spend the night somewhere other than in the airport. I realize that no one can control the weather, but all the theatre owners the weekend of Irene lost money. United lost nothing and the Hilton made bank. There’s something to be said for being connected to the airport. That’s right, there’s a Hilton connected to the airport. Conspiracy theory.

For $99 I got a room at the Hilton. It was connected by an underground tunnel to the airport. There was no shuttle, no waiting outside. I recognized many people from that cancellation line in the two lines at the Hilton. Yes, the Hilton made bank that night from all of us stranded flyers whom United wouldn’t pay for. I guess the Hilton was going to make bank no matter who paid for the room. I just wish their gain hadn’t been my bank account’s loss.

I was tired when I got to my cute little room on the third floor. I had been sitting and waiting and waiting and sitting and flying and waiting and sitting and standing and grabbing a Clif Bar to eat and waiting and sitting for hours. I mean the day was over. I didn’t even take the time to pick up something for dinner in the sports bar that I could clearly see from the elevator bank. No. I just wanted to get to the room. I called the front desk and requested a wake up call for 4:30am then got into bed with my book.

Thankfully the Hilton staff provided a tooth brush and tooth paste for me for the next morning. All of my toiletries, clean underwear and fresh clothes were packed in a bag that I had checked. I didn’t even know where that bag was other than somewhere inside O’Hare. I didn’t even know when it would get to NYC the next day as I was booked on the 9pm flight that had been cancelled. I was assured by the same man who told me United wouldn’t pay for my room that United had ways we didn’t even know about for getting people’s bags to their destination. Wow, United can’t pay for the rooms of stranded passengers, but they can do magic where your checked bags are concerned. They eased my mind. NOT!

The ringing phone at 4:30am the next morning was too jarring. It was too early. It was too much. I just wanted to get showered, get on that plane and get back home to my life and my routines.

I showered and redressed in the clothes I had chosen to travel home in the night before. I had no deodorant as it was in the checked bag. Thankfully, the shirt I was wearing for the second day in a row didn’t stink and I smelled fresh from the shower. I got dressed, put my iPhone and book back in my Marc Jacobs bag, did an eyeball sweep of the room and headed out the door by 5am.

I found my terminal easily enough, but the line of people waiting for security that greeted me was something I hadn’t prepared for. I guess I should have had the forethought that there would be many people flying out that morning due to the cancellations from the night before. I was concerned. I wondered if I would make it to the security checkpoint before my flight was to start boarding at 5:50am. Thankfully, what I couldn’t see was that the line branched into several smaller lines once beyond the podiums where two women checked ID’s and boarding passes.

I began to breathe easier. I could see my departure gate. It was directly through security. No left turn, no right turn, just a straight walk to plant my butt on another blue seat.

So I’d learned what I should do with all of my items that had to scan through X-ray. I used one tub for boots, belt and bracelet. I used one tub for coat and scarf. I used one tub for computer, iPhone and coin purse (removed from my Marc Jacobs bag in the hope that this time the bag would only be sent through once), and then I let the MJ ride flat by itself. Everything was moving forward. No hang-ups. I turned to the TSA agent who indicated I needed to remove my sweater. I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “Seriously?” I knew I didn’t need to draw attention to myself to activate suspicion and another pat down. I was just confused. I had paid attention each time I had had to go through security on this trip. I had made mental notes and purposeful changes so that I could get it right and make my walk through security smooth and easy. The day before in Paducah, where they patted me down, I didn’t have to remove the sweater. I was wearing the exact outfit in the exact way. The sweater wasn’t even buttoned. It was fully open and would have blown in the wind had there been one. My frustration was rigid in my body language. I dropped my license and I nearly ripped my boarding pass in half, but I got the damn sweater off and threw it on the belt and let it go through X-ray.

When the TSA agent called my through I did not beep. I also did not make eye contact with her. She told me to have a nice day. A sentiment not lost on me when people wish me well when they know I’m irritated at them. Again, I made no eye contact. I redressed myself and walked to my gate.

Boarding started. I was in the fourth group of regular flyers. After all premium members and armed forces people and those traveling with children and those needing assistance and those who had not been last-minute-my-flight-was-cancelled-can-I-get-a-seat-on-this-one bookers. I got to my seat, a lovely aisle. I saw many familiar faces from the night before. It didn’t matter. We were all on the plane and our departure was 10 minutes away.

"Good morning from the flight deck, ladies and gentlemen. We're just waiting on a mechanic to come up and take a look at something..." That was not the way I had expected or wanted that flight to begin. There was an audible groan from the many around me who had experienced the cancellation the night before. I saw the mechanic enter the plane eventually. I don’t know how long we waited for him. The captain had told us in his earlier announcement that he thought it would be 15 minutes. There I was sitting again and waiting. I had to laugh. I sat there and smiled to myself as I shook my head. I don’t know what was going on in the Universe. All I know is that I didn’t let any of what it was throwing at me affect me like I would have even a year ago.

Our flight was cleared for take off. We didn’t have to wait in line for departure very long once we’d taxied. Our flight was relatively smooth. We landed without incident. I went straight to baggage claim. I explained about my cancelled flight from the previous night. I was pointed to the office where unclaimed luggage is kept. I could see my bag through the window. United had magicked it to NYC before I even arrived. I felt like Harry Potter when he arrives at Hogwarts each new term and his trunk found its way to his room without him having to take it there. The man with the voucher for my hotel discount was right. They had ways.

Outside in the taxi line, I couldn’t even worry about its length. I was on the ground back in my City. I was a taxi ride away from home. I wanted the line to move, but I was dealing with its turtle speed progression just fine.

When I finally got into my cab I gave the driver my address. He told me he was trying to get someone for Manhattan and now had to go to Astoria. I laughed and told him I’d been trying to get home since yesterday. I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, “Effie, we all got pain.”

The frustrations I had been feeling and been trying to keep at bay melted away when I walked into my house. I showered and sat my tired ass on my sofa to catch up on the television that was waiting for me on my DVR. When exhaustion finally took over around 8pm, I slept for 14 hours.

Then and Now

2012-01-20T12:35:00.002-05:00

High school. Days filled with classes and tests and pop quiz’s. Coach Dreher, Mrs. Cates, Burley. Gossip shared in the hallway. Lunch breaks on the bleachers, or the stage, with a Coke, Mt. Dew or Sun Drop and a bag of some kind of chips. Laughter and tears. Bullies. Homecomings and Proms. Basketball games, national anthems. Senior play rehearsal. Pizza day. Sneaking off the the Pool Room for a Pool Room burger. Rides to and from school with friends, the cassette player blaring Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me,” George Michael’s “Faith,” or Lita Ford’s “Kiss Me Deadly.”

I’ve got a few shoe boxes in a closet at my parents’ house that contains high school memories. Sometimes when I go to Kentucky for a visit I open the boxes. I did so again recently. The picture to the left shows prom memorabilia. Stuff. Junk. Things. They were important to me at the time. That’s why I kept them. I have the prom tickets to all three of the proms I attended. There are framed pictures of me with my date from a couple of those proms. The bow tie's from both of the Homecomings where I was an escort are in there. One even has a partial boutonniere attached to it. I have my Junior and Senior prom books. I have the mugs that went with them. The colors and themes bring it all back. It makes me shake my head, the left corner of my lips curling into the slightest smile, that I still have this stuff. I just can’t bring myself to throw it away.

I’ve written about my high school days in tiny portions here and there. Most of it has been about the bad times, the bullied times, etc. There were good times though.

In recent years I have opened the door to let people back into my life. Let me explain. When I graduated and moved away to college I went as far as I could go. That was three hours away. I applied to two Universities and was accepted to both. I chose Western Kentucky University because it was where I really wanted to go and because it was the farthest of the two from my small town. I wanted to start fresh. I wanted to remove the possibility of coming home every weekend. I wanted to be far enough away that I could explore my life without the prying eyes of my parents, other relatives or family friends.

I was away at school for five years and, aside from holiday visits, I think I came home for a couple of summers to live once again. After that I started performing in summer stock or just staying in Bowling Green. I had no desire live in Arlington. Or as I like to call it - Population 600.

I’ve now been gone from Arlington for more than twenty years. I’ve been living in New York for almost fifteen. When you’ve been gone for that long, friendships and faces slip away. You may never fully forget them, but they don’t hover at the surface anymore. They’re hidden. Filed away. You have to click the spotlight in the upper right corner of your Mac and type a name and find out where you stored it.

With the advent of Facebook, I made the decision to accept friend requests from some of the people I went to high school with. It was a decision I had to weigh before making. You see, I have never hidden my sexual orientation on Facebook and I knew that by saying, “yes” to those particular friend requests I would be officially outing myself. That was a big decision for me to make. Small town gossip and all that Peyton Placeish behavior, you know. It didn’t matter that many of those people had assumed for my entire high school career that I was gay. This access to my information was confirmation of said assumption. I wasn’t sure I was ready, but I made the decision to start saying, “yes.”

Slowly I began letting former friends back into my life and in turn I got to be let back into theirs. My fears were not justified. I now have people back in my life who can say, “I knew you when” and who genuinely care about what’s happening with me now. How amazing is that? We can just accept each other as people and be comfortable and happy in each other’s presence.

I was scared of the opening up and letting in. That’s the truth. I started public school as a freshman. My classmates and I had to get to know each other even though we had lived in the same small county together our entire lives. I had not gone to school with them since kindergarten. I might has well have been a new resident from some alien planet. I wanted to be accepted. I wanted friends. I wanted to be popular (who doesn’t). Those things didn’t come easy. High school is a tough crowd. Breaking into years-formed cliques is difficult.

I was never popular, but I did make friends. I made some wonderful friends that I’m fortunate to have in my life again now as adults.

Fifteen months ago, I was in Kentucky visiting my family and gave in to a gathering of some of those friends. I was nervous; I’m not gonna lie. My nerves were quickly soothed when I got the house of the host. There was nothing but smiles and hugs to greet me. I set myself up for failure instead of embracing that reunion as an incredible possibility. Those nerves were stupid yet I didn’t learn from that experience fully.

I recently initiated another of those gatherings. I wanted to see these people, my high school comrades, again. This time I reached out to the friend who hosted us last time and she took it from there. More people were invited. Different people. My wall went up a little. I felt I had to protect myself. Why? Why did I need to do that? These people, like any others who are friends with me on Facebook, no about my life. They have the opportunity to read my status updates and my blog. They can see that I’m gay and where I stand politically. That didn’t stop any of them from coming to hang out with me and each other.

We’re not in high school anymore. We’re all 40-year-olds. There are marriages and divorces and remarriages and re-divorces and children and jobs and growth. We’re not the same people that we were in high school. It has been my great privilege to get reacquainted with these people from my years as a moody teenager. It has been my abundance to receive by opening my heart to them again.

High school memories can make us laugh, cringe, roll our eyes, maybe even cry, but sharing those things with the people who lived it with you is a major coup. There is still gossip. There are new stories mixed with the old. There is still laughter. There is a knowing that comes when you’re from the same small place. There is an excitement to hear about what’s been going on. We’re not walking down those high school hallways anymore. We’re walking down the road of life. We’re sometimes wiser for our choices. Sometimes not, but they’re ours and we can sit around the table and share the experience as adults with only the faint image of ourselves in our baggy sweatshirts and Eastland’s in the background.

Quiet/Energy

2012-01-19T15:35:00.000-05:00

Dylan is full of questions and energy. Abbi is reserved and preoccupied.

Dylan asks me why I wear earrings and when I tell him he asks me why again. He doesn’t understand the idea of a guy wearing earrings just because. He constantly asks if it’s his turn while playing Dominoes. He’s full of energy, as a 6-year-old boy is prone to be. He roughhouses with the dog. He stands on his head on the sofa. He flips and jumps. He loves to jump on my back. I had to put an end to that immediately. I don’t mind the horseback ride, but the jumping into the saddle is not my style.

Abbi is constantly on her iPod touch playing games. She lays on the sofa in her own little world of games and reading. She’s engaged me a few times in her riddle game. I hate it. I feel stupid. I’ve never been good at solving riddles and in front of my niece I feel even more lame. If there is an even lower depth to my feeling of lameness it is when my mom hears the riddle once and answers it correctly.

Dylan wants to sit next to me all the time. Or sit in my lap. Or have me hold him. He thinks I am so strong. He cracks me up. He is so taken with me. Or the idea of me. I don’t know. He’s not up in my business enough for it to get annoying, but he wants to be in my presence. Maybe the innocence and pure love of a child just flows from him. He is the sweetest little boy. He’s loving and his face lights up with his front-toothless smile. I can’t believe how big he is. My heart is full at his display of affection for me.

Abbi gets quiet when she doesn’t get what she wants. That’s like looking in a mirror. I am familiar with that demeanor as I do it myself. She battles with her brother over who I’m going to sit next to at dinner. So far I’ve sat between them in the car driving home from the airport and at each meal. How gratifying to be so wanted.

Tuesday night I sat in my bedroom and showed my mom a video of the horse from the play War Horse. It’s a puppet. It is an amazing, beautiful piece of artistry. I saw the play on Christmas Eve and that puppet horse is the only thing that has prevented me from seeing the Steven Spielberg film of the same name. I’m afraid the movie will be too literal. I was always able to see the bones of the puppet while watching the play, but I easily forgot that he wasn’t real. I think the film will be a different experience and I’m not far enough removed from the experience of the play to let those memories be clouded. Anyway, I was showing my mom the video of Joey, that’s the horses name, and Dylan thought it was so cool while Abbi, almost smugly, said, “It looks like a puppet.”

My mom, Dylan and I sat watching the video in fascination. I had already seen it but got so much joy watching the two of them enjoy the illusion. Abbi left the room, a moment not lost on me. When the video ended and Dylan had run from the room - on to another moment in his energetic life - I asked my mom what happened to that little girl that loved Peter Pan on stage. Mom said she was gone. She said she might be hidden someone down deep, but she was no longer present at the surface. “She’s growing up,” was her next statement. That she is. Both of them are. Dylan still has wonder in eyes, while Abbi is a bit harder to captivate.

I remember when I started rolling my eyes and not being so easily enamored anymore. I can’t believe she is entering that phase already. Time has flown. It’s wings must be tired because they have gotten us here at record speed. I’m a different man from the one who heard the voice on my answering machine telling me to wake up that I was an uncle. She is a different little girl than she was even 15 months ago - intelligent, beautiful, pouty, quiet.

I sat on the floor of the room that was once my bedroom and had a conversation with her about social studies. She hates it. Her favorite classes are English and reading. She doesn’t understand why she has to learn about the things of the past. I told her it’s so she can see the mistakes and victories, the things that worked and the things that didn’t. I told her she may never like it but it won’t all be useless knowledge. How is it possible that I was sitting on the floor having a conversation with a little girl when 10 years ago my only desire was for her to let me hold her? How is it possible that she sends me texts now? How is it possible that we talk about books?

Later in the evening I found myself in the recliner flanked on either side by Dylan and Abbi. We were back to the riddle game. So I was feeling pretty stupid. Then the three of us started to play Hanging With Friends. I’m actually playing Hanging With Friends with my niece and nephew. Is this happening?

I can’t help but smile. They are beautiful children. Completely different. I think Abbi’s personality is more closely related to mine, but I see traits of myself in Dylan as well.

I am continually melted by their sweetness and honest-to-goodness love for me. I live behind a wall most of the time. I’ve been trying to take more-and-more bricks out of it, but it’s still there. It’s protection. I know that. Abbi and Dylan don’t care about my wall. They want in. I’m working hard to leave the hidden door open so that they always know they’re welcome and so that I can feel what I often deny myself, love in its purest form.

A Jump and a Hug

2012-01-18T10:07:00.000-05:00

Never have I been greeted with such affection at the airport. Don’t get me wrong, my family is always happy to see me when I step through the glass doors separating travelers from non, but this was amazing.

My nephew, Dylan ran to me and jumped at me. He threw himself into my arms. My body was the wall that stopped his forward motion. It all becomes a blur after that. I don’t think he literally jumped so that I caught him and lifted him, but he jumped at me nonetheless. Quickly followed by my niece Abbi who had a clear shot at my neck as she threw her arms around me.

I’m not surprised at Abbi’s reaction, I mean she’s 10-years-old and we’ve had more time together. We talk and text and email each other. It’s just different. I’ve established a relationship with her.

Dylan is only six. I hadn’t seen him, or Abbi, in 15 months. I’m told he was giddy with excitement at my pending arrival. I was told that he walked into his mother’s bedroom that morning to announce that it was today. Cue Mame’s first solo “It’s Today” from the musical Mame. I should have worn a red suit because I was most certainly Santa Claus. Scratch that. I outranked Santa Claus. I mean come on. A 6-year-old wakes you up to tell you today is the day that Uncle Michael arrives. I’ve got some kind of power, right?

I was surprised to hear this. I didn’t realize Dylan really cared about me so much. Honestly, I don’t get to see him very often. I live so far away and he’s so young. We haven’t had one-to-one time to build any kind a connection. The fact that he was excited to see me confused me at first then I was overwhelmed. I didn’t know how I was going to live up to his expectations. Then I realized as I was hugging him there were no expectations. There was only genuine excitement. I had nothing to prove. I merely had to open my arms, and my heart, and let him in.

My surprise must have be writ large across my face for every person standing in that airport to see. As I came up for air I noticed the smiles on all their faces. What a lovely way to return to the place of my birth. Surrounded by two children who love me just because I’m Uncle Michael. Nothing stands in the way of that.

With a jump and a hug, vacation had officially started.

Beginners

2012-01-17T12:42:00.000-05:00

“I’m gay.”

Not the words you expect to here from your 75-year-old father.

So is the case with Mike Mills’ film Beginners. The film is based on the real life experience of Mike’s father coming out to him after his mother passed away. Paul was 75-years-old and was finally going to live openly the life he had denied himself do to time-period and fear.

I can’t even imagine what it would be like to start living openly as a gay man at 75. It was scary enough to come out at 22 and I was surrounded by support. Mike’s father, Paul came out after 44 years of marriage. He started going to gay bars and clubs. He surrounded himself by gay friends. He become very active in the gay community. He even found a boyfriend.

Paul chose to marry Mike’s mother and she chose to be with Paul. There’s a line in the film where “Hal” says to his son “Oliver” that when she asked him to marry her he responded by saying, “You know what I am.” She responded in the affirmative. He said she thought she could change him. That wasn’t the exact wording of the line, but it was the gist. He chose to live the lie. He chose to marry Mike’s mother. He liked his life. He had a good job at the museum that he loved and a comfortable existence. He had a child. He also had trysts in bathrooms with men.

As portrayed in the film, Mike’s mother seemed to be less happy with the situation. She went into it knowing, but it seemed the years took their toll on her. She wanted more than his father could give. I guess that should have been expected, but when you think you can change someone your vision only becomes 20/20 in hindsight. People are who they are. Sexual orientation can’t be changed just because you want it to change. You can’t kiss it away, pray it away or sex it away.

Okay, here’s what I loved. This man was brave. So brave. He made a choice to finally be who he was. He stepped into that gay bar at 75 when I don’t even like to do it at 28, 33 or 40. He is a hero to me. He lived the remaining years of his life as open and honest and truly himself as possible. Wouldn’t it great if all of us just did that every day? Imagine how much happier we would be if we didn’t let society, our parents or what we think we’re supposed to do dictate our lives.

One of the most beautiful moments in the film for me was seeing Hal lying on the floor next to his boyfriend. They were fully clothed, lying on a blanket on the living room floor. Oliver walks into the living room and Hal smiles at him. It was then that Oliver realized his father was finally in love. I can only imagine how important that moment was to Mike. The character based on him smiles back at Hal while in voice over says it’s the first time he’d ever seen his father in love. The first time.

That moment is sad and beautiful at the same time. For 44 years of marriage he wasn’t in love, but finally at the end of his life he found the love of someone who truly made him happy. We waste time. Why do we do that? Why do we let ourselves be pressured into the roles that might not fit us?

The story of Beginners is told through many flashbacks. It is through those memories that Oliver is able to see things about his father. He learns that it took strength to not only remain closeted, but to burst out of it at a time when he could have just maintained his relationship with the coat hangers. Oliver begins to question his own actions and inability to maintain a relationship.

It is my opinion that Oliver was never closer to or more proud of his father than in those last five years of Hal’s life. He learned about his own patterns and made an informed decision to make changes in his own life. Changes that might not have happened had his father not been such an outstanding role model.

How does this apply to me? Well, I couldn’t help but wonder what I could learn from my own father. I also wondered what he’s learned from me over the past three years. As beneficial as some of our recent conversations have been I still don’t reach out to him enough. We’re still not close. We’re closer, but not close. Hal and Oliver weren’t close either, there are apologies made for that, but they loved each other. That is the case with me and dad. We do love each other.

There’s more to learn every day. There are new challenges every day. I don’t always want to learn and sometimes I don’t want to face the challenges. However, there is no limit to what one can accomplish when their mind is put to it. There is no reason to limit happiness (talking to myself here), there is no reason for fear (talking to myself here), there is every reason to live a pure, true, honest life.

Judging from the character based on his life, Paul lived his remaining 5 years more honestly than he could have ever lived the previous 75. Thank you Mike Mills for telling this beautiful story and thank you Paul Mills for showing us that we’re never too old to be ourselves.

Live, Laugh, Love...Every Moment Counts

2012-01-14T08:20:00.002-05:00

How do you say goodbye? When you know the end is coming and there’s nothing you can do to stop it, how do you say goodbye? How do you prepare? Do you spend every moment trying to be positive and happy? Do you cherish every breath that you can feel being breathed beside you as you look at photographs together? Do you say all the things you’ve been holding inside? Are the moments full of tears, smiles or both? When you’re waiting for the inevitable to happen, how do you make every moment count?

Mother, Mom, Momma, Mommy, Ma, Mum. My personal favorite is Momma. That’s how it’s listed in the contacts on my iPhone. Although sometimes I say Mom with a hint of “what are you talking about” in my voice. There are the times I say Mother. That one’s usually accompanied by a strident tone. Many different dictionaries define the word Mother as: a female parent. But oh it means so much more than that.

My mother hears all my stories and complaints. She tries to help when I’m sad. She calls just to make sure I’m okay. Sometimes she calls because she just needs to hear my voice because it’s been a while. She’s a touchstone. She started out the most important woman in my life and she still is. As I got older, we got closer; a friendship developed. She started to reach out and open up about her own life. I know she’s just a phone call away. I don’t know what I’d do if she wasn’t. The mere thought of not having her fills my eyes with tears that spill over the lower lid and wet my cheeks. I love and appreciate her so much. I can’t imagine my sister and I not having her. I can’t imagine my niece and nephew not having their Mimi. Hell, I don’t want to imagine it.

My Mom lost her Momma seven years ago. There’s hardly a day that goes by that I don’t think about my Grandmother. I’m sure my Momma thinks about her everyday. How could you not? She tucked you in at night, she kissed your booboos, she dried your tears, she washed your clothes, she taught you to share, she sent you on your way and always has open arms to welcome you home; for a visit or brief respite from your life.

My Mom's family is full of loving Mothers. Mothers who would do anything for their children. Mother's who produced cousins that would do anything for each other. That would be me, April, Casey, Leah and Whit.

I'm the oldest (cousin and grandchild) so I’ve known them all the longest. I've been present at their weddings. I've seen their children as infants. I am blessed beyond all measures that they not only love me, but their children love me and I them.

I was closest to Janet while growing up. She’s the youngest of my Mom’s sisters. I don't know where that bond came from. Maybe she babysat me the most. I was the ring bearer in her wedding when I was 5. I wore little black shorts and a pair of black shoes that were too small and hurt my feet. I still remember the wet spot my tears left on her jeans when I cried because she was moving away. It was the right leg. Top of the thigh. I was broken hearted. I laid my head on that leg and cried and cried. She and I aren’t as close as we once were, but that happens with time.That doesn’t mean I love her any less. I can say that she is a fierce protector and defender of her child and her grandchild.

My relationship with Cindy (Casey & Whit’s Mom) developed as I got older. I had something in common with her. She wanted to do her own thing and did. She went away to school and left our small town in the glow of her tail lights. I did the same thing. I went away to college knowing I would return for nothing more than visits in the future. Cindy was also the Aunt that I could smoke cigarettes with and access a little bit of the rebel inside of me. I’m not sure she knows that, but it’s how I felt. I remember an instance when I was visiting her in Memphis and the two of us were riding in her car smoking cigarettes and talking. It was the first time as an adult that I remember being alone with her, no buffer. I don’t remember anything we talked about only that I was comfortable. She would move heaven and earth for children.

Janie (Leah’s Mom) was always fun. She's an Aunt by marriage, but retains her status even in divorce. I don’t see her very often and hardly ever talk to her via phone or text, but when I do see her it puts a smile on my face. She was unconventional. Different from the rest of my family. She was loud and rowdy in both speech and clothing. I loved being around her. I have two memories of her that stick in my head. One: I went to see Fatal Attraction with her as in under seventeen year old. When my parents saw it my Mother said she wouldn’t let me see it. Little did she know I already had. This blog entry may be the moment she finds out that bit of information. Hope I don’t get grounded. Two: Leah was guzzling from a sippy cup so fast that she got choked. Janie said, “Well, Piggy.” I found it funny then and I find it funny now. My sister and I still laugh about it more than 20 years later.

One thing I know is that all of these women have had an impact on my life. None more than my own Mother though. I tell her I love her every time I talk to her, but somehow feel it’s never enough. How can a child ever do enough to show his Mother how much she means to him?

Struck by the stark reality of an impending death, I was reduced to tears yesterday. When the treatments stop working and all you can do is wait how do you spend the time? What do you do when she’s no longer there?

I call my Momma to tell her when I’ve finished reading a good book (most recently The Hunger Games). Sometimes I even send her a copy if I think she’ll like it too. I call when travel plans start to firm up (like when I booked my flight to Leah’s wedding and told her I would be on the same flight as my sister and Casey). I call her for deep conversations or silly comedic stories that I know will delight her. She listens to me even when she has no answer. She’s there for me.

My Mom doesn’t have that opportunity anymore. Her Mom, my Grandmother, passed away as I said. She fought for 4 years, but lost the battle. Everyone had time to prepare, but when the inevitable happened, it happened fast. My Momma was there. Cindy was there. Janet was there. Most of the cousins were there.

There was time to say goodbye, but my Grandmother didn’t really want to hear those sentiments. I’m told she didn’t really want all those final words. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because they’re more for the people wanting to say them than the person having to hear them. Maybe it made the end more real for her. I don’t know. I didn’t get to say goodbye because I wasn’t there. The last time I talked to her I was standing on the corner of 47th Street and 8th Avenue. She didn’t really want to talk, but she did. I could hear the pain and tiredness in her voice. I don’t remember what I said to her or she to me, but I remember how she sounded. I prefer to access he voice in my memory as she says my name with the timbre that was my Grandmother. I loved her. I know she knew it.

Does the knowing it’s going to happen help one to prepare and cause less grief when it does happen? I don’t know. Loss is loss. I can’t even fathom it. I’m blessed to still have my Mom. She’s healthy. Cindy and Janet are healthy. Janie isn’t.

Life is for living and while we are still living we have to make sure we say the things we want to say. We have to tell the people we love that we love them. We have to stop stewing on the bullshit that makes us angry and forgive. I’m talking to myself here. I can stew. I eventually drain the pot, but sometimes the bottom has to be scraped clean where I’ve let it simmer too long. I’m getting better at it.

This may seem like the ramblings of an emotional person and I can accept that. I was emotional when I started writing it. I guess the point is I love my Mom. I appreciate her. We cousins of the aforementioned Mothers all appreciate, love and want to protect our Mothers. That’s a nice trait to have. We come from good stock.

Here’s to more laughter and games and talks around the kitchen table. Here’s to more surprise visits home. Here’s to more honest conversations. Here’s to laughter through tears. Here to memories that can’t help but be made. Here’s to making the most of every moment we have left with these women, our beautiful Mothers.

When photographs and memories are all I have left I want there to be no doubt in my mind that my Mother knew she was loved by me.

Return to Winthrop St. - Part 5

2012-01-13T10:28:00.000-05:00

The first thing Atwood had to do was go to the Delta Sig house. He knew there would be beer in the refrigerator. As he was still underage there was no use trying to buy it anywhere. One of his fraternity brothers would let him have a couple, he was certain.

The frat brother he felt most comfortable around and whose conversation he enjoyed most was at the house.

“Hey, Joe,” said Atwood.

“‘Sup, ‘Wood?” Joe called him by a nickname that he didn’t really care for, but never corrected. If he really stopped to think about it, the nickname put a smile on his face. To him it meant that someone actually liked knowing him a little more personally.

“You got any beer in the refrigerator?” asked Atwood.

“Yeah. You want one?”

“I was kind of hoping that I could take a couple with me,” said Atwood. The look on his face of slight embarrassment was working overtime to hide the fear that Joe would ask why he wanted them.

“No problem, ‘Wood,” said Joe. “Take three if you want.”

“Thanks, Joe. Appreciate it, man.”

Joe was always so nice to Atwood that he had to make himself not tell Joe the reason he wanted the beer. There was no reason for Joe to care why he wanted the beer.

“You got a backpack?” asked Joe.

It was then that Atwood realized that he had run from Bobby so fast he hadn’t bothered to grab anything other than his coat.

“Shit!” said Atwood. “I left it in my friend Bobby’s room.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Joe. “There are plenty of plastic bags here.”

Joe opened a cabinet door. On the inside was attached a long slender compartment with a hole in the top in which plastic bags were all but spilling out. The holder or container or whatever you call it was stuffed to the gills. Atwood was surprised that a house full of guys, a fraternity house no less, had any such accessory. Maybe it was a California thing. Why was he questioning a plastic bag holder? He was distracted. It took Joe brushing his arm with the plastic bag to free his mind of the question.

“Thanks, Joe,” he said as he accepted the bag.

“No problem, ‘Wood.”

“Alright, I gotta get going,” said Atwood as he made for the door. “I owe you, Joe.”

“I know where to find you, ‘Wood,” laughed Joe. “Enjoy.”

Atwood knew he needed to get his backpack from Bobby’s, but all he could think about was talking to Kinlin. He wanted to so badly that everything else was unimportant.

He started for his dormitory at a brisk walk turning left then right then right again. As his dormitory building came into view he started to run, the bottles clinking in the plastic bag. He held them to his chest to prevent breakage and the inevitable loss of the precious liquid inside; an elixir to relax the senses and loosen the tongue. I must look like a fool he thought. What was he doing? Running. Protecting beer bottles. It was only Kinlin. The desperation to talk to him stemmed from the distance that had cropped up between them; a distance that he blamed on Kinlin.

He lived on the eleventh floor of his dormitory. He stood in front of the elevator doors pushing the button and pacing, pushing the button and pacing. Over and over he pushed the button and paced knowing it wouldn’t make the elevator come any faster, but unable to stop himself from the compulsive act.

He was nervous and excited. He just wanted to hear Kinlin’s voice. He wanted to talk to his friend. He wanted to feel that Kinlin actually missed him. He was putting too much pressure on himself and this phone call. He needed to relax and enjoy himself. Maybe the beer would help. He had a small desire for a hit or two from one of Bobby’s joints. He didn’t want to sound too eager. He wanted to merely sound like himself.

I’m home.

Instead of calling Kinlin he popped the top on a beer and waited for Kinlin to call him after receiving his text. It was Kinlin’s suggestion that they talk after all. Why should he have to do all the work? He took a couple of sips from his beer and waited. He looked at the phone and waited. The text should have gone through by now he thought to himself. He was fidgety, bouncing his legs up and down almost as if he had to go to the bathroom. He took a long gulp of the beer. He picked up the phone. He didn’t know whether to chuck it across the room or dial the damn number to Kinlin. He was frustrated. He’d been wanting to talk to Kinlin for weeks and finally the time was upon him, but he found himself waiting. What am I waiting for? He thought to himself.

Then the phone rang. He thought he shouldn’t answer on the first ring. He knew he would appear too eager. Kinlin would think he was holding the phone poised to answer as quickly as one tries to whack-a-mole before its head goes back into hiding. He answered before it could ring again. He couldn’t stop himself.

“Hello,” he said, with as much calm as he could muster in his voice. His heart was fluttering and he couldn’t keep the smile from his lips. He took a sip of his beer.

“Hey,” said Kinlin, his voice sounding like he was genuinely happy to be talking to Atwood. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” said Atwood. “I’m just sitting here having a beer waiting for you to call.”

“Wish I had a beer,” said Kinlin.

“You don’t have any beer?” asked Atwood. “It was your idea to have a beer and talk.” He was a little confused but decided to let it go.

“Yeah, I thought I had some in my room, but I didn’t.” Kinlin’s response was very noncommittal. Atwood could almost see him shrugging his shoulders. It was very Kinlin, but didn’t make him feel relaxed. His thought pattern changed from Kinlin is happy to talk to me to Kinlin doesn’t really want to talk to me. He’s just appeasing me and calling because he said he would and has nothing better to do. “So, tell me what’s been going on with you.”
Atwood paused. He let the question reverberate around in his head as he stared at the sweating beer bottle in his hand. He took a regular swallow of the golden liquid inside and then asked his own question back.

“Why do you care what’s been going on with me?” He tried to keep the edge from his voice, but he could tell it was still slightly present. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks.”

“Hey, hey,” said Kinlin. “That was hostile.”

Hostile? Atwood hadn’t thought he sounded hostile at all.

“I’ve been busy,” continued Kinlin. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, but we’re not in Ryland anymore. This isn’t high school. You’re there and I’m here. We’re following different paths. I’m not your boyfriend and I shouldn’t be responsible for calling you all the time.”

There were so many things in that sentence that pounded Atwood’s brain: not in Ryland, this isn’t high school, different paths, boyfriend. Boyfriend! That struck a blow. He wanted to hang up the phone. Better yet he wanted to throw the phone across the room without hanging up so that its crash into the wall might hurt Kinlin’s ear.

“Okay, I’m not sure why you just got hostile on me,” said Atwood arching his left eyebrow in defiance. “The intention behind my earlier question had no hostility attached to it. I was merely asking. You haven’t reached out to me in weeks. With an email, a text and least of all a phone call.”

“I get the sense that you think I should be calling you every day.” responded Kinlin, his voice sharper than before.

  “What? Why?”

“It’s just the tone I read in your texts and emails.”

“If you’re reading a tone into them then that’s your problem. You have no idea what my tone is because you can’t hear me saying the words. Whatever you’re putting behind my words is your own imagination.” Atwood was positively heated with anger. He took another long draw of beer. The conversation was dissolving quickly into a confrontation Atwood had not anticipated.

“I think you know-”

“-Don’t you tell me what I know, Kinlin.” He was on his feet now, pacing the floor. “You’ve been my best friend for 4 years. More than that really, but I’m only counting our high school days. The last night we’re in town together you touch me. Do you remember that? You reached your hand over and touched me in a way that you had never touched me before.” There was a small hesitation as if to open the door for a response from Kinlin, but Atwood continued. “You kissed me. I sucked your dick. We all but fucked that night in the Ryland Monument and then we left.”

Atwood paused to take a drink of his beer. He knew he should to calm down, but wanted to keep rolling this log down the hill.

“You could hardly look at me that next morning. And since we’ve been at school you won’t talk to me. I didn’t do anything wrong, Kinlin. You started all of it.”

“I know,” Kinlin practically yelled into the phone. “I don’t know why I did it. I’m not gay. I was a little drunk. I wanted to be touched and I took a chance that maybe you’d oblige.” The word ‘oblige’ struck Atwood like a cold wind across the face.

“You thought I might oblige?” responded Atwood, unable to cover the disbelief in his voice. “Ply Atwood with enough Chianti and let’s see what he’ll do?”

“Look, Atwood,” continued Kinlin. “I suspected you might be gay. I mean you hadn’t ever done it with a woman and you didn’t seem to have any interest in doing it. We hardly ever talked about sexual experiences. I just accepted that you would tell me when you were ready. It didn’t bother me. I wasn’t uncomfortable around you. You have to know that. I mean I hung out with you all the time. You were my best friend.”

“I’m glad you could be comfortable around me,” he responded in an acid tone.

“Don’t be like that.”

“Really, you want me to be nice and understanding to you, Kinlin?” he was shaking now. “You just told me that you thought I was gay and that you used me to get off on our last night in Ryland. Did you think I would just be cool with it?”

There was no answer.

“Did you?” Atwood had taken his icy tone to a new level of smooth.

“I did,” Kinlin responded flatly with no defense in his voice. His voice became the accelerant that propelled the flames of Atwood’s anger and frustration. It happened fast. Too fast.

“You’re an asshole, Kinlin.” Atwood responded. “You didn’t give a shit about my feelings when you reached your hand down my pants and took hold of my cock. You didn’t think about any consequences when you put your mouth to mine. I was scared to think that I might be gay. I was afraid that it would end our friendship if you knew I had been having those feeling. Feelings that were not about you I might add. What I have realized from this is that I am gay. That’s been the easy part. Finally admitting something I was afraid to admit. The hard part is realizing that me being gay is not what destroyed our friendship. It was you. You and your cockiness, toying with my emotions like that for your own benefit.” He took another swig of the beer having realized it was still in his hand. “I can now see that it’s been good for me that you’ve kept your distance. It allowed me to explore my sexuality and to come back and see you for who you are.”

“Atwood-” Kinlin’s voice had and edge of pleading to it.

“-Don’t. I don’t want to hear you say another word. Most certainly if those words contain an apology. I don’t want to talk to you again. For a while. Maybe not ever.”

“Atwood-”

Before any more words could be said Atwood hung up the phone. He sat down in the chair and killed the remainder of the beer before collapsing into sobs. This wasn’t the way he had expected the conversation to go. He had thought they would catch up on each other’s goings on. He now realized that what he really wanted - had always wanted - was to know if Kinlin had feelings for him. His feelings had been hidden deep just like his desire for men. Hearing Kinlin’s choice of words had pushed him to the boiling point. He hadn’t been able to ease into the conversation because his level of frustration was already resting at the top of pot ready to boil over.

The realization that he wanted to be wanted by Kinlin came as somewhat of a shock. He wanted Kinlin. He wondered how long he had had a hidden crush on his best friend. Or had he? Were his feelings all wrapped up in the emotional blanket of sex? He wanted Kinlin more and that was never going to happen. He had opened his heart unwillingly, unknowingly. He was hurt. He felt damaged

He was right about one thing. Kinlin did help him open the door to exploring his sexual desires. He did help him admit that he was gay.

He went to the bag he’d gotten from Joe and took out another beer. It wasn’t as cold now. He popped the top and began pulling the liquid into his mouth impatiently. He was still crying, his tears mingling with the beer spilling from the sides of his overflowing mouth, running down his neck. He stopped the hard pull long enough to take a breath through his nostrils then continued to gulp the beer. When he had successfully emptied the bottle he threw it into the trash can. He heard in break as it fell inside. Into a million pieces just like my heart he thought. He crawled into his bed and pulled the covers over his head. He willed the tears to stop; the heaving sobs slowing as emotional exhaustion and sadness overtook him. I can’t need you. I don’t want to need you.

Something happened to Atwood after that conversation. The blow up at Kinlin had free'd him of his Kinlin hang up. It had also created a sense of urgency that he couldn't quite place. He didn’t know if he could be friends with Kinlin anymore. Even though he was angry he felt that he would go where ever Kinlin asked him to go. He knew he would kiss Kinlin again and, if asked, sleep with him too. That made him even angrier. How can I want to be with someone who makes me so angry?
He let the beer and his tears work their magic as he felt his eyelids try to close. He let sleep take over. He knew it was the only way to shut out the words that kept playing over and over on loop in his mind.

His phone vibrated. He opened his eyes. He had slept through the night. It was dreamless and as he realized that, he was thankful. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling. It was a new day. He grabbed his phone from the bedside table. He had a text message from Kinlin. Now he starts reaching out. The message was short, simple.

You’ve got an email.

“Great,” Atwood said out loud. His chest had that achy bubble just over his heart. “I had to fall asleep with your fucking voice in my head and now I have to wake up to your words.” Atwood didn’t want to read the email. That’s a lie. He wanted to read the email. He had a grain of hope that Kinlin’s word were the ones he wanted to hear. The ache in his chest moved to the pit of his stomach. Nervous anticipation. The conflicting thoughts made him angry again. He threw the phone to the foot of the bed and pulled the covers over his head in a dramatic flourish that had no audience to applaud.

Now he lay in grayed darkness staring at the underside of the sheet instead of the ceiling. He could already tell that today was going to be a day of avoidance. He wanted to avoid the email and he wanted to avoid his classes and the spattering of chit chat that would inevitably come from people he’d sat next to for the past three months. Nope. Today was going to be a day of avoiding all of that. The one thing he thought he could handle was seeing Bobby. He needed to get his backpack anyway. He would send a text later. For now it was just him, the underside of the sheet and the unopened email.

©2011 Michael Rohrer

Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!

2011-12-23T09:31:00.000-05:00

“Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.” That line from The Wizard of Oz is part of pop culture now. I am reminded of it and the vicious animals it mentions as I think of some of the candidates vying for the Republican presidential nomination. Bachmann and Perry and Gingrich, oh my! Singsong it with me. Bachmann and Perry and Gingrich, oh my!!

Bachmann. She won’t respond to an 8-year old who says his lesbian mother doesn’t need fixing, but she’ll certainly cast an icy glare at said mother. She’s a coward, Mrs. Bachmann. Maybe the child’s mother shouldn’t have put him up to saying those words to Mrs. Bachmann. Maybe the child thought them up on his own. Who cares? The child spoke the truth to her. To him, the lesbian is nothing more than his mother. Bachmann and her husband call the Kinsey Report a myth. That’s their defense when asked to respond to the alleged fact that 10% of the population is gay. It seems to me that the Bachmann’s like to make feather-ruffling statements to goad liberal-public outrage. They then stand back and watch or walk away and watch. I’ve always wondered how gay people getting married affects heterosexual people. I mean lets face it, heterosexual people getting married doesn't affect me. Bachmann has been asked by a gay-friendly, heterosexual man what her issue is with gay marriage. She has been quoted saying, "Public schools would have to teach that homosexuality and same-sex marriage are normal, natural and that maybe children should try them." Bullshit! That’s like telling a heterosexual person to try homosexuality if they really think it’s a choice. All people, children included, she be taught that all people are equal no matter their color, sexual orientation or religious beliefs. Gay is not a disease. It can’t be cured. I’m not sick. To me, being gay is normal. I’ve been gay all my life. Maybe if children were taught that being gay is as normal for some as being straight is for others we wouldn’t have so much gay bashing and bullying in schools.

Perry. He seems to think the country was better off when gay people couldn’t serve openly in the military. He uses his religious beliefs as a basis for his comments. You see, he thinks being gay is a sin. Doesn’t religious teaching come from man? Isn’t it man’s interpretation of God’s word? My question is, why is it better for someone to risk their lives for the country, in time of war, hiding the truth of who they are? Doesn’t the real problem with the repeal of DADT have to do with the heterosexual people who are scared of homosexual people? Let’s be honest. There are straight men who think that every gay man wants to sleep with them. I’ve worked with one of those men in my life. While living in Nashville, Tennessee I had a manager who on my last day of employment wished me well in my new venture, but said he still didn’t want to shower with me. What a confusing statement to make. I’m sure my face registered some sort of shock as I said I didn’t want to shower with him either. He responded to me saying, “Yes, you do.” Truthfully, I didn’t want to shower with him. I didn’t want to sleep with him. (Perry thinks we gays should just abstain from sex.) I might have wanted to see him naked, I will admit that, but it was nothing I ever would have acted upon. I thought he was handsome, but I knew he was straight. I also knew he was uncomfortable with me being a gay man. Everything about that situation was his problem not mine. I never flirted with him. Not even accidentally. I was very aware of my surroundings and his homophobia. Is my desire to see a handsome man - gay or straight - naked any different from a straight man’s desire to see a beautiful woman naked? As for that abstention, maybe Mr. Perry should abstain. No, that would be silly wouldn’t it. Who am I to say that because we don’t have the same kind of sex that I think you’re wrong and should just bury your desires somewhere in the back of the closet you wish I would crawl back into?

Gingrich. He’s a heterosexual man against same-sex marriage who thinks the government should be defending DOMA even as his record stands at: marriage - 3, divorce - 2. He cheated on his first two wives. So much for the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman. What makes his current wife think that his desire to "uphold personal fidelity to my spouse" is really going to work this time? Maybe he wasn’t listening to those vows about honoring until this third marriage. Gay marriages have as much likelihood as straight marriages at being successful. People cheat, both gay and straight. People stay faithful, both gay and straight. One of my best friends from college - a person who has been in my life through tears and laughter, ups and downs, loneliness and companionship - has been with his partner more than 10 years. They have been husband and husband for 7 years. They’re faithful and loving. It’s a gay marriage that’s working. Love is what should matter, not the plumbing of the two people exchanging rings.

Wouldn’t it be interesting if we could all just treat each other as equals? As people? Instead of the governing few spewing their rhetoric upon the masses and trying to make it law? What if we could just respect each other instead of living in fear. What will happen in this country if we elect leaders who want to do nothing more than stop the progress of human rights for all people?

I realize that I live in one of the most - maybe the most - liberal cities in the country. We all live together - gay, straight, bi, transgender - in the biggest melting pot of races and sexual orientations around. I’m here, a citizen of the United States of America. I’m not invisible. None of the aforementioned politicians represent me and none of them have my best interests at heart.

The fight for equality is going strong and that makes those opposed fight just as hard to block it. There’s a heightened sensitivity to any comment, look or gesture that might be misconstrued as prejudice. I’m very conflicted about that sensitivity. It’s a fine line between allowing the bullies to walk all over us and realizing there was no harmful intent. We need balance. When will the road even out? I don’t remember necessarily being offended when someone said, “That’s so gay” before it became such an issue. I’m not saying we shouldn’t stand up against the big things, but being sensitive to every inconsiderate, ignorant, button-pushing person out there makes us look like weaklings, like tattle-taling children. That’s an odd statement, I know, considering how strong the gay community truly is. My dad used to tell me to ignore the bully and he will eventually leave you alone. That’s easier said than done; I know that. Shouldn’t we start ignoring some of the slanderous verbiage so that those who spout it will realize they aren’t affecting us anymore and they will slink off to pick on someone else?

Gay people in the 21st century have gained enormous strides. We are stronger and more represented than ever. We have more support from the heterosexual community than I realized. What scares me is the unsupportive who listen to the bile spoken on a national platform from the lions and tigers and bears mentioned above. They would have us back in the closet, sitting quietly in a corner, averting our eyes in shame. They would have us be second class citizens, unworthy of human respect and protection. There is no closet. There is no shame. There is no hiding.

I may not be wearing a neon button proclaiming I’m gay to the world as I walk down the street, but I am tired of the sexual orientation prejudice that divides us as people and families. Love is inherent. Hate is taught. How about instead of teaching the children of today fear, lets teach them tolerance, acceptance and love. Let's teach them courage. Let’s teach them that it’s okay to be you and me. How about we teach them equal rights for all.

Follies - a Hint of Nostalgia with a Dash of Regret

2011-12-16T19:46:00.000-05:00

The ghosts are ever present. Even when they turn their backs to us they are there, representing our pasts, commenting on our present. The wind rustles and on it are carried the eerie sounds of what was.

At 40 I already have that past full of what was and what could have been. I guess at any age one has that, but four decades into life, I'm aware of the roads I didn't take. I'm aware of too many mornings and I certainly know that all dreamers must awake and that I shouldn't look back. The problem is, I can't help but look back.

During my second viewing of this season's Follies I found myself weeping. I'm always affected by the score, but this time my emotions hovered in that plane between holding on and letting go - where anything can happen - and they overflowed. It’s like on Halloween when the ghosts can walk the earth.

I rent in that place of nostalgia. I teeter on the verge of memory abyss. I don't like to fall in, but sometimes I can't stop it from happening.

Memories can be beautiful things; they can also be tied to regret - the things you wish you'd done, but didn't. "The roads you never take go through rocky ground, don’t they?" Well, don't they? I mean we make up excuses and reasons and justifications for not doing something. My frequent collaborator is fear. Anyone who reads this blog with any consistency knows that.

I was in such an open, receptive place when I sat through this production playing at the Marquis Theatre, that my emotions visibly manifested as tears that ran down my face. I was undeniably moved during “The Road You Didn't Take.” How can one not be when listening to the lyrics below and feeling the pain of the character as it spills forth from the stage and penetrates your heart?

THE ROAD YOU DIDN’T TAKE
BEN:
You're either a poet
Or you're a lover
Or you're the famous
Benjamin Stone.
You take one road,
You try one door,
There isn't time for any more.
One's life consists of either/or.
One has regrets
Which one forgets,
And as the years go on.

The road you didn't take
Hardly comes to mind,
Does it?
The door you didn't try,
Where could it have led?
The choice you didn't make
Never was defined.
Was it!
Dreams you didn't dare
Are dead.
Were they ever there?
Who said!
I don't remember,
I don't remember
At all.

The books I'll never read
Wouldn't change a thing,
Would they?
The girls I'll never know
I'm too tired for.
The lives I'll never lead
Couldn't make me sing.
Could they? Could they? Could they?
Chances that you miss.
Ignore.
Ignorance is bliss--
What's more,
You won't remember,
You won't remember
At all,
Not at all.

You yearn for the women,
Long for the money,
Envy the famous
Benjamin Stones.
You take your road,
The decades fly,
The yearnings fade, the longings die.
You learn to bid them all goodbye.
And oh, the peace,
The blessed peace...
At last you come to know:

The roads you never take
Go through rocky ground,
Don't they?
The choices that you make
Aren't all that grim.
The worlds you never see
Still will be around,
Won't they!
The Ben I'll never be,
Who remembers him?

My choice to stop singing is what comes to mind here. My dreams. The ones I gave up on. The ones that I bid goodbye. As I have aged so has my voice; its strength, power and range withered due to lack of use. The yearnings haven’t really faded, the longings haven’t really died. I’ve just learned to live with them shut behind a door that I don’t open.

Then there’s “Too Many Mornings.” My second blubbering moment. More so this time than in the earlier scene where I first lost my grip on emotional control. I've seen four productions of Follies over the years, this current one twice; I've listened to it countless times. I do believe it is my favorite Stephen Sondheim score. It always moves me and generally breaks my heart. I believe that this time was the first time I've actually cried while watching. I was so connected that I couldn’t stop the flow of tears. At one point my heart broke in two at the mere intake of breath by Bernadette Peters as her “Sally” listened to “Ben,” so robustly portrayed by Ron Raines, singing to her exactly what she has been longing to hear.

TOO MANY MORNINGS
BEN:
Too many mornings,
 Waking and pretending I reach for you.
Thousands of mornings, 
Dreaming of my girl...

 All that time wasted, 
Merely passing through, 
Time I could have spent,
 So content
 Wasting time with you.

 Too many mornings,
 Wishing that the room might be filled with you.
 Morning to morning, 
Turning into days.
 All the days
That I thought would never end,
 All the nights
With another day to spend.
 All those times
I'd look up to see
 Sally standing at the door,
 Sally moving to the bed,
 Sally resting in my arms
 With her head against my head.

SALLY (speaks): If you don’t kiss me, Ben, I think I’m going to die.

(sings)
 How I planned:
 What I'd wear tonight and
 When should I get here, 
How should I find you,
 Where I'd stand,
 What I'd say in case you
Didn't remember,
 How I'd remind you-- 
You remembered.
 And my fears were wrong!
 Was it ever real?
 Did I ever love you this much?
 Did we ever feel 
So happy then?

BOTH :
Too many mornings 
Wasted in pretending I reach for you,
 How many mornings
 Are there still to come?

How much time can we hope that there will be?
 Not much time, but it's time enough for me.,
If there's time to look up and be/see 
Sally standing at the door, 
Sally moving to the bed, 
Sally resting in your/my arms,
 With your head against my head.

Sally has loved Ben for at least 30 years - through two children and one unhappy marriage she has held tight to what could have been. It's heartbreakingly sad to desire something for so long and so strongly and never be able to attain it. For the first time, I’m embarrassed to admit, I realized that Ben is singing to the Sally that he fill in love with, the Sally of his youth, while present day Sally thinks he singing to her in the present moment. I can’t believe I never realized that. Sally has wasted so many years of her life unhappy - unable to be happy, or choosing not to be - because she has been in love with a man who loved her once, but not enough to marry her. She settled and has lived with that regret ever since.

"Losing My Mind" was a performance on the brim of a breakdown. It should be, but I haven’t experienced it like this before. The tears were in Bernadette’s eyes even as the lights came up. She was swimming in a sea of loneliness and regret. As she sang. I wanted to weep with her but was so entranced that I couldn’t for fear of blurring my vision of her as she cried and struggled to tell us her feelings.

LOSING MY MIND
The sun comes up,
I think about you.
The coffee cup,
I think about you.
I want you so,
It's like I'm losing my mind.

The morning ends,
I think about you.
I talk to friends,
I think about you
And do they know?
It's like I'm losing my mind.

All afternoon,
Doing every little chore,
The thought of you stays bright.
Sometimes I stand
In the middle of the floor,
Not going left,
Not going right,

I dim the lights
And think about you,
Spend sleepless nights
To think about you.
You said you loved me,
Or were you just being kind?
Or am I Losing my mind?

There’s nothing Sally can do but stand there and sing her emotional breakdown to us. Even though I’ve gone on verbal record as one who doesn’t fully embrace Bernadette’s performance in this role, her delivery of this song in that moment resinated with me this time. I find it difficult to sing while crying. I don’t know how she got through it, but she did and she conveyed to me her desperation and her crazy. Her sadness filled the space between the stage and me.

The ghost of my former self must cringe every time I say, "I used to be fun." We all used to be something different than we are now. Follies always makes me reflect on my life. It always makes me sad - for the characters choices and for my own. It’s a chance to reflect, but I never leave unscathed. My youth is gone. I’m not old, but I’m no longer that 20-something, new in the City, with dreams that seemed within reach; dreams that I let go of for one reason or another. I don’t regret some of those choices. Others I wonder about a lot. Memory can be hateful, but it should remind us to do it while we can. Don’t give up. Take the leap in the moment. Don’t get to the place where you have something to regret. The biggest goal for me is to look back at my life and be satisfied with my choices, even the bad ones. I made them for some reason in that moment. They are mine. I have beautiful memories of my performing past and I have beautiful memories of a love that I’m glad I opened my heart for.

There will always be a road you didn’t take. There will always be questions about choices made. I need to thrive in the present with an eye on the future instead of hindsight heartbreak for what will never be.

(Lyrics by Stephen Sondheim © 1971)

The Artist

2011-12-16T18:54:00.001-05:00

Silence is golden. Black and white is the new color. Music is emotion. What do all of these things have in common? They make up the gorgeously rendered new silent film The Artist. Yes, that’s right, silent film.

What a beautiful way to spend a Friday evening. One hour and 40 minutes that I don't want to get back. On the contrary, I want to lose myself again in the grand simplicity of a bygone era.

A glance, a tear, the swell of the strings, a smile, a rampant drum beat - all of these things used to convey what's happening and how you should feel in that moment while watching the scene. I was mesmerized. There was a moment when I realized my cheeks were aching. It was from smiling. I was there, present and along for the ride. I couldn't take my eyes from the screen. What a fascinating gamble that actually paid off.

I’d been wanting to see The Artist for at least two weeks. I have to say it was worth the wait even though now that I've seen it I wish I hadn't waited so long.

As people filled the seats of The Paris Theater I was concerned. I won’t lie. I hate going to the movies in New York City. The people are rude and inconsiderate most of the time. That is, I find, until we hit Oscar season. Oscar bait films don’t draw the same texting, cell-phone-answering/talking, baby-bringing, sitting-in-my-own-living-room kind of crowds that say a summer blockbuster draws; I doubt Mr. Transformers is going to rush to see Meryl Streep in The Iron Lady. For $13 a pop I want to be able to enjoy the film without the added soundtrack of someone else’s bullshit. I’ve gone off on a tangent, but it has to do with silence. The Artist is silent. There are no loud explosions or crashing vehicles to cover the ambient noise. Only a resplendent score and that’s not going to cover it.

Let me tell you, there was plenty of ambient noise when I sat down. The unwrapping of plastic candy wrappers, the juggling of packages from holiday shopping, the bitching and moaning about traffic, the crunching and chewing and slurping. That is to be expected, but I realized that if it continued during the film it would be a detriment to my mental health and physical enjoyment. Thankfully, I can report that it didn’t continue. We as a collective sat and watched a silent film. It must have been what audiences in the 1920’s did when there were no cell phones and people dressed for a night at the cinema. We laughed together and at times gasped together. It was like breathing as one. We applauded together at the end. And guess what, no one’s cell phone went off and no one pulled out their cell to check the time or to text. Insert satisfied, smiling face here.

Pure escapism is what it was. I know you may be thinking, “Why would I want to sit through a silent film?” To be entertained is the reason, and to see what a film maker can do when the idea of revisiting a moment of cinema history comes to fruition for today's audience.

The story is exciting, funny, heartbreaking, triumphant. Boy meets girl. He’s a movie star, she’s a fan. From obscurity she is plucked and to obscurity he falls. Just as her star begins to soar toward the heavens his begins to descend. We’ve seen the story before, but not like this. Not in silence. As for that music that guides my emotions, it is exuberant from overture to final scene, full of life and movement.

For me, the experience was delicious and one worth repeating, from the first frame to the last, with surprises and unexpected moments thrown in. I enjoy revisiting the past. Classic films are some of my favorites. Film making has come a long way since the days of silent pictures, but when something works, it works. I felt exactly what I was supposed to feel without a word being spoken.

Silence does speak volumes.

My Week With Marilyn

2011-12-16T18:36:00.002-05:00

“Shall I be her?” she asked.

That was probably my favorite line from the film My Week With Marilyn. It is innocent yet provocative; knowing and not a bit naive.

I must admit that I’ve only seen two films in which Marilyn Monroe appears: the Bette Davis vehicle All About Eve and the cross-dressing comedy Some Like It Hot. I’ve never gone in search of her, but she’s always been in my view: the blast of air from the subway blowing up her white dress as she stands atop the grate in The Seven Year Itch, her rendition of “Happy Birthday” sung to President Kennedy wearing a form-fitting dress she was sewn into, the “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” scene in Gentleman Prefer Blondes imitated by Madonna in her “Material Girl” video. She’s iconic – her platinum hair and big smile, the way she walks and talks. She is part of pop culture and cinematic history.

All of these things ran through my mind as I tried to focus my approach to this piece. Then it occurred to me that the focus is getting what you want.

Colin Clark, who wrote the book upon which the film is based, wanted something different for himself. He wanted to work in the movies. I wanted something different for myself than the small-town life into which I was born. I wanted to perform, the goal being Broadway. Marilyn wanted something different for herself. Norma Jean wasn’t it, so she created Marilyn and gave her the last name Monroe. We’re all similar, with dreams and desires bigger than our surroundings.

If I am too believe Colin Clark’s memory of the week he spent with Marilyn in 1955, then I am to believe that Marilyn was an insecure, vulnerable person who craved being taken seriously as an actress. The persona that she created lent itself to beautiful, sexy, and some might say, dumb girl roles. She wanted more than that. She wanted to be a serious actress. It wasn’t easy for anyone to see her as such. Then there’s the idea that she suffered from stage fright. There are published reports that she would be physically ill before shooting a scene and would have to be coaxed and calmed in order to get the scene on film. She was notorious for being late to set, sometimes not showing up at all. These things are pointed out frequently in My Week With Marilyn. She had her acting coach with her constantly. Laurence Olivier, directing the film, The Prince and the Showgirl, the time period during which My Week With Marilyn is set, is said to have thought Marilyn’s acting coach was there for nothing more than “buttering” up Marilyn. Basically, he thought the coach was just blowing smoke up Marilyn’s ass and collecting a paycheck. Who among us knows what Marilyn got from her coach? Who among us can judge what it takes to do another's job?

Maybe the person answering the phone in the call center for American Express has to give himself a pep talk in the mirror each day in preparation for the inevitable call from an irate customer. Maybe the chorus girl has to convince herself each night that she will remember the choreography when she steps onto the stage by saying a little prayer. Maybe I have to take a breath and know that I can face each customer at my ticket window and that no transaction is the end of the world. We all have our shit. Who can say what we need to get through it? Marilyn needed pep talks. She needed convincing. She needed images to latch onto in order to complete a scene. She needed to find a way to believe her character’s situation. At least that’s what Week would have us believe. I believed it. I’ve read about it in other places. What is astounding is that for however much time it took to get it in the can, it seems worth it. Colin portrays all who view Marilyn in Olivier’s completed film as mesmerized by her, unable to look away.

As seen through the eyes of a young man in his twenties, Marilyn seemed happiest when she was out of the public eye - strolling along the grounds of her rented house on the arm of a boy who would do anything for her, running barefooted through the grass, swimming nude with no paparazzi in sight. She had achieved international stardom, but it seems to me what she craved most was lost somewhere in the past with Norma Jean. She didn’t seem to have a solid marriage between her personal and professional lives.

As portrayed by the beautifully nuanced Michelle Williams, Marilyn was effervescent when she was Marilyn the actress. But she also sparkled as Marilyn the woman. She was completely at ease out of the spotlight. She was heartbreaking in her desire to please not only the people around her, but also herself. She wanted to be loved and she wanted to trust - desperately.

My time with Marilyn was less than two hours and it wasn’t even the real Marilyn. It was, however, the most insight I’ve had into Marilyn Monroe’s life. I want to learn more about her and above all I want to watch more of her films.

So if I may respond to the question posed above in my favorite line from the film. The answer applies to both Ms. Monroe and Ms. Williams.

“Yes, please.”

Return to Winthrop St. - Part 4

2011-12-02T10:34:00.000-05:00

“Nothing” by The Script was playing on the radio the next morning when Atwood’s alarm woke him. His head was pounding slightly as he opened his eyes. He’d felt the pressure behind his eyes as he teetered on the verge of waking. He refused to give in to it. His mouth felt full of cotton, his body dehydrated. He had to get up and he needed to do it now. He slowly stood and his stomach lurched. He moved in slow motion as he stretched toward the ceiling, trying to keep the contents of his stomach in his stomach, trying to keep the pounding of his head from making his eyes explode. His body shook as every muscle stretched and tensed. He rubbed his hand across his face and felt as if it was sandpaper instead of flesh. He went to the mirror and saw that his upper lip and chin were both red and looked raw. They looked worse than they actually felt. It took a second to figure it out and then memory crashed onto existence.

"It's from kissing," he said to himself in the mirror. "It's from Bobby's scruff.

He made the familiar trek down the hall to the bathroom and felt nauseous as he released the dark yellow liquid into the white bowl. He was definitely dehydrated. He held his breath. He was already fighting the urge to vomit. The last thing he needed was a bad odor to make it happen anyway.

He felt ridiculous and stupid yet somehow proud of himself. The experience from the previous night was real. It had happened. He had given in to the pleasure and let it override his fear.

When he returned to his room he collapsed back onto his bed. He rubbed his head, which seemed to be pounding even harder now the blood was pumping faster through his heart. He reached, without looking, into the drawer of his nightstand for the aspirin that he knew was there. He chewed four of them and swallowed the bitter, pasty result without the use of water. He wanted nothing more than to lie still in the quiet darkness of his room until he felt normal again.

He grabbed his phone from the top of the nightstand in order to check the time and that's when he saw the text message. It was from Kinlin. His timing was impeccably off.

Just wanted to say hi. I'm thinking about you.

It had been weeks since they'd had any communication and now, the night after a crazy sexual adventure, Kinlin had decided to break the silence.

Atwood wanted to respond right away, but made himself wait. Kinlin deserved to wait. He thought he might be acting childish, but he didn't change his mind.

He threw the phone into the drawer with the aspirin and shut it away. Kinlin always caused his heart to ache – sometimes with pain, sometimes with pleasure. Right now he wanted nothing more than to protect his heart and shut Kinlin out of it.

Before curling back into the fetal position of security and comfort something caught his eye. He sat up. He noticed the shadows of the blowing tree limbs outside his window. It was odd and somehow pretty. He’d never taken the time to notice anything like that before. It also reminded him of Kinlin – shadows are almost present but never within reach. He shook his head as he realized that even something as minute as shadows behind the blinds had caused him to think of Kinlin. He collapsed dramatically back onto his bed, pulling the covers over his head, blocking out the shadows, blocking out Kinlin.

He filled his day with late morning classes and an afternoon of sun drenched hours in Murphy Sculpture Garden. It was October and it still looked and felt like summer. He missed the changing of the seasons that would inevitably be happening back home in Massachusetts.

He kept checking his phone to see if Kinlin had sent another text. After the fifth time with nothing but an empty screen he questioned his own sadomasochistic ways.

He stared across the Garden. He missed seeing the leaves change color over night. He missed the sound and smell of the brown leaves as they crunched under his feet, the unmistakable sound and smell of Fall on Winthrop Street. He realized he was feeling a little melancholy. He was absentmindedly putting his phone away when it vibrated, replacing his Massachusetts daydream with his California reality. His first thought was Kinlin; he couldn't help it, but it wasn’t Kinlin, it was Bobby.

Bobby: Hi Atwood

Atwood: Hey, Bobby.

Bobby: What’s up?

Atwood: Not much, u?

Bobby: Just hanging out @ home

Atwood: I’m sitting in the sculpture garden taking in the sunshine.

Bobby: nice

Atwood: You should join me.

Bobby: then I’d have to get dressed

Atwood: you’re not dressed?

Bobby: no

Atwood: ?

Bobby: it’s easier to play with myself if I’m not dressed

Atwood: LOL! That’s true.

Bobby: ;)

Atwood: did you go to class today?

Bobby: really? That’s your next text?

Atwood: what?

Bobby: I’m naked! You just asked me about class

Atwood: sorry :(

Bobby: ;)

Atwood: so you’re naked, tell me about it.

Bobby: why don’t you come over and see for yourself

Atwood: tell me first.

Bobby: well, I’m laying on my bed, naked, stroking my cock.

Atwood: and?

Bobby: I’m using the other hand to play with my balls. I like that.

Atwood: ur getting me hard

Bobby: good

Atwood: yeah, but I’m in the sg.

Bobby: so don’t be in the sg

Atwood: ?

Bobby: be at my house. you could replace my hand with your own

Atwood: text me your address.

The next thing Atwood knew he was standing at Bobby’s dorm room door. It felt eerily reminiscent of the previous night waiting for Clancy to answer. The difference was he knew what he was getting into this time.

Bobby opened the door shirtless, the button on his jeans undone. He was barefooted and smiling. His eyes were gleaming. Atwood felt his face flush as a wicked smile formed on his lips. He wanted to be there and he could tell that Bobby wanted him to be there. He walked through the door.

Before the door had even latched Bobby was right behind him. He felt Bobby’s hands around his waist. He couldn’t stop himself from tilting his head to the left as Bobby’s lips found their way to his neck. His breath quickened and his pants got tighter. He spun around to face Bobby. He looked at the hot guy standing in front of him; taking in the eyes and the lips before closing his eyes and placing his lips on Bobby’s.

Bobby submitted to the kiss fully. He placed his arms around Atwood and pulled him tighter to his body. There was no space for light or air between them.

Bobby’s right hand found it way to Atwood’s butt. He squeezed and pressed their midsections even closer, if that was possible. Atwood put his hand down the back of Bobby’s jeans to find no underwear. Bobby’s back arched slightly as Atwood gently squeezed. Their kissing intensified. Without breaking the connection of their lips or hands from one another Bobby moved them toward his bed. They collapsed just like in a movie. Unlike in a movie however, they bumped their heads together and teeth met lips.

“Oow,” said Atwood.

“I’m sorry,” said Bobby, laughing. “That was much sexier in my head.”

They lay on the bed looking into each other’s eyes.

“It is always sexy in the movies,” said Atwood.

Bobby smiled at him. Without breaking eye contact from Bobby’s beautiful blue-green eyes, Atwood moved to reestablish the kiss that had been broken by their fall.

They kissed deeply and passionately. Atwood was trying to let go and enjoy the moment. He couldn’t keep his erection at bay, but he didn’t seem to be fully participating. The text from Kinlin was gnawing at him. Flashes of Kinlin kept crossing his mind, blinding him from what was in front of him.

He pushed Bobby away and sat up. His feet were on the ground and his elbows were planted on his thighs just above his knees. He put his head in his hand and closed his eyes. He rubbed his head as if by doing so he could smear away the image of Kinlin.

Bobby sat up and gently placed a hand on Atwood’s right thigh. Atwood turned to him. Bobby had a look of concern on his face.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Atwood didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the face of the man sitting next to him as pangs of guilt and frustration cramped in his stomach. How could he be sitting in this room, with this guy who actually wanted him and still be thinking of someone who didn’t want him who was miles away?

“I’m fine,” he responded with a look on his face that betrayed his lie. “I think I should go.”

Atwood stood up and made to get his jacket. Bobby grabbed his hand.

“I really wish you wouldn’t,” he said with a smile. “You wanna smoke a joint with me? It might relax you.”

Atwood had never smoked pot before, but he was curious. His head was filled with colliding thoughts – What am I doing? Am I gay? Kinlin. School. Bobby. – bouncing around like too much debris in a junk strewn heap. He thought now might be just the time to kill the cat.

“I’ve never smoked before.”

“It’s cool. I won’t pressure you, but you’re in good hands if you decide to,” said Bobby.

“I think I want to,” responded Atwood.

Bobby smiled and got up from the bed to get the joint from its hiding place in his closet. He walked back to the bed with the joint and a lighter in his hand. He motioned for Atwood to come sit next to him. It reminded Atwood of the previous night when they’d met and Bobby had motioned him to the sofa. He tried to recapture the sense of excitement and relaxation that he’d felt with Bobby by the end of the evening.

Atwood sat down on the side of the bed next to Bobby. Bobby lit the joint and inhaled, momentarily holding the smoke before exhaling. He passed the joint to Atwood as he exhaled the smoke. Atwood could smell sweetness in the air. He had only smelled it once before. It was at a bon fire held during homecoming his senior year. He had always been told that marijuana had a smell reminiscent of skunk spray, but that night it smelled sweet. It was the same this night. The sweet smell filled his nostrils. The smell took him back to the bon fire and to hanging with his friends, which included Kinlin.

He took the joint from Bobby and put it too his lips. He must have looked apprehensive because Bobby told him to relax.

“Just inhale some of the smoke into your mouth and then take air in with it to take it into your lungs. Just go slow.”

Atwood inhaled. As clichéd as he knew it was, he coughed. He couldn’t help it. He had tried to rush it. He didn’t have a lot of patience. He wanted to replace the image of Kinlin with that of Bobby as quickly as he could.
Bobby couldn’t help but laugh. Atwood laughed too, which made him cough even more. Bobby took the joint back and inhaled again.

“Inhale my smoke,” he said to Atwood while still holding his breath.

Bobby blew the smoke slowly at Atwood and Atwood inhaled the discarded smoke. He then held it briefly before exhaling it back into the air.

He took the joint from Bobby and took a real hit that didn’t make him cough this time. He was determined to do it right. He slowly pulled on the joint and felt the smoke fill his mouth. He slowly took in air and felt his lungs fill. He exhaled and smiled at himself like a child finally learning to put the circular piece in the circle instead of the square.

Bobby smiled at him and leaned in and kissed him on the lips. Atwood felt Bobby’s tongue, a familiar feeling for sure by now. Bobby pulled away and took the joint from Atwood inhaling deeply another drag.

He passed it back to Atwood as he let the vapor infiltrate his lungs one more time. Atwood took another drag and inhaled deeper this time. As he exhaled he caught himself watching the white smoke as it drifted across the room and danced on the rays of sunlight that penetrated the shear curtains covering Bobby’s window. Bobby started to laugh at him and he started to laugh at Bobby although he had no idea why he was laughing.

Atwood leaned forward and kissed Bobby this time. There was nothing but joy in his heart and his mind. His eyelids felt heavy, but he was more relaxed than he’d been since he’d gotten to California. It was a feeling he thought he could get used to. He then slipped off the edge of the bed, crashing butt first to the floor.

Bobby started to laugh again. Atwood quickly moved from shock to laughter himself. Bobby joined Atwood on the floor. They leaned up against the bed and continued to pass the joint back and forth.

“This shit is amazing,” said Atwood. His body felt weightless as he lifted his arm to take the joint Bobby was trying to pass him.

Bobby started laughing again.

“Stop it,” said Atwood, trying not to laugh and losing the battle. “Stop it, I’m trying to inhale.” He inhaled and laughed the smoke right out, then started coughing.

“Remember when President Clinton said he didn’t inhale?” laughed Bobby. “You know he did. I mean why would he not wanna feel this way?”

“I don’t know man,” coughed Atwood. He passed the joint back to Bobby. “You were like, two when that happened. How do you even know that?”

“I’m a political science major. I read about our Presidents.” He took another toke off the joint and exhaled while speaking. “I mean can you imagine just holding the smoke in your mouth for nothing? That’s like chewing chocolate then spitting it out instead of swallowing.”

Atwood snorted. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Bobby looked at Atwood and tried to focus. “Your eyes are like slits. Seriously, man, can you even see me?” he said as he passed the joint.

“Slits?” Atwood continued to laugh. His perma grin would not stop. “Of course I can see you.” His eyelids were so droopy that the lashes created and hazy blind through which he had to fight to focus. He tried lifting his forehead, but to no avail. The lids didn’t budge. He took another hit and passed the joint back to Bobby.

Bobby laughed and took another drag.

“Why do you think President Clinton didn’t inhale?” asked Atwood. “Do you think he knew he was going to run for President one day and didn’t want it showing up if he had to take a drug test?”

“A drug test?” The words burst from Bobby’s mouth before he could stop them. They were followed quickly by the infectious laughter that wouldn’t let go of either of them. “It doesn’t stay in your system that long.” He passed the joint back to Atwood. “He just lied like he did about that blowjob.”

Atwood was sitting with his eyes closed now. He looked like he was either asleep or meditating. The joint had burned down to his thumbs. Bobby reached over and took it from him and put it in an ashtray that he kept under the bed. Atwood smiled and Bobby kissed him.

“You said blowjob,” said Atwood without moving anything but his lips.

“Yes, I did,” said Bobby as he stood up from the floor

Atwood tried, but couldn’t get up. He felt heavy and yet somehow weightless. They started laughing again. It was beyond their control. Atwood was too stoned to get off the floor. Bobby did his best to get Atwood on his feet.

They sat back on the edge of the bed, Atwood making sure he was solidly planted enough to not fall off this time, a checkpoint not lost on Bobby.

They started making out again and lay down on the bed. They continued until the kissing slowly stopped. Atwood turned into spooning position with Bobby behind him. They fell asleep. Bobby was holding Atwood in his arms. Atwood was holding Bobby’s right hand in his own.

When Atwood awoke he saw the hand in his own and felt the body pressed against him.

“Kinlin?” he said with hope in his voice. He turned and saw that it was Bobby. His muscles seemed to collapse as the hope changed to despair when the edge of dreamland melted into the reality of his real-world setting.

He eased out of Bobby’s arms and grabbed his jacket and slipped out the door as quietly as possible. He had to get over Kinlin. Kinlin didn’t matter. He was unimportant to Kinlin. Kinlin was his best friend. Why didn’t Kinlin want him?

He burst through the doors almost running. The sun was setting; it was dusk. In a full run now he ran away from Bobby’s dorm. He ran as fast as he could. He couldn’t stop the tears spilling from his eyes. He ran until he stumbled into Westwood Plaza. There he sat down on a bench and tried to catch his breath, tried to stop the tears.

He realized that he was angrier with himself more than anything. His desire to be wanted by Kinlin was keeping him stuck. He had just slipped out of the arms of another guy, a guy who wanted him there, to run away and cry over a guy who didn’t want him.

His heart was still pounding, but more from anxiety now than the running. He was shaking. He wanted to scream. He wanted to yell at the top of his lungs. He just wanted to forget. He wanted to pound the thoughts from his head, the feelings from his heart. He had no concept of how long they had slept. The marijuana had helped him forget briefly, but its effect had mostly worn off.

His phone buzzed. He didn’t even stop to think before pulling it out and looking at it.

Haven’t heard from u. R u okay? I’m around tonight. Wanna have a beer and talk?

There it was, another text from Kinlin. His heart immediately slowed. The pain in his chest dissipated. He read the words over and over. He couldn’t stop the smile that formed on his face.

Atwood: Hey! Been busy. Sorry! A beer and talk sounds nice. I’ll text when I get home.

Kinlin: cool.

©2011 Michael Rohrer

Margin Call (or Shit Show)

2011-12-01T09:30:00.001-05:00

When the stakes are this high tension is to be expected. My heart rate was slightly, just slightly, elevated the entire time I was watching Margin Call. In my opinion it is the suspense thriller for 2011; a true comment on our most recent, some would say current, state of affairs. Some might even call it a horror story.

tick tock

I’ve not really given much thought to the financial crisis and how it affects me. I’m working. I continue to make my salary and put money into savings each week. I continue to see people buying tickets to theatre, which supports my salary. I haven’t exactly been oblivious, but it’s not the first, second or sixth thing on my mind. Of course I noticed when the interest rate on my Orange ING Direct savings account dropped. There’s really nothing I can to about that though but wait for it to regain its former high. I just keep putting money into it. After watching Margin Call however, I wonder what happens to that money, my money. It’s not exactly tied up, but it’s also not exactly available. It’s floating out there in the ether. It appears on paper, but that’s about it.

tick tock

My annuity investment through my union is handled through Mercer. I don’t really understand any of it. Contributions are made in my name and an account manager at Mercer puts it into funds deemed appropriate, as I have made no suggestions. I recognize gain and loss. In the past 4 years I’ve noticed one loss in the amount. That was in the last quarter. Is the financial crisis finally catching up to me?

I have trust issues as it is. Watching the powers-that-be at MBS – the fictional financial institution in Margin Call, loosely based on Lehman Brothers – come up with the plan to save themselves at the expense of everyone else does not assuage any of those issues. In fact it fortifies them with chains of unease.

It’s cutthroat. Hide your jugular. Everyone is expendable; from the newest employee to the long-time manager to the executive to the person walking on the sidewalk 20 stories below. I’m one of those people walking on the sidewalk and I don’t like being expendable.

tick tock

When the ground is shifting under your feet, when you’re standing atop quicksand, what do you do? You unload the dead weight at what ever cost to you or the buyer. You find a scapegoat and pay them a lovely severance and allow them to walk out the door with their head hung in shame taking the blame for something that you chose to ignore. Step right up folks, get your tickets to the shit show. The warnings were there, but the money that was being made blinded you to reality. Money makes the world go ‘round. We can’t help ourselves. Money is seductive, having it intoxicating. If you made millions of dollars a year, would you want to give that up? Would you bury your conscience so deep that you were unaffected by whatever you had to do to keep making the money?

tick tock

The world is full of fat cats and starving dogs. The starving dogs are those occupying Wall Street in Zuccotti Park. – so called representatives of the 99%. The fat cats are the 1%. The owner of MBS is definitely one of the fattest of cats. He was a billionaire until the 24-hour period in which the film takes place. Now he’s just a millionaire. Forgive me if I don’t shed a tear. I don’t feel the need to become a protestor in the Occupy Wall Street movement. I’m not even sure like-minded people represent me there. I do think Margin Call will open the viewer’s eyes to what must happen behind the gray, sun-reflecting windows of the 20th floor every day. It’s a glimpse by us, the laypeople, into their world.

tick tock

What’s that sound I hear in the darkness? It’s the sound of shovel upturning earth. Is this a dream? Am I digging a hole to bury my money or is the hole being dug to bury me? Silence. The music has stopped, the wheel has stopped turning. There was a moment of complete silence around the boardroom table in the film to drive home with taut effect, “What happens when the music stops?” The music is of course a metaphor for the buying and selling, the trading, the moneymaking. What happens is shock and silence, despair and darkness.

tick tock

If the music stops, time has run out. The Merry-Go-Round ceases to make another turn. The ride is over. We’re left to get off the horse with his fake, nightmarish smile and find joy in what was, moving on to what is. Hopefully what is isn’t something that has been taken away from us without our knowledge of its happening.

Melancholia

2011-11-28T22:18:00.000-05:00

In the new film Melancholia, written and directed by Lars von Trier, Melancholia is the name of a planet that has been hidden behind the sun and is now visible, rapidly moving toward a collision with Earth.

Melancholia (from Greek meaning sadness) according to Wikipedia is a mood disorder of non-specific depression. Dictionary terminology defines it as: a gloomy state of mind, especially when habitual or prolonged; depression. In his New York Times review, A. O. Scott quotes Freud’s description of the emotional disorder melancholia as: “a profoundly painful dejection, cessation of interest in the outside world, loss of the capacity to love, inhibition of all activity, and a lowering of the self-regarding feelings to a degree that finds utterance in self-reproaches and self-revilings, and culminates in a delusional expectation of punishment.”

It seems appropriate that a planet ready to wipe out our very existence would be given a name meaning depression. A gloomy state of mind with loss of interest in all activity seems par for that course.

The film is broken into two parts. “Justine” and “Claire” respectively. Justine is a girl battling her demons of depression and Claire is her sister, the one who holds it all together. In part one, we see Justine on her wedding day. Claire is trying to keep everything moving smoothly as Justine tries to just be present. In part two, we see Claire become the unhinged sister as the threat of total annihilation sets in while Justine remains calm. Inspiration for the film is said to have come from Trier's own life after suffering a depressive episode and gaining insight that depressed people remain calm in stressful situations. This makes the title an apt choice. Nothing I’m saying here is a SPOILER. All of the above plot points were revealed to me in the New York Times review.

What’s it all about? That’s a question I kept posing to myself during the first part of the film. I have to say here that I thought it was slow. I found myself interested but wishing for something to happen. I was intently watching Kirsten Dunst who plays “Justine” so as to not miss a look or breath. She has been well received in the film and already won Best Actress at Cannes. However, I found myself wishing to see Alexander Skarsgard, the man playing Justine’s husband (and the hot vampire Eric on True Blood) strip down to less than his wedding tux. Alas, we managed a glimpse of him in tuxedo shirt and boxer briefs, but that was all. Focus!

I kept thinking, “What is going on at this wedding?" "Why is she so weird?" "Why is no one talking about the planet?" Then everything changed and my reason for sticking with this film was made known.

What would you do if you knew you were going to die? In the distance, that planet you see approaching. Yeah, it’s going to hit us.

Charlotte Gainsbourg plays “Claire” and to me she was the breath of exciting air that this film needed. The moment that her story took center stage I was more intrigued. She’s a wife and a mother. She fears the approaching planet. She tries to not look up information on the Internet about its approach but fails. She can’t stop herself from viewing the planet’s ever-nearer proximity to Earth. She doesn’t want to believe the inevitable, but can’t resist. When she checks one more time to see if the planet is closer her despair is palpable. As Claire began to have trouble breathing, I found myself focusing on my own breathing. Watching her was like getting a glimpse of the way I would act should this be happening to Earth in 2011. Or for that matter December 2012. Thanks Mayan calendar. Prepare to comfort me folks. I tend to get a little unhinged myself.

If life as you know it were going to end in a matter of minutes or days, what would you do? Would you freak out? Would you remain calm? Would you cry? Would you be able to leave your house, your bed? Would you spend every moment with your family and friends? Would you be able to sleep? Would you be able to not sleep? Would you enjoy your favorite glass of red wine? Would you sing a song? Would you soak up the sun and breath the air? Would you commit suicide?

Life is fragile and precious. Do we take the time to live every moment as if it was our last? No. I don’t think most of us live as if we might not take another breath. I don’t. I get inspired to live that way when I see a film like this or hear a song about said ending, but it doesn’t always stick. Life is fleeting. It may seem like we’ve been here forever when we’re 40, 50, 80 years old, but we’re just a speck in the great scheme of life. We have to enjoy it while it lasts. Live it while we’re in it. What Claire suffered from is the fear of impending doom; it all but paralyzed her ability to continue living. I suffer from that dread when something – a spanking from my father, the results of the doctor’s exam, the rapture, a planet crashing into Earth – is pending and I have to wait for it to happen. I know it’s coming and that makes everything worse.

I’m left to ponder the question, “What would I do?” I know myself well enough to know that I would freak out. I would stress myself into a blithering heap of blood and bones, barely able to leave the house. I would probably take a sleeping pill to ensure that I calmed my anxiety-prone self into sleep. There would probably be no relief from the pain that would take up residence in my chest. That dread of impending doom. How do you even pretend to live when you know the worst is coming? Even though I know man cannot predict the rapture, I was a wreck the day of its predicted happening. I sat at my desk, the very desk where I am now writing, and I watched the still water in the glass sitting next to my computer. I thought if there was going to be an earthquake and we ascended to Christ the water would surely move. It didn’t move. I was watching for any ripple, ala Jurassic Park. Nothing happened. The appointed time came and went. The sense of relief I felt was stupid considering I had worked myself into the frenzy.

Melancholia will not be for everyone. It can be slow and tedious, but it can also be beautiful and thought provoking. The acting by its two females – especially as they change emotional positions – is the first reason to get sucked in. I do not regret watching it if for nothing more that to connect the beautiful pieces together and to see a little bit of myself that I know I should change.

Return to Wintrop St. - Part 3

2011-11-04T10:29:00.001-04:00

When she walked into the library, Atwood took notice immediately. The library became the setting for a fantasy sequence straight out of an R-rated teen sex comedy, complete with a fan to billow her hair and a backlight to show her panties. She was tall, blond and gorgeous; her tan, the perfect shade of brown. She looked like a typical California girl. Of course, none of that actually happened.

She noticed him and that snapped him back to reality. He smiled. She walked to the table he occupied alone and sat at the opposite end. It wasn’t long before he found himself unable to concentrate on the paper, “Voodoo in the Deep South,” he had gone to the library to write for his sociology class.

She looked in his direction and noticed that he was staring at her. It should have been creepy, but she couldn’t help but smile back. She was twirling her hair and the smile happened spontaneously. It was the worst moment for his face to flush red. Neither of them had much control over their actions in that moment.

She grabbed her bag and books and moved down to his end of the table.

“Hi,” she said, now sitting across from him. “I’m Clancy Lord.”

“Hi, I’m Atwood Ross,” he said as he watched her continue to twirl her hair. It was clichéd that the blond girl would be sitting across from him twirling her hair, but she was. He was staring into her big green eyes, wanting to fall in, trying to stay calm.

She demurely looked down at her books as a crooked smile formed on her lips. When she returned her gaze to him her eyes seemed even bigger than before.

“I see you’re a Delta Sig,” said Clancy, indicating the insignia patch on his backpack.

“Yeah,” said Atwood completely at a loss for words. He felt so stupid. She was just a girl. Why couldn’t he talk to her?

“I’m a Delta Gamma,” said Clancy, showing him the Greek letter pendant she wore around her neck. “Do Good!”

“Sorry,” said Atwood, a little confused by her final comment.

“Oh,” she said with a laugh. “That’s our motto, ‘Do Good!’”

“Oh.” Atwood smiled back at her and felt his shoulders relax a little. “Ours is Better Men, Better Lives.” Atwood cocked his head to side slightly when he realized he had just quoted his fraternity’s motto.

“I know,” replied Clancy. “I’ve dated a couple of you guys already. You guys have ‘Better Men’ and I’m supposed to ‘Do Good’ and when we get together we can create ‘Better Lives’…at least for an hour or so.”

“I can’t believe I actually remembered our motto,” said Atwood and then her words sunk in. “Wait, what did you say?”

“I said, ‘You guys have ‘Better Men’ and I’m supposed to ‘Do Good’ and when we get together we can create ‘Better Lives’ at least for an hour or so.’”

Again his face flushed. She laughed because the reddening hadn’t gone unnoticed. How could it? His golden eyes were even more pronounced when surrounded by a red face.

“I think you’re cute, Atwood,” said Clancy. “There’s a party at the sorority house tonight.” She took out a small card and began to write on it as she spoke. “Here’s the address and my number. Come by around 9pm.” She slid the card across the table and grabbed her books and bag and stood up from the table. “It was nice to meet you, Atwood Ross. See you tonight.” She then turned and walked away.

Atwood picked up the card. It was embossed with the Delta Gamma insignia. It had the name and address of her sorority in bronze-colored ink. Just below the address was her phone number. He was excited. This could be just what he needed to get his mind off of Kinlin.

“Clancy Lord,” he said aloud to himself as he pocketed the card. He looked down at his nearly blank notebook page and realized he had to get to work on his report or he couldn’t even think about attending the party tonight.

A little over halfway down Hilgard Street, Atwood stood in front of the Delta Gamma sorority house. He looked from the card to the house. The insignia was there and the house number. He was in the right place. He was nervous. He wasn’t sure why; it was only a party. Although it didn’t look like a party was going on. Maybe he was just early. Clancy had told him to stop by at 9pm. That was a little early for a party to be in full swing. He had to stop himself from internal criticizing. He was there on time and there was nothing wrong with that.

He walked up the sidewalk towards the house, a three-story red brick mansion adorned with four white, round columns stretching from the barely-raised-off-the-ground front porch to a half-moon roof at the second level. He took in the black shutters that side-framed each window and the doghouses with their varying degree of pulled shades on the third level. The house was much larger than that of the Delta Sig Fraternity.

“I guess girls just need more space,” he muttered aloud to himself.

He looked up to see that the ornate lighting fixture that hung from the center of the porch roof was adorned with bronze roses. The house was almost daunting and seemed empty. He couldn’t believe that a party was actually going on inside. If it hadn’t been for the many-lighted windows he would have thought the beautiful girl was playing a cruel trick on him.

He rang the bell. As he waited for someone to open the door he checked his breath. He didn’t smell anything unpleasant, but popped a piece of gum in his mouth anyway. He should have chosen breath mints instead of gum. How annoying was he going to look to Clancy chewing gum? He didn’t have any breath mints though so gum was his option. Note to self: stop sabotaging the moment.

It seemed an eternity before Clancy opened the door. He had turned his back to it and was looking across the street when he heard her voice.

“Right on time.”

He turned around. She was standing in the doorway wearing a man’s white dress shirt, a black lacy bra peeking out from underneath. He noticed she was barefoot as he took in her smooth legs. All that was missing was a lollipop. He felt like he had just stepped into Risky Business.

“Come in, Atwood,” she said with a knowing look on her face of desire and just how to get it.

“Hey,” said Atwood. “I thought you said this was a party?”

“It is a party,” replied Clancy. “Just not the kind you were expecting.”

Atwood walked into house; it appeared to be empty. Was he the sole attendee to her party? What was she planning? His heart raced with excitement peppered with the slightest amount of fear. As if on cue AC/DC’s “Back in Black” started playing. It was a little sinister and erotic at the same time. His heart continued to pound.

Clancy closed the door, and then walked past him, glancing back and motioning with her head indicating that he should follow her.

He walked through the opening to his left into the living area of the sorority house. The room was painted pale blue with mahogany stained molding around the windows and doors. Ornate wainscoting in the same shade of mahogany climbed a third of the wall, surrounding the room. It was warm and inviting, the fire in the fireplace perfect for a California night.

There was another guy sitting on the overstuffed sofa. Atwood froze where he stood. Clancy had moved to the chair across from the sofa and was now sitting, looking at Atwood.

“You don’t have to be shy, Atwood,” said Clancy. “This is my friend, Bobby. Bobby Blake,” she gestured toward Atwood. “Atwood Ross.”

“Hi, Atwood.” Bobby stood and extended his hand to Atwood.

“Hi, Bobby,” said Atwood and he extended his hand to Bobby’s and grasped it firmly. He was unsure of the three-person party, but that didn’t affect his manners.

Bobby was slightly taller than Atwood. He had blue/green eyes and short dark brown hair. His teeth were perfect and white and stood out amongst the scruff that darkened his face. When he smiled at Atwood during their handshake, Atwood felt immediately at ease.

“I’ve never met anyone with golden eyes before,” said Bobby.

Atwood smiled. He had heard that a lot. Golden eyes were odd, and he was used to people finding them the most interesting, and sometimes beautiful thing about him.

“You’re right, Clance, he is cute,” Bobby said to Clancy, then he turned back to Atwood and smiled again as he sat back down on the sofa.

“I told you,” said Clancy. “Atwood, would you like something to drink?” Atwood paused. “I know we’re all underage, but there’s no need to be a prude. I have a stash of Malibu Rum and nobody’s here.”

“Sure,” said Atwood as he shrugged. He didn’t want to be a prude. He had no idea why he was there, but being a prude seemed to be the surest way to get kicked out of this party.

Clancy brought him a glass of rum on the rocks.

“Is this straight rum?” asked Atwood.

“Yes,” replied Clancy, her eyes and mouth still seductive. “Can you handle it?”

“Clance, dial it down a little,” said Bobby.

Atwood looked at Bobby then back to Clancy before taking a drink of the rum.

“I think I can handle it.” With no immediate options apparent to him he used the drink to swallow his gum.

“Good,” said Clancy and she smiled at him and took a drink from her own glass. “Why don’t you take off your jacket and stay a while?”

Atwood took his jacket off and threw it on a chair by the opening to the living room. The music coming from unseen speakers continued to play 80’s tunes. Mötley Crüe and Def Leppard filled the space with hard driving beats. Atwood tried to take in everything about the situation in which he had found himself.
Bobby and Clancy were both staring at him when his mind came back into focus.

“Sit down, Atwood,” said Bobby.

Atwood sat in the second chair opposite the sofa.

“Not over there. Come sit over here,” Bobby said indicating the sofa with a pat of his hand on the empty space next to him.

Caution surged through Atwood’s thoughts as he got up from the chair and sat at the end of the sofa that placed him between Bobby and Clancy, who was still in the chair.

“How about we play a little game?” said Clancy.

“What kind of game?” asked Atwood.

“Nothing too serious, just something that will help us loosen up.

“Loosen up? Why do we need to loosen up?” asked Atwood.

“If you have to ask that question then you need to loosen up,” replied Clancy.

“It’s okay, Atwood,” said Bobby as he gave Clancy a “take it easy” look. He then turned to face Atwood and smiled. “It’s just a little drinking game that involves fantasies and talking. It makes it easy to relax and open up and learn about each other.”

“You in?” asked Clancy. She wasn’t letting up and she wasn’t taking Bobby’s looks with any degree of seriousness.

“Sure,” said Atwood, unsure, but proceeding. He was there. What did he have to lose? He tried to remember to keep his wits about him and to know when to say when.

“Okay,” said Clancy, her crooked smile from earlier in the day reappearing as she sat up straighter in the chair. She revealed her black panties in the process as she pulled her legs Indian style underneath her. “So this game is called ‘I Never.’ What you have to do is say something that you may or may not have done with the words ‘I Never’ in front of it. If anyone in the game has done it then they have to drink. I’ll give you an example. I never used a dildo.”

There was a brief pause before Clancy and Bobby took a drink. Atwood was surprised to see Bobby take a drink. Bobby again smiled at him.

“So, you just learned a little bit about me and Bobby. You now know we’ve both used a dildo before. The questions are supposed to be sexual. They don’t have to be, but only pussys play without sexual questions.” She gave him the look that she had given in the library where her eyes looked bigger than they could be. This time they also looked more seductive. She was coming on strong and Atwood was fighting the butterflies in his stomach. He wanted to let go and be part of this game – this situation – whatever it was. He hoped that if the alcohol was indeed going to relax him it would be the chloroform that would sedate the butterflies and knock them out if only for a little while.

“I’ll start,” said Clancy. Neither of the boys in the room was surprised by her willingness to begin. Atwood had known this girl for less than eight hours, but knew already she was used to getting what she wanted. Example number one was the fact that he had shown up at the sorority house tonight. He realized that she knew he would come as soon as she had given him her card.

“I never sucked a cock before,” said Clancy as she stared at both of them. She surprised herself by keeping a straight face.

She was the first to move her glass towards her mouth. From his peripheral vision Atwood saw movement next to him. He turned to see Bobby also taking a drink. He wasn’t sure he wanted to divulge that information about himself yet, but he couldn’t stop his arm from moving his own glass to his lips.

“Really,” said Bobby.

Atwood heard him, but chose not to acknowledge his words. He could, however, tell from the tone that they were accompanied by a smile.

“Bobby,” said Clancy, indicating that he should go next.

“I never had a 3-way.”

He was drinking almost before the words were out of his mouth. Clancy too took a drink. Atwood sat motionless on the sofa. He couldn’t drink. He had never experienced a 3-way. He had watched a 3-way in porn before, but that didn’t count in this game. He did notice that Clancy gave Bobby an interesting look. Interesting was the best way he could describe it because he had no idea what it meant.

“Your turn, Atwood,” said Bobby.

Atwood didn’t really know what to say. He hadn’t had that many experiences. He didn’t think under-the-bra action at prom was likely to illicit much more than laughter from his new sexually adventurous acquaintances.

“I never,” he paused. “I never kissed my best friend.”

Bobby smiled while Clancy laughed. Bobby gave another one of his looks and she acknowledged him this time by dialing down the laugh and taking a drink. Bobby also took a drink. Atwood smiled a shy smile and shook his head as he too took a drink.

Thirty minutes later and drink number two, Bobby and Clancy were playing to Atwood’s strengths. The questions had become less sexual in an effort to keep him drinking. He was aware of the change at its beginning, but now that the rum was coursing through his blood stream – chasing away his fear – he was just having a good time.

“Hotel California” was filling the room with its guitar interlude when Clancy moved to the sofa. She sat between Bobby and Atwood. She started to kiss Bobby. Atwood watched like a voyeur. His eyes were slits, his mouth in a half-smile. From the guitar strains of “Hotel California” to the bluesy chords of “Sweet Emotion” the atmosphere in the room changed again as he felt a hand on his leg. He thought it was Clancy, but when he looked down he saw that it wasn’t a feminine hand.

He looked at Bobby and Clancy kissing next to him and saw that Bobby was looking at him. His head was cocked slightly to the side so that he could see Atwood while kissing Clancy. It was Bobby’s hand that was rubbing his thigh.

Atwood didn’t know what to do. He wanted to be in the moment, be part of the situation. He wanted to let go and succumb to the passion that might await him. Flashes of Kinlin flickered behind his eyes. He didn’t know why. Kinlin was being distant. Kinlin had already made out with two girls at Elmhurst. This moment was Atwood’s. It was real and it was happening. He could be a pussy and not participate or he could be the luckiest 18-year old at UCLA.

“Fuck you, Kinlin,” he mouthed barely audible.

Atwood took Bobby’s hand from his thigh and placed it firmly on his crotch. Bobby squeezed the hardness under his hand and kissed Clancy harder. There was nothing to lose. The alcohol had indeed knocked out the butterflies while giving him the courage to experience whatever this experience was to be.

Atwood sunk down a little into the sofa and placed his own hand on top of Bobby’s so that they caressed Atwood’s cock together. Before he knew what was happening there were lips on his cock and lips on his lips. He didn’t remember pulling his pants down let alone off, but he was naked. Clancy was naked and Bobby was naked. They were still on the sofa in the living room. Atwood wondered what would happen if anyone walked in, but the clutter in his mind became clear as he put one hand on Clancy’s breast and the other on Bobby’s cock. His breathing was fast and hard. He was losing his grip on reality. Was this happening? Was this real? He was trying to live in it.

He let go of Bobby’s cock and used his now free hand to push Bobby’s face from his own. He stared up into Bobby’s eyes then looked down at his cock. Bobby took the hint and moved forward. Atwood took Bobby into his mouth like a starving child. He licked and sucked like his life depended on it. Bobby moaned. They were all drunk. The alcohol should have slowed down the orgasm, but it didn’t.

Bobby threw his head back as the sounds of mad passion broke forth from his throat and the spasm of climax shot into Atwood’s mouth. Unaware of any other choice but to swallow, Atwood swallowed, as did Clancy when Atwood lost complete control at the peak of ecstasy.

Bobby leaned down and kissed Atwood deep as if he wanted to taste himself in Atwood’s mouth. Atwood could see Clancy smiling with satisfaction at what they’d done. He leaned forward and kissed her. She took him by the back of the head and plunged her tongue deep into his mouth. He returned in kind.

Bobby moved into the space left vacant by Atwood’s forward move. He placed his hands around Atwood, one on his stomach, the other on his chest. He began kissing Atwood’s neck. Atwood could feel Bobby’s cock, hard again, pressing into his back. His own cock stiffened.

“Welcome To The Jungle” filled the room with a wild soundtrack cue for the scene they were in.

Bobby reached down and took hold of Atwood’s cock and Atwood reached forward and slipped two fingers inside Clancy. Her sharp intake of breath was not lost on him. He didn’t know how he knew what to do, but he used his thumb the massage her sensitivity. She rocked against him.

Clancy’s eyes were staring intently past Atwood. He realized that she was staring at Bobby. She was thrusting hard against Atwood’s fingers without breaking her gaze. Bobby had now removed his left hand from Atwood’s chest and had found his way to the spot that gave Atwood sensations he had never experienced.

How am I here, he thought to himself. What am I doing? Living was the word that popped into his head.

While stroking Atwood’s cock, Bobby slipped a finger inside of him. It hurt for the briefest of seconds then felt amazing. His body tingled; it was alive with pleasure. Atwood couldn’t stop himself from rocking back and forth on Bobby’s finger as Bobby continued stroking his cock.

It was hard for Atwood to concentrate on what he was doing. Thankfully Clancy took charge of her own climax.

Clancy’s breath began to quicken, her body to shudder as she moaned through her closed mouth. Atwood was in such a state of frenzy that he couldn’t hold on any longer. His entire body convulsed as he came. He felt Bobby’s finger inside of him as his pulsing tightened around it.

He was spent. Exhausted. He fell back against Bobby who wrapped him in his arms. Clancy wore the elated smile of a girl who’d just gotten everything she wanted. She also looked like she wanted a cigarette, but maybe that was just an image the movies had placed in Atwood’s head.

“So, Atwood,” said Clancy. “Are you glad you came to the party?”

He couldn’t resist the smile that formed on his droopy-eyed face. “More than you know.”

“Good,” she replied looking past him to Bobby. “We’ll have to do it again. What do you say, Bobby? Would you be up for another ‘party’?”

His eyes twinkled when he smiled. “That goes without saying.” He kissed Atwood’s neck. Goose flesh bumped over Atwood’s body.

“Well then, I think we have to make that happen,” she said as she stood up, put on the white dress shirt and began buttoning it. “Leave me your number, Atwood.”

When Atwood and Bobby were dressed the three of them stood looking at each other. There was just enough rum left in each of their glasses to have a final shot. They clinked their glasses and downed the rum.

Atwood wrote his number on the back of one of Clancy’s cards. Bobby was going to stay for a while longer. Atwood wondered if the two of them were going to fuck after he left. It didn’t matter; he was just curious. As he picked up his jacket and made his was to the door “Cum On Feel The Noize” began playing on the hidden sound system. He shook his head and laughed to himself, said goodbye to Bobby and Clancy and left the Delta Gamma house.

©2011 Michael Rohrer

"Alex Forrest"

2011-10-31T16:08:00.000-04:00

Remakes are now the norm. Do overs. Redo’s. Some of them don’t need to happen, but they happen anyway. I’ve been rehearsing for a remake of Fatal Attraction, retitled Obsessive Attraction for 2011. Glenn Close gracefully handed the role of Alex Forrest to me, but there’s a problem. I’ve been living in the character’s skin outside of rehearsal. I’ve been having a hard time separating fantasy from reality.

††††

There comes a time when you have to look back and see yourself; learn from your actions.

I have to see my past and learn from it. Those aren’t just words. I mean them. I really have to learn from my mistakes. I have to move beyond the regret of my actions into the growth of changing them by realizing what I’m doing when I’m doing it. Different outcomes are possible. I just have to make the effort.

Let me tell you a story. I fell hard for someone who didn't fall for me. He's a good guy, but not the right guy for me. I became obsessed with him. Sometimes the obsession didn't affect me negatively and other times it became a debilitating existence with a whiff of desperation.

My connection to Ms. Forrest ends at the obsession. Her obsession was fuel enough for her to push further down an emotional, impulsive path of self-mutilation. I isolated myself and drank. I listened to sad music. I took sleeping pills and slept. What I didn’t realize was that I was making him uncomfortable. Things weren’t normal anymore. I knew it, but I didn’t know he knew it. I play like I’m not that transparent, but I am that transparent.

I recently wrote about changing my pattern by staying friends with someone after realizing he didn't want me the way I wanted him. (Wow, he didn’t want me the way I wanted him. Wish I had paid attention to my own story. I would have begun to heal sooner.) Well, here's another pattern: I change my true self to fit what I think the other person will like.

I realize that means the person will be falling for a fabricated individual and that our relationship stands no chance of surviving. I don't know why I do it except that I must think I'm not good enough or desirable enough as I am. What bullshit!

There comes a time when you have to believe that you are good enough.

I'm scared to be my truest self for fear that whoever he is, (a) he will run away when I say my first off-color comment in the middle of some story, (b) he’ll be unimpressed with my hair one day, (c) he won’t like my sense of style, (d) I’ll be too effeminate for him. Blah, blah, blah, fear, blah, the list could go on, blah.

Well guess what? I'm off-color and I like it. I like my sense of style. I like my choices in music and television programs. I like my hair (most of the time). I can be a big girl sometimes, but I’m also a guy. I don’t walk around with my wrist limped out in front of me. I may not be the butchest man on the bar stool, but I am a man. I don't need to compromise who I am and what I want in order to make myself more appealing to a guy that doesn't want me anyway! When am I going to learn that lesson? I know relationships have to be based in truth so why am I altering myself? I realize that if the guy is truly attracted to me and wants to get to know me, all of my “stuff” will be part of my charm, not a deterrent.

I don't need to go out, and stay out, later than I normally would in order to impress someone. I take responsibility for my life and require of myself the utmost in being responsible. So what if I want to go to bed at 11 pm? I’m not a stay-up-until-the-wee-hours kind of guy. That doesn’t mean I can’t throw caution to the wind sometimes because I can; I just don’t want to throw it to impress when the impressing gets me nothing but a lonely cab ride home.

Expectations are a bitch, too. I’ve been told they only lead to disappointment. I can say, with some degree of knowledge that is the truth.

I went to parties I didn't want to attend because this person asked me and I saw it as an opportunity to hang out with him. Hindsight: he was just being nice. I was misreading. Yeah, maybe he genuinely wanted my company as a friend, but boy did I see those invitations as openings.

I bought music I knew he liked thinking it would impress him and give us something to talk about. Hindsight: thankfully I liked the music, but it was a dumb move on my part nonetheless. Music holds memories; emotions connected to time and place. When I buy a song or album because of someone else, that memory is eternally connected to it. Most of that music I can now listen to, loving it because I love it, not because he loves it. The memory is now more of a vapor of smoke than a thick cloud I can’t get through. Why do I do it to myself?

I've acted more stupid lately than I care to really admit! Checking my pattern: the frequency is nothing but white noise. This isn't the first time I've acted this stupid and probably won’t be the last. Hopefully, I will detect my behavior sooner next time.

Honestly, I'm embarrassed and I feel foolish!

I write stories. Stories that I sit at my desk and make up – people, places and instances that I create in my brain and transfer to typed word through my fingers. It's not such a leap to believe that I would create fantasies in my head about a real person that I like. I'm aware when fantasy and reality collide and fizzle in front of me. I usually keep the spark of hope alive though and think that if I try again maybe the fantasy and the reality will ignite. Pattern detected.

No bunnies were harmed during this experience.

Spiralling

2011-10-25T12:34:00.000-04:00

I'm spiraling. The orange glow at the end of my cigarette is becoming more and more frequent, the swirl of alcohol and rocks a daily occurrence. Popping the top off of that beer that’s waiting for me at home is something that I look forward to. It's because of him! The Taylor Swift song “Haunted” makes more sense to me now than ever – “He would try to take away my pain, and he just might make me smile, but the whole time I’m wishing he was you instead.”

I feel lonely. I feel alone. I have begun to wonder who would miss me if I were gone. I don't mean gone from New York City; I mean literally gone. I'm not going to jump in front of a bus or anything so don't freak out. There are no prescription pain meds or illegal substances in my house. These are words with no real sincerity behind them, but they pass through my mind. The sleeping pill container in my bedroom is less full than it used to be though.

I feel like the writers who script my life abandoned me. I’ve been left to improvise the storylines they laid out before they left. I don’t like improvisation. I like having more control than that – knowing what happens next. That inability to relinquish control has always been my problem.

I find myself desperately seeking a connection. I often wonder if pushing it away for so long means that now that I truly want it, it won’t come. Did connection finally give on me? “Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor” as Cinderella states in Into The Woods. Have I missed all of my opportunities by scoffing in the face of anyone who wanted me?

I’ve begun to freak out in situations where freaking out has no point. I’m playing out both sides of the conversation in my head without any true facts. I’ve been sad one minute and giddily happy the next. I have erased phone numbers and asked for them back. I have deleted others with no care for reconnecting. Some of these actions I’m truly sorry for and others I couldn’t care less about.

There are songs that I keep coming back to over and over that seem to sum up my life and situation right now. In particular there are two Lady Antebellum songs that hit me in the heart as if there was a bull’s-eye hovering over it, beckoning the heartbreak arrows to fill me with their sting. The titles, “Wanted You More” and “As You Turn Away” already speak to the pain I’m feeling, but the pain is more fully expressed in the beautiful, heartbreaking lyrics of each song. Where’s my royalty check?

I keep putting myself in situations where the outcome is disappointment. I keep hoping for a different result each time, but it’s always the same. The interesting part is that I always keep this little spark of hope that this time it will be different, this time there will be a positive payoff for trying. The question I keep asking is why I keep putting myself through it? Why do I send an email or text thinking this time the response will be quicker or something that I want it to be? It hasn’t been that in months. It’s always the same. I feel like an afterthought. I wish I was important to someone – to him – but I’m not.

What is it inside of us that makes us keep up the masochistic machinations that cause so much emotional upset? What bothers me the most is that I’m angrier at myself than I am with him. I am the one with hopes. I am the one with the fantasies. I am the one with the expectations. I am the one with the desires. He can’t and won’t fulfill any thing that I’m looking or wishing for.

Lady Antebellum song lyrics sum up my present: sometimes “I wish I was cold as stone,” then again, “I’d rather hurt than feel nothing at all.” I guess, “I love this pain just a little too much.”

Return to Winthrop St. - Part 2

2011-10-05T09:44:00.001-04:00

3 days later

Kinlin,

How are you settling in to college life in Delaware? Are the dorms at Elmhurst U cool or challenging? Have you met anybody cool enough to be friends with yet?

California is pretty awesome I must say. The weather is better than I could have expected. It’s really nice during the day and gets a little chilly at night. You know how I like to wear a sweatshirt with shorts so it’s right up my alley.

I’m sure you’ve seen that I’ve sent you a couple of texts. You haven’t responded. I figure you’re busy. It’s okay. I just wanna talk to you.

Write back when you can. Oh, forgot to ask, how are your classes so far? Anything too crazy?

Atwood.

P.S. I’m rushing Delta Sigma Phi

There was no response to the email and still no response to the text messages. Atwood had a difficult time dealing with his feelings. He was never more grateful for the distraction of a new city and a new life with classes, homework, and pledge party mixers to keep his mind occupied.

It was the alone time that was the worst. His mind would wonder down strange fantasy passageways with Kinlin standing next to him. They would be laughing and talking and sometimes holding hands. He didn’t know where the feelings were coming from. How could he have feelings for Kinlin? He had always looked at him merely as a friend. He was Atwood’s go to person when anything exciting or traumatic happened.

In these high-glossed, multi-colored, heightened-reality fantasies he and Kinlin sometimes kissed again and sometimes made love. He had to shake his head to clear it of the thoughts. He didn’t understand why they were there. He had never to his knowledge had feelings for Kinlin before. Why was he now somehow all consumed by Kinlin’s image?

One month into the fall term of his freshman year at UCLA he awoke with his heart pounding. He had been dreaming of Kinlin. They were in a bungalow on some deserted island. They were alone. They were naked, wrapped in each other’s arms. There was hardly any space to be found between them. The bungalow had no doors; only sheer curtains to block the view should some outsider try to peek inside. Those curtains were billowing in the warmest, yet coolest, breeze Atwood had ever felt.

In the dream he whispered, “I want you” into Kinlin’s ear. As time has no chronology or linear respect in dreams, the next thing he knew he was being spooned by Kinlin and was feeling the pressure of Kinlin inside of him. It wasn’t as painful as he thought it would be. If fact it felt better than he could ever have anticipated. He felt himself pushing back against Kinlin, driven by desire. The pleasure was intense. So much so that he couldn’t hold on any longer. The breathing and movement between the two of them was gaining speed and Kinlin could sense Atwood’s desire for release. He reached around and took hold of Atwood in his most excited and vulnerable state and Atwood couldn’t control the guttural sound that erupted from inside of him as he lost his grasp on all that was real around him. He shuddered hard against Kinlin’s body.

It was at that moment that his racing heart had awakened him. It was the most intense dream he had ever had and the first wet dream he’d had in at least a year. He was covered with his own semen.

“What the…” Atwood said aloud as he looked at the mess on his body. “A bungalow?” he then said realizing he’d never been inside one.

More than anything else he was confused. He lay there taking deep breaths in an attempt to slow his racing heart and calm himself down. His phone buzzed on the table next to his bed. The first thought through his mind was that maybe it was Kinlin.

What was happening to him? He was dreaming about sex with Kinlin. More than even sex – intimacy. He was thinking that his buzzing phone might be communication from Kinlin. He had to – wanted to – shake these feelings free from his mind and body.

He grabbed his phone and saw that it was nothing more than an email reminder of a study group meeting for the next night.
He got out of bed and grabbed a towel to clean himself up. He stumbled down the hall to use the bathroom. Clean and empty he fell back into bed. Sleep proved an elusive visitor for the rest of that night. He just lay there lost in the images of the dream.

Finally after six weeks Atwood’s email inbox showed a response from Kinlin.

Atwood,

Sorry it’s taken me so long to respond to you. Things here in Delaware are great. I’m enjoying college life very much. I have a really cool roommate. His name is Jack. He’s from New York. He came for a visit with his boyfriend over the summer and decided to stay and go to school here. Yes, he’s gay. He’s really cool. I know, I already said that, but it’s true. His boyfriend, Henry, is nice too. Sometimes we hang out on the weekends. Henry’s family owns a big department store here so they have a gigantic house. Well, his grandmother has a gigantic house. It’s fun to hang out there.

I’ve been really busy with school and stuff. I’m pledging the Kappa Sigma fraternity. I didn’t really know if I wanted to join a fraternity or not, but it’s pretty cool. There are lots of parties at the house. Not crazy parties like you might see in the movies, but parties nonetheless. I’ve hooked up with a couple of girls already. High-five!! Surprised to hear you’re pledging Delta Sig.

My classes are okay. The only one I really enjoy is Introduction to Marketing. The rest is just math and English and the shit we already did for four years of high school.

Okay man, I’ve gotta head out to a mixer with the Alpha Gamma Delta sorority tonight so I’ll talk to you later.

Take care,
Kinlin

“Take care?” Atwood said to himself. He had been so excited to see the email from Kinlin, but so disappointed upon reading it. He didn’t know what he had expected from it, but certainly not what he got. He wanted Kinlin to ask how he was doing. He wanted a sense that Kinlin missed him or thought about him during the day. None of that was present in the email. Kinlin was just being Kinlin. Sharing his two random hookups proved that he had no feelings for Atwood at all. Sensitivity was not his strong suit.

Atwood felt a little sick. Had he been nothing more than a random hookup himself? A conquest? He had to distract himself. He wanted to write back immediately and confront Kinlin, but he couldn’t let himself do it. He knew he needed to calm down, take a breath and think before he wrote.

He decided the best thing he could do was hit the campus gym. The treadmill and his ipod would be his best distraction. Running and sweating would allow him to clear his head of all thoughts Kinlin and focus on putting one foot in front of the other. What he needed to do was walk away from the situation. He had to figure out a way to stop obsessing over Kinlin and to focus on himself and the new life he could create in California.

Over the next two weeks Atwood studied and went to the frat house and tried to focus on anything other than Kinlin. He enjoyed his fraternity brothers. They gave him a sense of camaraderie and family while everything he knew was across the country on the other coast.

One evening at the frat house he got caught up in drinking game and found himself more than buzzed, but less than stinking drunk. He was in a place where nothing mattered and his cares seemed to have left his body. He found himself upstairs in one of his frat brothers’ bedrooms, the light of the computer beckoning, calling him to it like a bug drawn to the purple light of a bug zapper.

He sat down and accessed his email account and reread the letter from Kinlin. He wasn’t as disappointed in it this time. What he felt was the desire to be honest with Kinlin.

Dear Kinlin,

I’m so glad you wrote back. You seem to be having a good time. I’m glad you like your roommate. That is important.

I miss you. I was hoping that your letter might tell me you missed me too, but it didn’t

We never talked about what happened between us, Kinlin. We spent the night together. A night different than any we’d spent together before. I still don’t understand why it happened. Are you gay? I might be. I don’t know. I haven’t had another experience like that with any one else, but I also haven’t slept with a girl. I never thought I was gay, but I enjoyed what we did so much that I’m now confused.

I think about you every day, Kinlin. Do you think about me? I think I love you. I don’t mean that I’m in love with you, but I think my love for you is deeper than just friendship. Is that weird?

Do your regret what happened? I wish you would talk to me.

Atwood

He pressed “send” before he could talk himself out of it. He didn’t even proofread the letter. He had said the things that had been gnawing at his insides and waking him with anxiety. All that was left was to wait for a response. Thankfully, his buzz was still there and he wouldn’t have to worry about that tonight.

When he woke the next morning there was more than a headache waiting for him. Kinlin had responded. Atwood was excited to see an email from Kinlin in his inbox, but then he remembered that he had sent an email the previous night while intoxicated. His stomach lurched. He wanted to vomit.

“Shit,” he said out loud to himself.

A,

Part of me regrets what happened between us, but the other part (possibly the biggest part) is happy it happened. Maybe we both should have been adult enough to not do what we did. I know I started it. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you. I was just curious. I used you to kill that curiosity. I don’t think that I’m gay. As I said in my previous letter I’ve hooked up with a couple of girls since I’ve been here.

You really think you might be gay? I think you’re a cool guy. I would love to hear about your feelings. I have to run now though. Class calls.

K

P.S. I do think about you every day.

“I do think about you every day” kept running through Atwood’s mind. Whenever his mind seemed clear of all thoughts, that line in Kinlin’s letter would run through it like the crawl at the bottom of CNN; impossible to ignore.

All Atwood wanted was to see Kinlin’s face – a text or phone call would be just as good; the cherry on top of an already decadent sundae.

He shook his head as if to free it of its thoughts and images. He was more miles away from Kinlin than he knew. There was no chance of seeing him. He could call, but he wanted Kinlin to be the one to call. He had to put all thoughts of Kinlin and his kiss – his body – out of his mind. He wanted to rid himself of his feelings. He couldn’t fathom owning up to them. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to be gay; he couldn’t imagine it. He needed to find a girl to hang out with and see if things changed.

©2011 Michael Rohrer

Return to Winthrop St. - Part 1

2011-09-28T09:28:00.001-04:00

The Ryland Monument stood in the center of town the most phallic of symbols – two hundred seventeen feet tall, slender and straight up. It was built as a memorial to the nearly 100 people who lost their lives when a fire ravaged the town of Ryland, Massachusetts in the early 1900's.

Kinlin Grové and Atwood Ross had grown up with the monument as part of their everyday lives. When they got old enough to recognize its phallic glory, nothing could stop the plethora of penis jokes that came out of their mouths in reference to it.

On this late afternoon, they had climbed to the top and hidden in a small storage closet waiting for the doors to close for the day. The Ryland Monument closed to all visitors at dusk. The sun was beginning to set and those who had accepted the challenge of climbing each stair to the top had finally begun to trickle downward.

Hiding inside the closet had proven to be more difficult than either of them had anticipated. They tried to whisper to each other, but just trying was enough to start the laughter. Like a mudslide, the laughter was hard to contain once it had started. They were in such a cramped space that every movement or sound caused eye-popping looks of fear from each of them. The looks then started the laughter all over again. They had never been more relieved than when the lights of the observation platform had been clicked off. They opened the door and breathed freely without worrying about every noise they made.

Kinlin and Atwood had been good friends since they could remember. They were neighbors on Winthrop Street. Their parents were second generation Rylanders. That made them third generation inhabitants of the small Massachusetts town they called home. They had been a stones throw from each other their whole lives – across the street, three houses apart.

They had attended everything from Bible school at the local church to high school together, with bar-b-ques and dances thrown in for a mix of food and color. They had taken their first drink on the same night in the old garage beside Kinlin’s parents house. They had double dated to the senior prom and bragged to each other about how far they each got with their respective dates. Kinlin had managed to snag his date’s panties while Atwood boasted of under-the-bra action.

Tonight was an important night for both of them. It was their last night in Ryland together before their lives changed. They were leaving for college the next day. It was the first time that the two friends would find themselves in different cities, and parts of the country, in 18 years of life. As a final hoorah they had decided to stow away in the top of the Ryland Monument and spend the night. It was risky, but they knew whether caught or not, it would make a good story to tell their kids one day.

They stood on the observation deck as the sun was setting over the water that boarded the south end of Ryland. The red streak reflected in the water was something they had each seen more times than they could count. It felt different tonight though. The thought of leaving had made it seem more important than ever – like they might never see it again. It was unspoken, but the body language in each of them as they refused to tear their eyes from the water spoke volumes about the pride they felt to be from Ryland and how much they would miss being there. Being guys, they didn’t often speak of their affection for each other either, but each in his heart knew he would miss his friend more than he thought possible.

“I’m going to really miss this place,” said Kinlin without breaking his gaze from the now blood colored water in front of him.

“Me too,” responded Atwood in kind. “But we’ll always be able to come back home.”

“I know,” Kinlin shrugged. “It just won’t be the same. We won’t live here anymore. We’ll be visitors.”

“We’ll always be from here, Kinlin,” said Atwood. “Nobody can take that away from us.” He broke his gaze from the water to look at Kinlin. “Hell, maybe we’ll even move back here after college.”

“I doubt it,” responded Kinlin. “I want something bigger than Ryland. Don’t you?”

Atwood turned back to face the water. He turned his head from side to side, pausing left before turning it right. One could almost see the ends of town from the top of the tower.

“I think about it sometimes. I’m not going to make any plans right now though. I’m just going to see where life takes me.” Kinlin had turned to look at Atwood, who met his gaze and smiled.

Kinlin turned back to look at the last bit of the red ball of sun before it sunk below the water. “I’m nervous about tomorrow.”

“I am too,” said Atwood, “but we don’t have to worry about tomorrow tonight.” He turned in the direction of the storage closet and went to get their duffle bags.

He threw Kinlin’s at him then walked over to join him and put his own bag down. He unzipped it and pulled out a blanket and his pillow. He had a deck of playing cards, a book and a bottle of wine. Thankfully his family had several corkscrews, so his taking one wouldn’t be missed.

Kinlin laughed when Atwood pulled out the bottle of wine. It was Chianti. Although they weren’t legally supposed to be drinking, their parents allowed them the occasional glass of wine at holiday parties and other gatherings that were supervised. Kinlin had taken a liking to the sour cherry and tobacco taste of Chianti. He had introduced Atwood to it and Atwood in turn had taken a liking to it as well. It was the most appropriate beverage for the two of them on this particular night of their lives.

With the cork strewn to the side and the blanket laid out between them they were sharing the bottle without glasses in the glow of pillar candles Kinlin had brought from home. The smell of vanilla and cinnamon filled the sea air as they played their third game of slapjack. As Atwood flipped over the Jack of Clubs it was the fifth time the two of them had slapped the Jack at the same time. Atwood’s hand was on the bottom. He won the pile. It seemed to him that Kinlin’s hand lingered on top of his a little longer than necessary, but he thought maybe the wine had slowed time and he wasn’t thinking clearly.

The air had certainly turned cooler as the breeze blew through the observation openings of the monument. Up that high the wind off of the water made their blankets necessary. With the bottle of wine finished their bodies had the warmth of an alcohol induced buzz. They were groggy and tired. As much as they didn’t want to fall asleep they couldn’t resist the spell of the Chianti.

In the middle of the night Atwood awoke to the feeling of something touching his hand. As the alcohol induced sleep began to clear from his brain he realized that it was another hand touching his own. It didn’t feel random; it felt deliberate. He turned his head slightly and saw that Kinlin was spooning him. In his haze he thought Kinlin was probably cold and therefore using the heat of their bodies to stay warm. Then he realized that Kinlin’s eyes were open. Atwood fully turned his head and looked into Kinlin’s eyes. Kinlin kissed him – a small kiss – then pulled his face away, almost shocked at himself, gauging Atwood’s reaction.

Atwood didn’t react either good or bad. He didn’t move. There was no flinch. There was no recoil. He had stayed still staring at Kinlin. Kinlin moved to kiss him again. Atwood moved his head back this time and stared into Kinlin’s eyes with confusion on his face. Kinlin smiled. Atwood wanted to ask what was going on, but couldn’t find the words. Kinlin moved closer. Atwood closed his eyes and felt Kinlin’s lips on his own. He felt Kinlin’s tongue parting his lips. He allowed it to happen. He was confused at his own enjoyment of the kiss. He mind was racing. He couldn’t believe it was happening. The hand that had been rubbing his own was now rubbing the front of his jeans. It was stroking up and down and Atwood felt himself growing underneath its stroke. The kissing became deeper and more intense. Kinlin bit Atwood’s bottom lip as he pulled out of the kiss. Without fully disconnecting he plunged his tongue back into Atwood’s waiting mouth. The probing hand was now inside Atwood’s jeans.

Kinlin rolled Atwood onto his back. Atwood not only felt Kinlin’s body on top of his own, he felt the erection that was touching his own through the denim of their jeans.

Their tongues continued to probe each other’s mouths as their bodies began to thrust.

Atwood pulled away. He held Kinlin’s face in his hands. He looked into Kinlin’s eyes. Kinlin smiled at him again and leaned down and gave him a simple kiss.

“What are we doing?” Atwood asked.

“Making out,” responded Kinlin. “Are you okay with that?”

“Um…. I guess?” Atwood responded with the inflection of a question in his voice but the look of longing on his face.

“Then shut up and kiss me.”

Atwood let go with full abandon at that moment. He pulled Kinlin’s face to his and placed his mouth over Kinlin’s own. Suddenly all questions and fear had vanished. He was there, fully present and in the moment. Whether it was the wine or the cold that had started it, no one was stopping it.

Their hands were wandering over each other’s bodies. It was new territory for both of them. Kinlin had already had his hands down Atwood’s jeans, but touching wasn’t enough for Atwood. He wanted to see Kinlin’s cock. He wanted to see his own hand on it. He unbuttoned Kinlin’s jeans and began to unzip them. There was a moment’s hesitation in their kissing, but then the passion and power started anew and Kinlin moaned as Atwood set him free.

Their bodies were entwined in arms, blankets and jeans. There was hair pulling and neck biting. There was grasping and gasping. It was hot. Hot from the wine, hot from the body heat, hot from the situation. They were mad from lust and passion for each other.

Atwood flipped the situation when he rolled over on top of Kinlin and looked him in the eyes as he pushed himself downward, kissing Kinlin’s chest then stomach as the happy trail pointed him toward what he was trembling to touch and trembling to touch. Kinlin’s moan was more real and more intense than his response to Atwood’s initial touch.

As Atwood took Kinlin into his mouth the moan was a call to wake for anyone within earshot; a horn sounding forth the arrival of ecstasy unlike anything felt before. It didn’t take long for Kinlin to release his burning desire. He pushed Atwood’s head away from his cock and took hold of it himself, his orgasm bursting intensely onto his stomach and chest.

Atwood rubbed his hand in the remains on Kinlin’s stomach and then grabbed his own throbbing cock. He too was so turned on that it took no time for his seed to join that already discarded on Kinlin’s stomach.

Panting yet exuberant, Atwood collapsed onto Kinlin. He felt Kinlin’s arms enfold him. They began to kiss again. This time the kissing was more intimate and gentle. Kinlin’s hand caressed Atwood’s back.

Atwood rolled off of Kinlin. They untangled the blankets. Without pulling up their jeans or replacing their shirts, they covered their bodies with the blankets. Atwood found himself in a tight, spooned embrace by Kinlin. He heard Kinlin’s breathing slow as he himself drifted off to sleep.

The next morning Atwood woke to the cold emptiness of being alone. He rolled over to see Kinlin standing and peering out toward the water. Disappointment ran through his head as he saw that Kinlin had already gotten dressed. The memory of the previous night should have been filled with confusion, but it wasn’t. It made his heart race in a good way, an exciting way. Somewhere in the back of his mind he had hoped for a daytime glance at Kinlin without the jeans.

“Damn, I really need to piss,” Atwood said as he stood up and pulled up his underwear and jeans. Kinlin jumped as Atwood’s words had startled him.

Without turning. “I used the Chianti bottle,” said Kinlin.

“Good idea. Thanks.”

Atwood relieved himself, the sound of liquid hitting liquid the only thing breaking the silence of the morning and the silence between them.

“It’s early. We should head down so we can get home.” Kinlin had waited to hear the sound of Atwood’s zipper before turning around to start gathering his things and packing them back into his duffle bag.

Atwood realized at that moment that they were not going talk about what they had done. He made a choice to act as casual as possible. Kinlin seemed tense. He felt certain they would talk about it when the time was right. He could wait. Patience didn’t come easy for him, but his friendship with Kinlin did.

They made a sweeping gaze around their makeshift camp to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything. Atwood tried to catch Kinlin’s eye, but Kinlin seemed determined to avoid just such a moment. With duffels packed and zipped they made their way down the many flights of stairs to the bottom of the monument. No one spoke. Down flight after flight Atwood fought the words trying to burst forth from his mouth.

Ryland was such a small town that there wasn’t much crime and therefore no need of an alarm system on the doors to the monument. They were locked from the outside, but had breakaway bars on the inside.

Kinlin slowly opened the door and did a quick search for the guard who patrols the grounds. No one was in sight. They exited the monument, throwing the urine filled Chianti bottle into the nearest trashcan, then quickly made their way to Bradford Street.

They walked home in near silence. Atwood wanted nothing more than to talk to Kinlin about last night or anything.

Kinlin just wanted to get home and shower. He couldn’t process his thoughts. He focused on the fact that he was leaving later that day. He would process then.

As they reached Winthrop Street, Atwood’s house was the one they came to first. He turned to face Kinlin who was now looking him dead in the eyes. Atwood sensed that he wanted to say something, but didn’t push him. Kinlin smiled. Atwood made to hug him and Kinlin welcomed the embrace. It lasted longer than one might think two 18-year old men hugging would last. It was Atwood who broke the embrace. He smiled at Kinlin then watched him as he walked toward his house.

“Hey!” said Atwood. Kinlin stopped and turned back toward him. “Enjoy Delaware.”

“Enjoy California,” said Kinlin, continuing his walk home.

“See you at Christmas,” said Atwood, unable to stop watching before Kinlin walked through his front door.

Kinlin waved then shut the door.

©2011 Michael Rohrer

Liberation on Shankpainter

2011-09-23T14:57:00.000-04:00

As I stood on the deck overlooking the street in front of me I realized that I felt a freedom I hadn’t felt in a long time. I was free to do anything I wanted to do. I made a drink at 10am or noon or 5pm; whatever time I wanted. There was no one to judge me but me and I was too lubricated to care. I could smoke as many cigarettes as I wanted and I did. It didn’t matter what anyone said or thought. I made the choice to do as I pleased and lived my life; that’s the simple truth.

There comes a time when one has to stop worrying about what people think. What your friends and family want for you has to take a back seat to what you want even if what you want might be a mistake. You have to make choices. Sometimes what is thought to be a mistake doesn’t end up being one. But what if it does? I hate failure, but I hear we only learn from our mistakes. Maybe I should start looking at mistakes as growth opportunities instead of failures.

There comes a time when one has to stop carrying what their family members think. Life is too short and your life has to be your own. I’m just now learning that. In fact, I’m completely frustrated by it. I feel like I’ve wasted a lot of time needing the approval of my family and friends and being a people pleaser. I should be paying more attention to what I want and pleasing myself. I’m the only one who can truly benefit anyway.

I can’t live my life for my family. I can’t live my life for my friends. I have to live my life for me. It’s my life anyway, right? If that is the truth then other people’s judgments, questions and concerns have to be taken with a grain of salt. What other people feel is exactly that: what they feel. That doesn’t mean that I have to have those feelings. Sometimes we have to hear and then discard what others opinionate to us.

Life has to be lived. Risk is scary, but without risk I never would have moved to New York or quit my longest held job to get a better one. Risk leads to progress. I don’t take many risks, but in hindsight it is only by taking risks that I have made progress in my life.

Living my life for me, taking new risks….in progress.

Irene: A Timeline Via Facebook Status Updates

2011-08-29T12:01:00.000-04:00

Friday, 3:01pm - so if we have to ride out Irene at New World Stages can we at least have the bar open for the employees? Can the adults please drink?

Friday, 4:56pm - pre-hurricaning at Diwine in Astoria! Stop on by!

Friday, 5.39pm - I went old school...Escape by Calvin Klein (take that Irene)

Saturday, 9:48am - "Rock You Like Hurricane" station playing on Pandora!

Saturday, 10:16am - after "Rock You Like A Hurricane" Pandora chose "Livin' On A Prayer" followed by "Thunderstruck"! Interesting, appropriate and perfect for this day!

Saturday, 11:09am - it's raining in Astoria...unfortunately it's not MEN!

Saturday, 11:52am - people in my Trade Fair are fighting! Ain't nothing but the bullshit!

Saturday, 12:18pm - Hurricane provisions: chips, pretzels, apples, peanut butter, bread, pork and beans, Stella and Ginger Ale to mix with my Jameson! Here we go!

Saturday, 1:02pm - it's pouring outside, might as well pour myself a drink inside!

Saturday, 5:51pm - Ana Lucia - dead, Libby - dead, Michael - wounded, Ben - escaped. Things just got real ya'll!

Saturday, 7:28pm - me and Stella Artois are having a simple little sit-down on the sofa!

Saturday, 9:23pm - Irene Ryan was an American actress best known for playing "Granny" on The Beverly Hillbillies.

Saturday, 9:28pm - Irene Dunne was an American film actress and singer of the 1930s and 1940s. Dunne was nominated five times for the Academy Award for Best Actress. She was named to the International Best Dressed List Hall of Fame in 1958.

Saturday, 9:49pm - Irene, Irene, Irene, Ireeene. I’m beggin' of you please don't flood my land. Irene, Irene, Irene, Ireeene. Please don't flood it just because you can!

Saturday, 10:43pm - Season 2 has ended, Season 3 is starting. It's off to the cages!

Sunday, 12:40am - hope the Cyclone and Wonder Wheel ride out the 'cane intact!

Sunday, 5:09am - well, I managed to sleep a couple of hours! spent the past two watching OLTL! too keyed up I guess!

Sunday, 6:06am - on Sunday morning @ 6am you'll find Looney Tunes on Cartoon Network! Trust me, I'm watching!

Sunday, 9:47am - Awake! Coffee! Window's open! Listening to the rain and wind! It's almost over, but she ain't left yet!

Sunday, 11:03am - Hey Astoria peeps and New World peeps, hope ya'll are all okay! It's brunch time!!

Sunday, 12:41pm - it's official...I'm off to brunch!

Sunday, 1:30pm - this bloody mary is so spicy, but oh so good!

Sunday, 3:51pm - the wind is crazy right now! fierce! strong! a little scary!

Sunday, 5:16pm - Eew, Paolo and Nicki just arrived on the scene!

Me, Myself and I(rene)

2011-08-29T11:11:00.001-04:00

There is a sense of dread that comes with anticipation. It can be the dread of the belt as you await you father arriving home from work to punish you for something your mother is going to tell him you did that day. It is the dread of opening the last gift under the Christmas tree and knowing beforehand that it is not the two-toned denim jacket you wanted more than anything else. It is the dread of sitting and waiting for hurricane Irene to hit with all of her powerful, Mother Nature winds and rain while you hope the power stays on and there's water to drink and flush your toilet.

On Friday, New Yorkers learned that the MTA would begin shutting down mass transit at noon on Saturday. That's a major shut down for a city of 8 million people, most of who rely on mass transit to get anywhere. As the news broke, word quickly spread that Broadway had cancelled all performances for the weekend. I don't work on Broadway, but I do work in a major theatre complex in midtown Manhattan and we too cancelled all performances. The shuttering of the subway system prompted the cancellations. People either wouldn't be able to get to the theatre or might not be able to get home once they got there. Every precaution that could be taken by our Governor and Mayor was being taken.

I was already enjoying a day off on Friday and now I was going to have the weekend off as well. What's a boy to do? Well, I got in touch with some friends and whiled away most of the late afternoon through dusk to early evening outside at the wine bar, Diwine, in Astoria. I enjoyed many beers and lots of laughter. Food was ordered as necessary and the conversation flowed as easily as the booze; that’s what New Yorkers do. We prepare for pending disaster by hanging out with our friends and daring whatever it is to interrupt our festivities.

Via facebook countless status updates reflected the party nature of my friends. People stocked up on wine, beer, vodka and Jameson. The recipe for “Hurricanes” floated around. Bars offered special "Hurricane" drink discounts. The 1919 musical Irene (revived on Broadway in 1973 with Debbie Reynolds) hadn’t been as talked about in years as it was on Friday as Hurricane Irene approached NYC.

As Saturday morning arrived and I didn't have to go to work, the wonder of how to spend my day occupied the top spot in my mind. I didn't really have that much food in the house and I didn't have a flashlight or extra jugs of water. I was sort of walking around in a daze. I didn't know how to truly prepare for something when I had no idea how bad it might or might not be. I created a Pandora radio station called "Rock Me Like A Hurricane" based on the song of the same title by the Scorpions. Soon 80's hair bands were filling my apartment with rock and roll and my facebook status updates were reflecting my pleasure. Eventually I made my way to the Trade Fair.

It was packed as I had anticipated it would be. I stocked up on chips and pretzels, cans of pork & beans, apples and of course more beer. I bought three prayer candles. Not because they were prayer candles, but because they were the ones that burn for 12 - 24 hours. There were no flashlights to be had. Not at the Trade Fair, the Rite Aid or the Duane Reade. People had already panicked and that shit was gone. If I could have gotten it over-nighted I guess I could have ordered it on Amazon, but the candles are what I chose. Nothing like a little prayer to go with the light that takes away the darkness. As for the water, I washed every pitcher, decanter and large vase that I owned and filled them full of water from my Brita pitcher. I just didn't want to spend money on water when I had plenty of water-storing options at my house.

I also filled every pan that I owned with water should I need it for anything. Maybe the funniest thing I did was filling my largest trashcan with water. I had been told to fill my tub with water so that I could use it to fill my toilet and flush should we lose water. Everyone knows I’m regular so having water on hand to flush was one step I couldn’t pass up. I chose the trashcan instead of the tub. I’m unique in that way. Sometimes I go with the flow and sometimes I like to walk into the traffic.

As I sat at home on Saturday, I found myself completely unmotivated. I'm so used to being at work that I literally wished I were at work. As 12:30 pm rolled around I sat down on the sofa to watch The Young and the Restless. I used to watch it all the time, but gave it up more than a year ago. For shits and giggles, and out of boredom, I decided to visit Genoa City while I ate breakfast. That's right, breakfast at 12:30pm. Anyway, I turned the television channel to CBS and was not greeted with Y&R. That's because it was Saturday. Having a weekend off was throwing me for a loop. One of my Diwine comrades the night before had told me to live in the moment and just enjoy the time. I was trying, but I was frustrated. Thankfully, HBO was running a couple of Bugs Bunny cartoon movies back to back. That occupied 3 hours of the afternoon.

It continued to rain off and on throughout the day. The sky was gray. Irene was coming and there was nothing to do but wait for her dramatic, over-the-top arrival.

I watched The Weather Channel for a while, but the gloom and doom, fear-mongering media trying to prepare us for the impending deluge of rain and winds that were approaching did nothing but suffocate me in a fear bubble. I had to turn it off. I had to placate my mind with Lost. My husband and wife landlord team had started to raise their voices at each other above me, a light rain was falling outside and the wind was gently blowing the leaves. As much as I wanted Irene to be past us I was thankful that the real drama was still (landlord yelling aside) on disc 6 of season 2 of Lost.

It was 7:45 pm when I paused Lost and changed my facebook profile picture to a more recent/accurate shot of Irene. At 7:48 pm I stepped into my bedroom to peer out the window. The rain changed from steady to downpour in about 30 seconds. A few cars passed by and a couple of people with umbrellas. To look at it from inside the dry, safety of my room it looked like nothing more than a regular rainfall that had drenched NYC last week.

9pm. The leaves on the tree across the street from my house were now being more than gently blown. There was no force behind the rain, but the wind had changed. I began alternating between the season 2 finale of Lost and The Weather Channel. Irene was getting closer to home. She really wasn't supposed to hit with all of her force until Sunday morning, but she had already caused over a million people to be without power as she soaked the east coast with her splash and trickle. I won't lie; I was nervous. Anticipatory anxiety is the worst.

When Lost season 2 had ended I debated whether to read, open another beer, watch The Weather Channel or pop in Lost season 3. I popped Lost into the DVD player, made a quick check of the weather outside my window then turned on TWC. Nothing like a check of the weather on TWC to confirm that Irene was still on her way and to see how much devastation she had caused at the prom already. Oh wait, that's Carrie. I couldn't resist stepping outside my apartment and into the foyer of my building. From the time I looked out the window of my bedroom to the moment I got into the foyer the rain had begun to downpour again. I stood at the front door and watched the pelting rain bounce off of the sidewalks and roads.

I wanted to stay awake and hear Irene make her grand entrance into our city, but I was tired. I had already decided to spend the night on my sofa in the living room. There's only one window and it faces the alley between my building and the house next door. I turned off the air conditioner in preparation of high winds and the possible power outage. I rejoined Harry Potter in his quest to find Sirius Black as the rain fell heavy on the air conditioner; the front of the storm had made its way into our area. The worst was supposedly yet to come. All I wanted to do was sleep. I was reminded of long trips as a child. Mom always said sleeping would make the time fly. The difference this time was sleeping was going to take me right to the main event. Irene's major performance was scheduled to hit us the next morning. The center of the storm looked on track to hover over the City. That was something to look forward to with the morning coffee, right?

Sleep proved not to be a lengthy visitor. I slept for a couple of hours until a dream that had nothing to do with Irene jolted me awake. I then heard something fall outside. It was no use. My curiosity made me get up from my sofa and make my way to the window in my bedroom and watch the rain. I stayed awake for at least another two hours. I had slept for two and then was awake for two. One Life To Live on Soapnet helped me pass the time during those two hours. I talked to a friend (who laughed at me about OLTL) and watched the end of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince on HBO then watched Looney Tunes on Cartoon Network as the sun began to lighten the 6 am sky. Well, as much as Irene’s gray clouds would allow it to lighten. Finally I fell back to sleep, but only for another couple of hours – two-and-a-half at the most.

My groggy, irritable self got up from the sofa and put the water on to boil for coffee. What else was there to do? I was bored. I won't lie. I didn't want to be bored, but I couldn't help it. I had spent the entire previous day at home anticipating the hurricane. I just wanted something to do, somewhere to go. The rain was over. The day was overcast, but somehow beautiful. There was a breeze blowing, but nothing gale force. Then a plan formed. Two of my Astoria friends started communicating via facebook about having brunch. I was all over that. I'm a homosexual. We know how to do brunch. Waiting out Irene seemed to be all about what you were drinking while you stayed locked inside your house. With Irene's wrath past the City it seemed perfectly normal to gather at brunch for a mimosa or bloody mary and talk about how you spent the evening.

Just before 4 pm I heard the wind. It was the sound I had been expecting all the previous night. The tail winds from Irene were still present. I not only heard them, I saw them blowing the leaves of the tree across the street, swirling the clouds in the sky. My curtains were blowing as the open windows in my apartment created a cross breeze. I watched the power lines outside my apartment swaying. This was the moment that I realized that even though we had made it through everything Irene had dumped on us, we still had to get through these winds.

Irene blew through town like a party girl. She hung out long enough to get the party started and then stayed past her prime. New Yorkers know how to weather a storm be it a blizzard or a hurricane. By the time her party was in full swing, Irene had been downgraded from a Category 1 hurricane to a tropical storm. That didn't change the power of her rain or winds. Facebook statuses were a way of keeping connected to friends across town or in another borough. We're resilient and we bounce back. We gathered and drank and watched DVD's. We filled our tubs with water and we stocked our cabinets with canned goods. We then stood in Irene's winds and waved goodbye as she left our City stirred not shaken.

Changing Patterns

2011-08-23T11:08:00.000-04:00

It’s never that easy is it? I always thought it should be easy. But there’s so much second-guessing and wondering and excitement and laughter and anxiety. It’s not easy. It can be down right painful. It’s like growing pains for the heart. The journey is hard. Climbing up hill takes stamina, walking on level ground takes patience. Continuing, when all you want to do is give up, takes perseverance. The journey may take a while. I’m scared, but I’m in it right now. I’m finding it hard to find the joy. I have a Post-it on my refrigerator that says “It’s important to experience joy every single day.” Every. Single. Day. Do you know how hard that is? If you don’t, let me tell you. It is one of the most difficult things to find when you’re scared or sad or anxiety-ridden.

It’s easy to find joy when everything is going your way and the Universe is giving you what you want. Try finding it when you keep asking and nothing is happening. It’s hard to find the joy then. Even harder: realizing that the Universe is not ignoring the request just not answering it at this time because we aren’t clear, aren’t ready or don’t need it.

Patterns as I say the things I always say. The older I get the more I understand myself. The more I understand myself the more patterns emerge in my life. I’m in a rut. It’s a deep trench where I’m trying to keep myself hidden from Fear as he lurks just over the ridge. I’ve let him keep me at bay for a very long time. Sometimes he gets down in the trench with me and I run from him, keeping a slight lead. I can always hear him behind me, running, taunting. If I can make it to my door without him overtaking me, I lock myself inside and breathe. That’s not living though. That’s hiding.

Just look…here I am on cue again
Upset, feeling torn in two again
Afraid, saying I’m okay
Making little jokes
Until I run away…again

Patterns in the ways I try but never change. There has to be a change. I made a decision recently that was a departure from the “me” of my past. I chose friendship. It hurts everyday when you want something that you can’t have. When feelings are not returned the pain can be devastating. I know that sounds dramatic, but I am dramatic so it seems appropriate. As recent ago as last year, I would have walked away from a situation such as this, but today I’m struggling to find the balance. When someone if worth it you find a way. If I walked away right now I would be walking away from someone that I want in my life. Someone who wants me in his life. Good friends are hard to come by in this world. Why have I turned my back on so many who could have been good friends? That’s my pattern. I walk away. I made a decision to change this pattern. My God, it’s hard. I feel like I need a Xanax most days. I don’t want to need an anxiety medication, but the anxiety I feel is real. I’m coping, but just barely. I sure could use a double shot of joy.

And yet I know I am not the same
Inside my heart is something I can’t tame
I feel my mind bursting into flame
And I must change or else I’ll break apart
Or break away
And end up having to start…again

I don’t know where this journey is heading. None of us do. If we did we might never start walking. Being open and honest about my feelings is the only way I know how to be. What I chose to not walk away from is the most honest and vulnerable that I’ve been with a person in 13 years. No one has really, truly seen this part of me except for the friends I’ve had in my life for almost 20 years; the friends who knew me before I became the scared, closed-off person struggling to remove the bricks that he walled himself up behind.

Just look as I’m thrown a curve again.
I leap, then I lose my nerve again
In tears, running home I go
Secretly relieved, safe with what I know…again

It’s time to change the patterns, get out of the rut, climb up to the top of the trench and face Fear. It’s time to create the life I want instead of hoping and waiting for it to appear around me. I want my heart to burst with joy, not constrict with anxiety.

One of my best friends said to me recently “In the mean time you have to keep living.” He’s right. I have to live my life. I have to live the life I want. I have to have the courage to be me. I have to have the strength to believe in myself. I have to walk through life with confidence. I feel like I’m just starting my journey, but in reality I guess I’m starting a new leg. I’ve been staring at the fork in the road and finally chose a direction.

Patterns through the day I seem to use to give my life a shape
Patterns through the house that give me comfort when I need escape
Patterns that lead me nowhere…at all.

My ipod is charged and my playlists are loaded with enough songs to keep me occupied and entertained for a while. I don’t know why I’m scared. It’s just a journey. What’s a journey? It’s getting somewhere else; going somewhere familiar or new. Change is scary, but I have to do it. Here’s to changing my fear pattern into and excitement pattern.

(Lyrics in bold and italics from the song "Patterns" cut from the musical BABY)

Thornclyffe - Part 9 & Epilogue

2011-08-17T08:30:00.004-04:00

Instead of calling out to Cordelia or Ryan she decided to be as quiet as she could. She wanted to sneak up on them, whatever situation might be happening. She prayed that her mind was running away with exaggerated thoughts of Cordelia’s treachery, but she couldn’t be sure.

She eased herself down the entry hall slowly placing one foot in front of the other. Wary of making a misstep or making the floor squeak, she wanted – needed – a surprise entrance.

She wasn’t prepared for the visual that awaited her when the hall opened into the sitting area of their hotel room. Cordelia was unbuttoning Ryan’s shirt as he sat slumped on the sofa. His head had fallen sideways onto his shoulder, but his hands were on her hips. They weren’t caressing her hips, but they were there nonetheless. For shear shock value this was the pinnacle. Lila half expected to hear, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” What she heard disturbed her more. She just didn’t immediately understand why.

“What are you doing?” Lila all but screamed at Cordelia.

Cordelia didn’t jump; she didn’t even flinch. She was expecting Lila’s arrival and had actually heard the click of the door unlocking. That’s when she had placed Ryan’s hands on her hips. Ryan didn’t know what was going on. Cordelia was intentionally baiting Lila with illusions of a tryst.

Cordelia stood up straight and looked at Lila. “Nothing. I’m just helping Ryan cool down. He feels really hot.”

“I’m sure his hands on your hips aren’t helping to cool him down,” Lila all but snarled at her.

Cordelia laughed. “Lila, you are so insecure.” She removed Ryan’s hands from her hips. He didn’t even notice. “Ryan has no idea where his hands were. He did call me by your name in the elevator though.” She took pleasure in telling Lila that information. It was written all over her face.

Cordelia walked past Lila to kitchen area of their suite. Lila ran over to Ryan and placed her hand on his forehead like a mother checking her child for fever. He was warm, but not overly.

“Ryan? Baby, can you hear me?” She had concern and heartbreak in her voice.

He stirred, but didn’t open his eyes.

“Lila?” He said her name in a parched whisper.

“I’m here, baby.”

Lila could hear ice clinking in the kitchen. Cordelia was pouring herself a drink. Lila listened to what she was sure were the sounds of Cordelia singing. She realized it was the same sound – tune – she’s heard upon entering the room. Fury flooded her head. She couldn’t believe she had just walked in on Cordelia unbuttoning Ryan’s shirt, his hands on her hips, and now Cordelia was making a drink and singing as if it was just another day of summer break in the Hampton’s.

“I want you, I don’t want anybody else, and when I think about you, I touch myself. OOOh. OOOh. OOOOh. Ryan, you feel so good.” Cordelia talk sang from the kitchen.

“What did you just say?” asked Lila. The words sounded familiar to her, but seemed wrong for the song.

“What do you think I said?” asked Cordelia with a smile of innocence.

“What did you say, Cordelia?” Lila wasn’t smiling. There was confrontation in her eyes.

“I was just singing a line from that song by The Divinyls that I love so much. You know the one, “I Touch Myself.”

“Yeah, I figured that out, but you changed the words. What was the last sentence you spoke?” asked Lila, curbing her anger.

“Oh, you mean, ‘Ryan, you feel so good?’”

“Oh my God,” Lila recognized her own words coming out of Cordelia’s mouth. She knew exactly where she’d heard them before. She had spoken them to Ryan in a moment of passion while they were making love during their trip to New York City the previous summer.

The room felt like it was closing in on her. Cordelia was only five feet away, but seemed to be standing at the end of a long tunnel. Lila felt her anger boil to the surface – the flush to her face a mixture of indignation and embarrassment.

“I said those words to Ryan,” Lila said, teetering on the edge of control.

“Mm hmm,” Cordelia responded so nonchalantly that Lila wanted to run to her and grab her by the neck.

“It was an intimate, private moment.” Lila’s wrinkled forehead showed her outrage.

“Really?” Cordelia responded nonplussed. “Intimate, yes. Private, not so much.” She took a sip of the cocktail she had prepared herself.

“What do you mean? You can’t be insinuating that you were there.” Lila knew that’s exactly what Cordelia was saying, but couldn’t allow herself to believe it. “Ryan and I were the only ones in the condo that night. We couldn’t find you. You ran out of Safety and disappeared. We called you for an hour and then finally went home. You weren’t answering your phone and your weren’t in the condo.”

“You searched everywhere in the condo?” asked Cordelia.

“We looked through the rooms,” said Lila. “We didn’t feel the need to search under the beds or in the closets. We weren’t looking for an intruder.”

“You should have,” Cordelia said, amused. “I was in the closet.” She walked towards the picture window that overlooked the courtyard below.

Lila watched her as the words sunk in. “You watched us have sex?” Lila numbly said the words.

“Oh come on. What’s the big deal?” Cordelia asked, annoyed that this situation was making waves at all. “So I watched you have sex. It’s not like I fucked Ryan myself.” Lila felt like that 12-year-old girl on the playground watching Cordelia NOT realizing that tricking someone into eating mud was wrong. “You took away my chances of doing it the night you seduced him into kissing you for the first time.”

“What are you talking about? He kissed me. It was out-of-the-blue. I kissed back. I didn’t initiate. I kissed back. You remember that the next time you try to get all superior on me about Ryan. He didn’t – doesn’t – want you in that way. He wants me. You need to get over it. And don’t you ever watch me have sex again!

Cordelia turned to look out the window and took another drink.

Without facing Lila she said, “I guess this would be the moment where I tell you I masturbated while I was watching.”

Lila got up from the sofa and left Ryan’s side for the first time.

“You are a hateful, spiteful bitch, Cordelia Boston.”

Cordelia turned to face Lila. Her eyebrows arched slightly out of shock and amusement.

“You haven’t ever minded that before because you’ve never been on the receiving end of it.” Cordelia spat back venomously. “You always stood behind me and watched it happen to someone else. Well, welcome to my funhouse, sweetie. It’s a little distorted isn’t it?”

“Did you give Ryan Laztripol tonight?” Lila was angry enough now that she was going to get all the answers regardless of whether she wanted to hear them or not.

“Yes.” Cordelia responded in a steely, superior voice. “I thought he needed to loosen up.”

“How could you do that?” asked Lila. “You gave drugs to someone you profess to love. You knew what it did to him the last time he tried it and you gave it to him anyway. How could you do that?”

“Because I didn’t think it would hurt him.”

“How much did you give him?”

Cordelia didn’t answer right away. She took another sip of her drink and turned away from Lila.

“How much did you give him, Cordelia?” It was Lila’s turn to use the steely, superior voice.

“I put two drops in his champagne glass at the bar before pouring the champagne at our table.”

“Oh my God. I cannot believe you would be so reckless and cruel.” Lila was fighting back tears. “Look at him. Did you even stop to think how two drops might affect him?”

Cordelia looked at Ryan slumped on the sofa. She then took a deep breath.

“He’ll be fine, Lila. He just needs to sleep it off.”

Lila clutched her hands into fists. She felt possessed. Rage like she’d never experienced came over her. It surged through her body. She couldn’t control the scream that built from her gut and exploded out of her mouth. She ran at Cordelia.

She didn’t know what it was like to black out, but her mind went blank. She couldn’t see and she couldn’t remember. Seconds later she opened her eyes to the scene in the room.

“Cordelia,” Lila screamed. She watched in slow motion as the window began to crack and with nothing to grab on to Cordelia began to fall through it.

“Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God,” Lila screamed. She was frozen to the spot where she stood for at least a minute. She then found the ability to move and ran to the window. She placed her hands over mouth to cover her screams. The blond wig Cordelia had been wearing was hanging on a shard of glass still attached at the window. It was dangling there in the wind. Cordelia’s body was lying in the courtyard below, unmoving and unnatural. The courtyard garden had changed from beautiful to gruesome.

Lila’s eyes were wide with fear; tears were rolling down her cheeks. She couldn’t stop the involuntary scream that protruded from her lips as she uncovered her mouth. She turned to see Ryan slumped now on the floor, shaking.

She ran to phone and dialed 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Cordelia just fell through a window at The Clementine Hotel and I think Ryan is having a seizure.” The words fell out of Lila’s mouth.

“Okay, miss. Please stay calm. What floor are you on?”

“We’re on the third floor, Suite 307.”

“Thank you. And you said Cordelia and Ryan are hurt? Those are your friends?”

“Yes, they’re my friends.” Lila felt the pain of the word “friends” as she said it. “Please send and ambulance. Hurry.”

“An ambulance…”

Lila had already hung up the phone. She ran to Ryan. She cradled his head in her lap. He was still jerking. She didn’t know what to do? She stared at the broken window, the glass that remained, splintered yet still attached. The wig looked like a piece of surreal art as it hung in the balance between life and death. She watched as the breeze loosed the wig and sent it, too, plummeting to the ground below. She closed her eyes as tears dripped from her chin. She looked down at Ryan and began to smooth the hair from his forehead.

She had to go check on Cordelia. She took a pillow from the sofa, put it on the floor and gently placed Ryan’s head on top of it. She walked to the window. She was afraid to look, but knew she had to. She brought her right hand up to cover her eyes, to block the view of Cordelia as she cried. She saw the wig; it had fallen near Cordelia’s body. She couldn’t stop crying. It was uncontrollable. How could this have happened? She tried to breathe through the tears, but found herself unable to stop them.

She heard a knock at the door.

It was hotel security along with the EMT. She had heard the faint sound of a siren in the distance but didn’t make the connection that it was her ambulance, the one she had called, the hopeful rescue of her two friends.

§

Lila heard a knock on the door again. She couldn’t find her voice to speak. She was exhausted and her tears had strained her more than she knew. She took several paper towels from the dispenser and wiped the tears from her face. She then walked to the door.

Her mother was standing there when she opened it.

“Honey, are you okay? You’ve been in there a long time.”

Lila walked to her mother and laid her head on her shoulder like a child being cradled. She felt her mother’s arms tighten around her and she let it all go again. She didn’t know she had tears left to cry yet they were pouring from her eyes.

“It’s okay, honey. Let it go. Mother’s here.”

As Lila’s tears began to subside her mother told her that Dr. Martin had given her permission to see Cordelia and Ryan.

Lila lifted her head up from her mother’s shoulder and looked at her. Mrs. Hayward smoothed Lila’s hair away from her face.

“Mom, this is going to sound really...” Lila searched for the right word. “…stupid, but do you have a ponytail holder? I need to pull my hair back. I need to not see this hairstyle when I look in the mirror.”

Mrs. Hayward gave her a mother’s reassuring smile. “I don’t think that sounds stupid at all, Lila. I think it sounds normal.” She nodded her head as looked into Lila’s eyes. “You need a little bit of normal right now.”

She put her arm around Lila and they walked back to the waiting room. Mrs. Hayward found a ponytail holder in her purse and Lila pulled her hair back.
As she watched Lila, Mrs. Hayward was reminded of the 12-year old version of her daughter; running in from school, needing consoling, after a playground altercation or fight with Cordelia. She forced her own tears back realizing that this was a moment to be strong.

Lila swiped her hands under eyes one more time to wipe away the tears and then walked out of the waiting room and down the hall towards Cordelia’s room. She had to see Cordelia first. Maybe it was because she was angry with her or maybe it was because she hoped to have the chance to tell her she was sorry. She knew she couldn’t see Ryan yet even though she wanted to. She had to face Cordelia first.

Machines making rhythmical beeps and tubes looking alien were the first things that Lila noticed in the room. Broken hearted, she stood over Cordelia's body, covered in cuts from all the shards of glass that had forced their way into her skin; fractured and bruised from smashing through the window and falling to the ground below.

She was still alive, but Lila wondered as she looked down at her friend whether or not death would be the greater blessing. She wanted to reach out and touch Cordelia's hand, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Maybe in time, if Cordelia actually lived, they would find forgiveness for each other. For now she just had to walk away. There was nothing she could do. Ryan needed her.

As she was leaving the room she saw the huddled sadness of Mr. And Mrs. Boston walking down the hall towards Cordelia's room. Mrs. Boston touched Lila's hand as they passed in the hallway. It was a brief touch. No one paused. Lila was filled with a sense of familiarity and heaviness of heart.

As she turned the corner and made her way to Ryan's room Lila heard Mrs. Boston release a heart-breaking sob.

Walking into his room she made a concerted effort not to cry. She pulled a chair next to his bed and took his hand into her own. She laid her head on the bed and listened to the beep of his heart monitor as she felt the pulse of his heart through his hand.

“Do you wanna just get in here with me?”

It was a weak voice, but it was a voice she had never been happier to hear.

She looked up. “Ryan?” The tears welled up in her eyes.

“I’m gonna be okay, Lila.” He then smiled that beautiful 100-watt smile at her and she lost control of her tears. She felt such a sense of relief as she laughed and cried. She pulled his hand to her mouth and kissed it. He motioned her toward him and she cautiously rose from the chair and leaned down and gently kissed his lips. The man she loved was going to be fine.

EPILOGUE

The Presbyterian Church that had seen so many funerals and weddings had indeed seen another funeral and would see another wedding.

Lila placed her wedding announcement to Ryan in a scrapbook on the page opposite Cordelia’s obituary.

She looked at both newspaper clippings and thought how things should have been different for all of them. Cordelia should have been her Maid-of-Honor, but she was now covered with flowers instead of carrying them down the aisle.

She ran her fingers over the picture of Cordelia that accompanied her obituary and fought back the tears and gnawing panic in her stomach.

She turned back a page and stared at the photo that had been taken of the three of them that night at the society ball. It had arrived in the mail 2 days after Cordelia died. She stared at her and Ryan’s shocked expressions. They had been caught off guard and you could see it in their faces. Cordelia’s expression was completely different. She was in her element. She had a very seductive look on her face. She was every inch Marilyn the vixen. Lila couldn’t help but laugh as she thought about all of those photos she’d seen in her mother’s magazines of the love triangle’s on Dynasty and Falcon Crest. Their story and it’s ending would certainly give those writers a run for their money. Her heart began to pound with the anxiety that she now took pills to control.

She had remembered what had happened during her blackout. She had actually pushed Cordelia, causing her to lose her balance and crash through the window. It was a deliberate push. No one knew it except for her. The drugs and alcohol found in Cordelia’s system seemed the perfect explanation for how someone could lose their balance and crash through a window. No one questioned it further. Lila would have to keep that secret for the rest of her life. She now lived behind one of those closed doors that hid the secrets.

“Lila,” Ryan called from the kitchen of their apartment.

She closed the scrapbook and placed it back on the shelf.

©2011 Michael Rohrer

Thornclyffe - Part 8

2011-08-12T10:44:00.004-04:00

The scratchy sounds of pre-recorded music spilled forth from the ballroom as they entered. The band for the evening was to be Benny and the Midnight Goodman’s, but as they had yet to start playing, the music was vintage gramophone; every scratch and imperfection could be heard piped throughout the room, but it only added to the ambience.

Cordelia was giddy. Unbeknownst to Lila and Ryan she had indulged in a little light drug use before exiting her room. Maybe light wasn’t the correct word. She placed two drops of Laztripol under her tongue. It was the first time she had allowed herself more than one drop at a time. She was already feeling it. She was tingling from head to toe. She had slipped the vial into her purse as on option for later should her two friends want to partake with her.

The Stork Club’s main dining room was laid out before them. Deep red leather banquettes lined the walls while round tables covered in pristine white table clothes made an inner circle. The dance floor took the center of the room. Each table was graced with a bowl of tightly bound red-centered yellow calla lilies, red roses and sprigs of yellow berries. A black ashtray emblazoned with the words “Stork Club” in white also added authenticity to each table. The accompanying chairs were covered in green velvet. Fake windows had been mounted on the walls behind each banquette and hung with green and silver velvet curtains. Huge sprays of red roses, also containing the yellow berry sprigs, were standing on the dividers that separated one banquette from the other.

As this was an event laced with nostalgia, the owner of The Clementine had given his permission for smoking to be allowed in the ballroom once the doors were closed for the evening. It was shocking that he had said yes to the request, but he was a sucker for perfection and wanted the room to transport each attendee back to a time when cigarettes were sexy and laughter was seen through a cloud of exhaled smoke and heard after swills of champagne.

There were life-size, black and white cutouts of famous Stork Club patrons. Owner Sherman Billingsley was represented by a cutout at the entrance to the ballroom. The Kennedy’s were there, as well as Elizabeth Taylor, Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner. A large photo of Walter Winchell sitting at his regular table, #50, was hanging from the ceiling over what was presumed to be that evening’s table #50. Pictures of Tallulah Bankhead, Charlie Chaplin, Grace Kelly and Ernest Hemingway were hanging on the wall. Even famed gossip columnist Louella Parsons was represented with a cutout that looked as if she was overhearing what would be the headline of her column the next day.

All three of them looked around the room. They were completely in awe at the effort that had been placed upon every detail in order to recreate a glittering world that had once been a society mainstay. This was not their first society ball, but it was by far the most beautifully rendered from idea to completion they had ever experienced.

As the music continued to change, the sweeping sounds of Frank Sinatra, Lena Horn and Count Basie engulfed the room. The past replaced the present. Nothing outside of that room existed anymore. They were shut away, back in time, enchanted by the chance to just breath the air that seemed to have been part of a New York City that didn’t exist anymore.

“Our table is #23,” said Cordelia, looking at her invitation. “You two find the table and I’ll get us a bottle of Champagne.”

“A bottle?” said Lila. “Somebody’s in party mode.”

Cordelia laughed a little. “I just want us to have a good time tonight,” she responded. “I’m counting on the two of you to keep me from giving too much money tonight though.” She gave them both a serious look before bursting into laughter.

Lila and Ryan both laughed as Lila shook her head at Cordelia.

“But seriously,” said Cordelia, “I don’t want to lose control of my mind or checkbook tonight. I’m counting on both of you,” she said pointing at them both to show she meant it.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Ryan.

“Now, let me get that bottle and get it back to the table while it’s still cold.”

After finding table #23 Lila and Ryan sat down. Lila looked in the direction of the bar and stared at the curvy backside of Cordelia’s Marilyn Monroe. “She seems to be really happy tonight.” Lila smiled. “That makes me really happy.” She turned to Ryan. He reached out and took her hand and smiled at her.

“You’re a good friend, Lila.”

“I try, Ryan, but I don’t always succeed where Cordelia’s concerned.” A shadow of doubt crossed her face. “I know how she feels about you and as much as I try to keep my jealousy at bay it comes out sometimes.” She looked down at his hand in hers them back into his eyes. “You know what?”

“What?”

“I’m not going to worry about that tonight.” She took a breath and straightened her posture in the chair. “Tonight we’re three friends having a good time at a fabulous party.”

Ryan lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Agreed.”

“Okay people, the champagne girl has arrived and the cigarette girl will be by our table in a few.”

“The cigarette girl?” asked Lila.

“You know the Stork Club had a girl who walked around asking people if they wanted cigarettes.” She looked at the two of them and the look on each of their faces told her they hadn’t done as much research as she about the Stork Club. “Okay, maybe you didn’t know that. I’m thinking I might just indulge myself tonight. I mean why not? ‘Soap opera says, One Life To Live.’ Her use of the Janet Jackson lyric made Lila laugh out loud and Ryan shake his head with the biggest smirk he couldn’t hide.

Cordelia laughed and poured champagne into the champagne coupe’s that were popular during the now romanticized 50’s.

They talked and laughed their way through that bottle of champagne. The Laztripol was coursing through Cordelia's blood. She was ready to explode out of her chair, out of her dress.

"I have to dance, you guys." She looked at them with a longing that they join her.

Benny and Midnight Goodman's had taken the stage and were playing through the hits of the Big Band era. The music was as intoxicating as the champagne. Ryan looked a little strange; truthfully he looked as if the champagne had gone right to his head.

"I think I need to eat before I attempt to dance," said Ryan. "Lila, why don't you dance with Cordelia? I would love to watch the looks on the more conservative faces." He laughed then patted his forehead with his napkin.

"Honey, are you sure you're okay?" Lila asked.

"Yeah. I just need to eat."

"I’m gonna stay here with Ryan. Is that okay, Cordelia?"

"Of course," she responded. "It would be nice to have someone to dance with, but I think I can manage as Marilyn on my own." With those words she was in the center of the dance floor causing all eyes to focus on her, which meant she was right where she wanted to be - the center of attention. Slow and easy she moved. Her eyes were closed as she swayed her hips to the moan of the trumpet lamenting forth from the bandstand.

Lila watched her briefly before turning back to Ryan.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I just feel light-headed. That's why I think I need to eat. I didn't eat much today and we did just drink a bottle of champagne." He smiled at her.

"Dinner should be served shortly," said Lila. "Would you like some water?"

"That sounds great."

"Be right back."

As if she'd been watching, lying in wait to make a move, Cordelia sidled up next to Ryan and grabbed his thigh and gave it a squeeze.

He jumped.

"What are you doing, Cordelia?" He asked, taken aback by her blatant forwardness.

"I was just checking on you," she said, acknowledging neither his jump nor her inappropriateness.

Lila returned to the table as Cordelia was removing her hand from Ryan's leg.

"Hey," said Lila. "Finished dancing already?"

"Just keeping Ryan company while you were gone." She smiled at them both. To Ryan: "Are you feeling any better?"

"Actually, I'm feeling a little more dizzy now," he said as he started to stand up. "I'm going to go to the bathroom and splash some cold water on my face." To Lila: "Would you see how much longer until they serve dinner?"

"Of course, honey," Lila responded. "Cordelia, will you go with Ryan."

Ryan didn't really want her to go with him, but he also didn't want to protest too much. He thought it better to just give Lila the peace of mind that he would be with someone should he need the assistance. Cordelia positively beamed with delight as she nodded to say yes.

Ryan stood up followed by Cordelia. The roaming photographer called their names and they each turned to look at him. He snapped their picture, the bright flash causing shadows and blurs to dance before their eyes. Cordelia laughed while Ryan tried to shake away the after-effects of the flash.

Lila walked towards the back of the ballroom past the ghosts of former celebrities as they danced and drank and laughed. The music filled the room and floated on swirls of cigarette smoke. All she could think about was getting Ryan some food. Anything would do even if it were just a roll. If eating would help him feel better she wanted to find him food.

Cordelia took Ryan's arm and walked him past the bar towards the bathroom. They stopped in front of the men's room door. He leaned up against the wall instead of pushing the door open.

"I think I need to go to the room. It's getting worse. Can you go get Lila?" His face was flush and he was starting to sweat more.

"I can take you to the room, Ryan. I'll send Lila a text and let her know." Cordelia as nurse was an amusing role to play especially dressed as Marilyn Monroe. Had Marilyn ever played a nurse? It was unlikely. "Come on. Let's get you upstairs."

She took his arm and began to lead him towards the doors.

When they arrived at the elevator it was there as if waiting for them, again. Cordelia pushed the button for the third floor as Ryan leaned his head on her shoulder.

"Thank you, Lila for taking me back to the room. I know you were excited about the party." His eyes were closed. He didn't seem to know what he was saying. "You can go back if you want to after you get me inside."

Cordelia stared at their reflection in the golden doors of the elevator. She wanted Ryan to love her and he thought she was the woman he was in love with. For a brief moment she felt bad for putting two drops of Laztripol in his glass before bringing it to the table. She couldn't understand why Ryan and Lila hadn't had the same reaction on the drug as she and couldn't resist trying again. Ryan was reacting poorly, but she felt certain he would be all right once he slept it off.

Once they were inside the room Cordelia did send a text to Lila. She was unconcerned about how long it might take Lila to respond or about the fact that she was missing the party. She was exactly where she wanted to be.

When Lila returned to the table with a basket of bread in hand she was curious as to the whereabouts of her two friends. She had been gone so long in search of food that she assumed they would be back and sitting at the table when she returned. She looked in the direction of the bar but didn't see Cordelia or Ryan. Impatience took over her thoughts and she walked to the bathroom herself. Cordelia was not in the hall. She went inside the ladies room. Cordelia was not inside. She walked back into the hallway and paced in front of the men’s room door. Her mind raced with questions – thoughts – of where they could be. She finally decided to walk into the men’s room. She started knocking on the door before pushing it open.

"Hello. Anyone in here? Lady coming in." She now stood in the men’s room. "Ryan, are you in here?" There was no response. She peered under each stall. The bathroom was empty.

She opened the door and ran back to their table. It was still empty. She had a split second of feeling like the room was closing in on her before the moment of clarity arrived. She remembered she had her phone. She would call Cordelia.

She opened her bag and saw the flashing light indicating that she had a new text message. She was relieved to see that it was from Cordelia.

"Ryan wasn't feeling well. Got really dizzy. Took him to the room"

Lila grabbed her bag from the table and began to run towards to door. The slit in her dress allowed her to move freely with no constraints.

When she arrived at the elevator she didn't have the same luck that the three of them had had before. Both elevators were on the top floor and her button push made them start their descent.

She tried to call Cordelia, but there was no answer. She did the same with Ryan and again got no answer. She jabbed at the button as if it would make the elevator move faster or feel her agitation the more she pushed it.

When it finally arrived at the lobby level it seemed to take an eternity for the doors to open. The seconds ticked away like hours for Lila. She didn’t know why so was so anxious, but she knew she wanted – needed – to get to Ryan.

Finally on the third floor she again ran. This time to their room. As she entered she could hear the faint, sexy, mood-inducing sounds of music coupled with the muffled words of someone speaking. She saw no one, but her untrusting instincts regarding Cordelia kicked into high gear.

©2011 Michael Rohrer

Thornclyffe - Part 7

2011-07-27T08:30:00.003-04:00

§

After changing her clothes in the hospital bathroom, Lila walked to the sink to splash cold water on her face. As she patted her face dry she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her makeup was still mostly intact excepting for the tear streaks. Her lipstick was oddly perfect.

§

The peek-a-boo hairstyle was in place. The dress was black and glamorous with a swooping neckline and a slit that nearly reached her hip. It was daring, but it was the perfect choice for the evening. A throw back to the 40’s, updated with modern sensibilities. She was looking at herself in the mirror as she applied her lipstick, Mahogany red, when Cordelia’s bedroom door opened. Lila gasped as the mirror reflected Cordelia as she emerged from her room transformed like a butterfly from its cocoon.

She turned immediately. It wasn’t Cordelia exiting that bedroom. It was Marilyn. She had so perfectly captured the essence of the Playboy centerfold turned movie star that it was eerily chilly in the room as if her ghost was present.

“Well, what do you think?” asked Cordelia, every bit the girl hoping for a positive response to a new hairstyle.

Lila couldn’t even answer her. She was drinking her in completely. The red dress with its sweetheart neckline hugged her body. Her exposed shoulders soft and white. Her voluptuous breasts and hips accentuated in all the right places. Cordelia had used a slightly lighter makeup to go with her platinum blond hair. Her eyes leapt from her face as the false lashes made them appear even bigger. Her lipstick was Crimson. It was lighter than Lila’s, but matched her dress as if they’d been sold together as a combo. She had a delicate diamond necklace around her neck. It was slightly longer than a choker. If they had been awarding a prize for best costume, Lila couldn’t imagine anyone else at the party holding a candle to Cordelia.

“Oh my God, Cordelia. You look amazing,” Lila exclaimed. “It’s like Marilyn is actually here.”

Cordelia smiled the biggest smile Lila had seen brighten her face in weeks.
“Thank you,” said Cordelia. “I’ve been practicing the makeup for most of the week. Just trying to get it right.”

“You succeeded,” Lila responded as she walked over to her and they embraced.

“Now let me look at you.” Cordelia stepped back and took in the sleek beauty of the auburn haired Veronica Lake that stood before her. “You’re beautiful, Lila. Every ounce the glamour girl.” Cordelia smiled an almost sisterly smile at her friend.

They were truly happy. This night was already shaping up to be a memorable one.

Ryan came into the room and stopped cold. He stood shaking his head as he looked at the two girls talking. They hadn’t noticed his arrival. He cleared his throat and they turned to look at him. They were standing on a slight angle with their shoulders barely touching. Both smiled, then stood waiting with apprehension for whether he approved or not.

“Beautiful,” was all he could say. “You both look stunning.”

Both girls laughed and looked at each other, apprehension dissolving into faces of “of course we do.”

“Cordelia, I never would have thought you could have pulled off Marilyn so well. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just that with your dark hair I wasn’t sure you could pull off platinum blond. I was wrong. You look truly, breathtakingly sensational.

“Thank you, Mr. Ladd,” she responded breathlessly, using the last name of his persona for the evening, with a purse of the lips connected to an inward movement of shoulders that sent all eyes to her cleavage. She was Marilyn.

“Looks like somebody’s done her research.” Ryan laughed.

“I must confess, I watched some movies and interviews,” Cordelia responded.

“Wow, I did nothing more than look at some photos,” said Lila.
The ladies grabbed their bags and invitations. The three of them left the hotel room. The fates were on their side because the elevator door opened as soon as they pushed the button. Three floors down and they would arrive at the Stork Club.

The grand ballroom of The Clementine Hotel had been transformed into a replica of the Stork Club, one of the most popular nightspots in the world during its heyday. It had several different locations in New York City before landing in its final one on East 53rd Street. The owner was Sherman Billingsley and his daughter, Shermane, describes the place as “the epitome of American glamour, sophistication and elegance.” It was an icon of the 20th century and reigned supreme from the 20’s to the 60’s when its doors closed for good.

There were only a few people attending the society ball that evening who would have been old enough to actually enjoy an evening at the real Stork Club. That didn’t matter. The Internet provided all the information one could seek for research purposes in knowing what it was like to have a Stork Club membership card.

The invitations had been made to resemble said membership cards. They had to be presented at the door in order to gain entry. A golden chain blocked the entrance and was guarded by a tuxedo-clad man judiciously checking the list to keep out the riff raff.

Cordelia and Lila presented their invitations to the gentleman and waited as he checked off their names. Cordelia Boston, check. Lila Hayward, check. Ryan being the gentleman waited for the ladies then retrieved his own invitation from the inside pocket of his dinner jacket. Ryan Lake, check. The golden chain was unlatched and the doors to the Stork Club were opened before them.

©2011 Michael Rohrer

Thornclyffe - Part 6

2011-07-13T08:30:00.003-04:00

"Honey, what happened?" Lila's mom asked." Jenny called me and said you were here. I nearly jumped out of my skin before she could tell me that you weren't the one in the hospital." She stroked her daughter's hair. "Why didn't you call me, Lila?"

Lila got up from her chair and walked to the window. If she smoked this would be the moment where she lit a cigarette and took and deep calming drag. She didn't smoke though so her deep breath was filled with oxygen instead of nicotine. She stood staring out the window a moment longer, holding her crossed arms at the elbows. She turned towards her mom and started to cry again.

"Oh Mom, it was awful," she said as tears ran down her face. Mrs. Hayward got up and went to her daughter. She lifted up her chin and looked her in the eyes.

"I'm here, Lila." She pulled her into an embrace. "You're safe.” She stroked Lila’s hair. “Talk to me, honey." She ended the embrace but held onto Lila's shoulders.

"Cordelia fell out the window at The Clementine tonight."

"Oh my God." Her mother reacted, as you would expect one to after hearing that kind of information: with shock.

"She lost her balance wearing a pair of too-high heels and the glass gave way." Lila repeated the same story to her mother that she'd told the police officer on the scene at the hotel. "The glass broke.” She sobbed. “How does that happen?” She stood taking shallow tear-induced breaths. “No one expects that."

"And Ryan?" Mrs. Hayward asked. "What happened to Ryan?”

"He had a seizure."

Lila offered no further details or information to her mother. She walked over the chair where the jeans and t-shirt her mother had brought her lay.

"It's funny. Until these clothes were here in front of me I didn't really think about wanting to change. Now I just want to get out of this dress." She picked up the clothes and started towards the door.

"Mom."

"Yeah, honey."

"Thank you."

Whether it was for the clothes or for being there, Mrs. Hayward didn't know. She watched Lila walk out the door.

§

October. Brown University was out on fall break. That was good news for Lila, Ryan and Cordelia. That weekend just happened to be the weekend of the annual society ball held at The Clementine Hotel.

Every year the ball was held to raise money for some charity or another and to give the residents an opportunity to liven up their day-to-day lives with a little bit of glamour. This year’s theme was Café Society.

Café Society: a throwback to a time when the beautiful people – the bright young things – gathered in fashionable cafés and restaurants in New York, Paris, London and Vienna. It started at the end of Prohibition with a marriage to photojournalism. Drinks and photos. Being photographed in the right place. It was a time when celebrities and those of wealth and aristocracy mingled together; attended each other’s dinner parties and balls. Like attracts like and these sets knew how to enjoy each other.

This society ball demanded the most glamorous of costumes. Only the very best would do. More money than anyone wished to discuss was spent on acquiring the right costume for the annual event.

Lila and Cordelia had been so excited to receive their invitations. Ever since their trip to New York City their relationship seemed to be back on track. Cordelia even seemed more at ease going out with Lila and Ryan. Sometimes it was even her suggestion. When they saw the party’s theme, ideas of who to be started running through their brains faster than they could write them down on paper.

Lila chose the glamorous Veronica Lake as her disguise for the evening. Veronica may have been a blond, but Lila new from experience that with a blow out she could manage Veronica’s signature peek-a-boo hairstyle beautifully even if hers was auburn. As a bonus, Veronica’s last name was Lake; a name Lila herself hoped would be her own one day.

Ryan took on the guise of Alan Ladd, an actor who had paired well with Veronica Lake in the 1940’s. Specifically he chose Alan as Jay Gatsby in The Great Gatsby of 1949.

Cordelia, with her curves, couldn’t think of a better icon than Marilyn Monroe. Even though Cordelia was a brunette, she wouldn’t even consider the dark-haired beauty of Norma Jean. She went straight to the classiest wig boutique she could find and purchased a classic, platinum Marilyn Monroe wig. She specifically chose the image of Marilyn in a red dress worn in the film Niagara. A publicity photo from that film was what Andy Warhol used as the basis for his famous silkscreen image of Marilyn. Cordelia had always loved that piece of art.

They booked a suite for themselves at The Clementine Hotel for the evening. This way they wouldn’t have to worry about wrinkled dresses or driving drunk. They would be able to stay at the ball as long as they wanted and drink as much as they dared and merely push the elevator button when they were ready to leave.

Lila was surprised that the sharing of a suite had been Cordelia’s idea. She did seem to be much more at ease with their friendship. It was such a welcomed change that Lila found herself smiling and genuinely happy.

The morning of the ball was crisp with cinnamon and nutmeg in the air. The leaves burned red and orange. Wheat and hay stalks tied together complimented by pumpkins dotted the yards. The autumn sun seemed to change the color of the water from the green blue of summer to blue with a hint of burnt sienna as the fall leaves were reflected in its glassy surface. The sailboats were still anchored in the harbor. It was Lila’s favorite time of year. She loved walking down the sidewalk of Main Street and hearing the dead leaves crunch under her feet. Even the dead leaves opened the door to familiar smells and sounds. She knew there wasn’t much time left for them to spend in Thornclyffe. This might even be their last society ball for a while. They were all graduating in May and would probably move away. She hoped to become engaged to Ryan and marry him shortly thereafter. She wasn’t sure where Cordelia was going to go, but she could imagine all of them in New York City. Christies was, of course, based there so that’s where Ryan needed to be. There were plenty of opportunities in New York City for Lila to be a photographer or model. Was there a better market for Cordelia to break into journalism? No. They would probably all three end up in New York City.

This was a time of freedom. They were still in school and that was the most major of their responsibilities. They were adults, but real adulthood had yet to take over their lives. This was going to be the best society ball they had ever attended. Better even than the dances their senior year at Allendale Prep.

Lila was sitting in the lobby of The Clementine Hotel waiting for Cordelia and Ryan to arrive. She had arrived earlier than the two them in order to just have a moment to absorb the beauty of the lobby. Ever since she’d been old enough to know what it was to have afternoon tea, she had enjoyed the occasional teatime spent in the lobby of The Clementine Hotel. It was different than going to Windsor. It wasn’t as stuffy as you might think, but it was high tea served in beautiful china cups with matching saucers. She had so often enjoyed sitting alone and sipping tea in front of the grand fireplace in the lobby. It was so ornately decorated with cherubic faces that she often stared at them, their faces frozen in a smile or giggle, and tried to figure out what they were thinking. The fireplace was never better than when it blazed with colors that matched the leaves outside and provided warmth that made you unbutton your oversized cashmere sweater. This was one of those days. She couldn’t let the opportunity pass her by without seizing the moment for herself and indulging in it to its fullest.

She saw Cordelia enter through the main doors and walk to the Concierge desk. She watched as the Concierge pointed in her direction. She took a sip of her tea and then placed the dainty, flower-painted cup and saucer on the table beside her chair.

“How long have you been here?” Cordelia asked as she bent down and kissed Lila on the cheek.

“About an hour I think,” Lila responded. “I love sitting here and enjoying a cup of tea.”

“If I had known I would have joined you.”

Lila just smiled in response to Cordelia’s statement. Telling her that she had wanted to spend the hour by herself seemed unnecessarily cruel. If she was honest it seemed like something Cordelia would do just to watch the reaction. That wasn’t Lila. She didn’t want to hurt Cordelia’s feelings. She just wanted to enjoy herself uninterrupted and she knew that would have been impossible if Cordelia had joined her. Better to just smile and leave it at that.

“Should we check in?” asked Cordelia.

“I already did,” said Lila. “Our suite is on the third floor – Suite 307 – if you want to take you bags upstairs. I’m going to wait for Ryan.”

A hint of the old Cordelia was visible in the smile she gave Lila. Ryan walked through the revolving door at that moment. He saw Lila and Cordelia and waved at them as he walked in their direction. Cordelia seemed to be beaming more than usual as he approached. Lila thought maybe she was just being paranoid. Things had been good. Why would she suddenly not be trusting Cordelia? She had to let those thoughts go.

Ryan hugged Cordelia first then kissed Lila.

“Are we checked in?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lila responded. “Suite 307.”

“Shall we,” he indicated with his outstretched arm that the two ladies should precede him to the elevator.

Lila and Cordelia looked at each other with girlish smiles, giggled behind coquettish shoulders then made their way to the elevator. The chivalry of a long forgotten time was already in full effect for the evening.

©2011 Michael Rohrer

Gaining Respect (A Conversation with Dad)

2011-07-11T17:42:00.000-04:00

I am Michael Rohrer. I am a Rohrer. The only son of Gary Rohrer; a man for whom I didn’t know so much respect was possible.

Courage

Use your words. Choose them wisely. Actions may speak louder than words, but how often do we hear, “Do what I say, not what I do?” Words are used to communicate and our ability to communicate is a gift that we should all cherish. I have never been more proud of that gift than I was on Friday. That was the day that I took another courageous step towards having the relationship with my dad that I’ve have craved my entire life.

On October 26, 2009, I came out to my dad. I wrote a blog about it so I won’t rehash those details here. What I hoped I would gain from that moment was a better relationship with him.

Our relationship has never been easy. It’s delicate at best. He’s a hunter and a fisherman I’m in the creative arts. That’s enough said right there to know that we have nothing in common. That didn’t stop my desire for wanting a better relationship with him – to move beyond the pleasantries of birthday or father’s day conversations. Coming out to him did help to weaken the wall that had calcified between us. In some areas is probably started to crumble, but it was still there.

So here I am nearly two years later still craving. I have since realized that the craving is a need for confirmation of acceptance. Basically, I needed to tell my dad that I felt like I was an embarrassment to him and that I feared he wasn’t proud to have me as his son. That day came on Friday.

It didn’t take long after he answered the phone for me to launch head first into the reason for my call. I told him that I had been uncomfortable in his presence growing up. I told him that at family gatherings I hung out with the women in the kitchen because I couldn’t bear being in the room with the men; the talk of hunting and lures and deer stands and killing, etc. was not my cup of tea. Honestly, I didn’t know how to talk about it and I was scared to death that my secret was going to be discovered. Of course that secret was that I was gay. I have no secret to be discovered anymore. That’s what helped make this conversation possible. I told him that I had been afraid of him. A child should not be afraid of a parent. Parents are there to protect and love their children. I was so afraid of my sexual feelings and his feelings towards me as his child that I lived in a place of fear. Fear sucks!

He listened to me. He heard me. I in turn listened and heard him. We got a great many things off our chest.

Education

My dad took a second to make sure that things he was about to say fell in line with us bearing our souls and emptying the weight of our hearts. I acknowledged that as the truth and encouraged him to speak.

That is when my dad boldly asked me questions about my life that: a.) I couldn’t believe he would want to know the answers to and: b.) He wasn’t mortified to actually ask. I was so proud of him for asking me that I was bursting. I was smiling from ear to ear. I laughed. I was shocked, surprised and happy that he’d brought them up. I was honest with him. I told him I had indeed had sex with a woman before, but it wasn’t what I desired. I told him I had indeed had sex with a man (more than one actually) and that I‘d even had a relationship with a man. It was brutally honest. Not the gory details, but honest nonetheless.

Here is a man that cares so much about what other people think about him that I’ve carried the guilt of being an embarrassment to him because I’m gay for years. It’s not a reflection on him. He did nothing wrong. I am who I am. That didn’t stop him from saying he wished that he hadn’t been a punk kid who was still running around with his friends when I was born. He was 19-years old. He had just graduated from high school. Okay so he wasn’t there for me. That would not have changed the outcome of my life. I was gay then and I’m gay now. I can’t and won’t blame him for being a 19-year old father. Mistakes happened. The pregnancy may have been a mistake, but I am not a mistake. I am exactly who I was born to be.

I used to love to play in my mom’s shoes as a child. He said he has often wondered if he had taken that shoe out of my hand and replaced it with a bb gun would things have been different? I assured him they wouldn’t have been different. I am gay and no amount of his taking me hunting or replacing my favorite pair of my mom’s shoes (that I loved) with a bb gun was going to change that. I’ve heard multiple times in my life how my grandmother didn’t want me playing in the dirt. I told him that no amount of playing in the dirt would have changed the feelings that I felt as soon as I was old enough to understand what I was feeling.

Here’s what I learned. My dad carries around the regret and pain of his absence from my early childhood. He carries around guilt that he caused me to be gay. I don’t know what it’s like to live with that kind of sadness and regret. I don’t know how to convey to him that he needs to let that go. He’s nearly 60-years old. He’s had 40 years to ingrain that regret into his head and heart. My wish for him is that he realizes he did nothing wrong.

I’ve never stopped to see his side of things. How selfish is that?
What helped me see it is that just as much as I don’t want to talk of hunting, he doesn’t want to talk of acting or musicals. It was an Aha! moment in the truest of Oprah fashions. I had only been seeing my side of things. I thought that since I was his child he should care about the things I did in my life. However, I didn’t care about the things he did in his life. How could I ask so much of him without giving anything in return? I actually got that. It’s okay that we have nothing in common. It’s okay. I heard him and for the first time I understood.

Education is a two way street. Teachers stand before us and give the information, but we as the student have to listen and absorb. My father and I each played the role of teacher and student during that phone call.

Progress

Dad told me that the day I called him to tell him I was gay there was something he didn’t tell me. He said he had taken it upon himself to lift my name up to God – to say my name in prayer everyday asking God to help me. When I heard that I was astonished. I let him finish and then gave him my thoughts. I had been struggling for weeks to find the words to tell him I was gay. That particular day, I was in the shower composing words for an email to him when suddenly I had to get out and dry off and call him. I picked up my phone and found his name in the address book. I was shaking. I looked at his name and held the phone to my chest right over my heart. I took a deep breath and pressed, “send.” He answered. The rest is history.

I told him God works in mysterious ways. We don’t know why he does what he does. Dad didn’t get what he was expecting from that phone call, but I now know that my urge to tell him was so strong because I was being lifted up. God knows what you need. God knew that we needed to break down our barriers and that I needed to be honest with him.

My dad is a good man. He’s an honest man. He’s proud and he’s caring. I found more respect for him on Friday than I knew possible. He does not agree with homosexuality. He lives his life by God’s word. I understand that. I just know, and hope I conveyed to him, that my life was never a choice. It’s all I’ve ever felt. I am created by God.

I never want to bring shame on him. I won’t hide who I am though. Those years are in the past. We’re older and wiser now. I have to be my authentic self.

The years of placing blame are in the past. The only person to blame is staring back from the mirror. If we don’t do the things that we want to do in our lives it’s our own fault. Friday was a major step, and a victory, for two men long stalled on the road of life.

We’re never too old to learn. My father is nearly 60-years old and I’m 40. We had a breakthrough, years in the making, and it will change our lives forever.

He may not understand why I’m gay, and he may not agree with it, but he respects me as a person and loves me as a son. That’s a pretty big man.

Before we hung up the phone he said, “Hey, we’ve just had a conversation.” I laughed and answered in the affirmative. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. We had segued from past mistakes and hurts to an honest conversation that both of us were interested in. That’s progress.

Thornclyffe - Part 5

2011-06-29T08:30:00.001-04:00

The fanciful ocean blue door was the only thing that stood out on an otherwise warehouse-looking building; the line of people waiting behind the matching velvet rope, the best indication that they had arrived at Safety. There were no markings, no signs. This was a word of mouth location and word has certainly spread as evidenced by the length of the line. A building that had once been nothing more than a warehouse was now living in a revival heyday, housing hot beats and beautiful people instead of cardboard boxes.

Cordelia got out of the cab first and nearly jumped up and down with glee. She was hard-pressed to contain her excitement and why should she? She was happy and there was no reason for her not to be so. The Laztripol was working its magic on her just as before. She was experiencing it in a different place this time though. Her smile faded as she looked at the crowd of people waiting to get inside.

She faced Ryan and Lila as they got out of the cab. Neither of them looked as over-the-moon as Cordelia. That bordered on irritation for her, but she wasn't about to let the two of them bring her down.

The cab drove away and Ryan turned towards the door. He rarely used his wealth to bypass lines, it was something better saved for important concerns, but he knew that slipping the bouncer a large bill (say $100) would gain them entry to the club.

It was just as he thought, although more expensive ($100 per person). The bouncer unhooked the velvet rope that matched the color of the door perfectly. They walked beyond it as it hooked behind them to block those remaining in line from entry. They then proceeded through the blue door amid yells of "Hey!", "Boo!", and "What the fuck?". Lila was a little embarrassed to be causing a scene; Cordelia turned to the crowd and gave one of her best “jealous much?” smirks.

When the door opened it opened into a magical world. Standing outside it was nearly impossible to hear that anything was happening inside, but when the door opened the thump of the bass from Ke$ha’s “Blow” could be heard for half a block. The amount of soundproofing that had gone into that building to guard its secret was unfathomable.

Once inside Cordelia’s body quivered with anticipation. All she wanted to do was dance. They walked down the hall and through an open doorway. The room revealed itself to be sleek and modern, dimly lit with blue velvet banquettes lining the wall; the floor, ebony marble shined to a high gloss. The center of the room was filled with sprays of light shooting up from below; the opening lined with a polished silver railing. Looking over the railing revealed the dance floor below, full of gorgeous people touching and dancing with abandon. On this level, the banquettes provided a resting spot for enjoying a cocktail when one needed a break from the dance floor. Talking was nearly impossible due to the loudness of the music, but if you chose to do so you could yell your most intimate secrets and live without fear that anyone had heard them.

Lila and Ryan weren't feeling anything like Cordelia. Just as every drug can affect people differently, so was the Laztripol affecting them. Lila was essentially feeling nothing. She had tried to really fixate on her body with the Laztripol coursing through it. She felt the same – apprehensive about the drug, but excited to be out with her friends. Ryan on the other hand was feeling slightly lightheaded - not exactly dizzy, but more cloudy than clear. Cordelia was the only one of the three of them who seemed to be feeling positive side effects from the unproven drug.

"I wanna dance," said Cordelia unable to contain her excitement.

"Okay, let's find a banquette and put our stuff down," said Lila. "Do you think it'll be okay or should we check our bags at coat check?"

"I'm not paying for someone to watch my bag when they'll probably go through it anyway," protested Cordelia. "I don't have anything in mine that can't be replaced."

"I'm sure they'll be fine, Lila," said Ryan, placing his arm around her." Come on. Let's put them down and go have some fun. I'll get us some drinks while you two find a table."

Ryan headed towards the bar. Cordelia and Lila found a banquette that satisfied Lila's safety issues and sat down.

"God, Ryan looks so hot tonight," Cordelia said as she looked towards the bar then back at Lila. "Even without being dark and brooding he's got the Tom Ford thing down; crisp white shirt unbuttoned one button more than necessary and his butt in those pants - mmm."

Lila was stunned and a little unsure how to respond. Cordelia saw it in her face.

"Lila, I'm just talking. I'm not trying to steal him," she smiled at her friend. Lila smiled back. "I'm just complimenting my friend to my other friend. You two just happen to be dating. Don't make it weird, okay."

Lila nodded her head. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be weird." She couldn't believe she was apologizing for acting weird when the words Cordelia had spoken were somewhat inappropriate in reference to her boyfriend.

Ryan returned to the table with three glasses of champagne.

"I thought we should start the night off with a glass of their best champagne."

They each took a glass and made a toast, "To the three of us."

Lila and Ryan took a regular drink while Cordelia finished her glass. The other two watched her, fascinated. She put the glass down on the table.

"What," she said then looked at her empty glass. "I wanna dance not sit here and sip champagne. I can do that back at Brown at Tyler House. Come on you guys. Let's dance." She gave them puppy dog eyes with a hint of silent pleading.

Lila laughed before she could stop herself and stood up. She reached out and took Cordelia's hand and then reached for Ryan. Cordelia stood quicker than a child racing downstairs on Christmas morning. Lila laughed again. Ryan joined her as they made their way to the staircase that would take them to the dance floor.

The color of the blue door had been carried into the club. Not only were the banquettes covered in blue velvet, the dance floor was illuminated in blue. A framework of silver squares, polished like the railing, had been fitted with opaque glass cubes. The illumination came from blue lights under the floor. The radiance of the floor changed with the pulse of the beat. The skeletal structure of the building was visible as the exposed steel beams of the warehouse walled the dance floor. From upstairs looking down, they hadn’t noticed the enormous disco ball reflecting its mirrored shimmers on the floor. It seemed that the way the lights shone on it, it was only visible from the dance floor. As for the lights, they swirled and throbbed and pulsed with energy that had no desire to let up, only to keep moving.

The rumors were true: the DJ was amazing. They knew almost every song that was playing, each one current yet remixed or mashed up with hits from the 70’s and 80’s, pounding with non-stop intensity. Hydration was the only reason to stop. The lights under the dance floor seemed to seep into the body and keep it energized, the surrounding beat like a dose of No Doze.

After the fifth song Lila needed a break. She still wasn't feeling any different from the Laztripol, but she was having the best time she's had in a while. However, she was parched.

"I need a drink," she yelled to Ryan who finding himself in the middle of a particularly favorite song acknowledged her but indicated with a nod and an arm gesture that he was going to stay on the floor. She understood and nodded back.

Lila went upstairs and got herself a dirty gin martini and went to the banquette to check on her and Cordelia's bags. They were still there and everything seemed in order. She picked up the martini glass, thinking briefly that it should be water, but quickly dispelling the thought, and walked over to the railing to watch her friends. She scanned the floor until she spotted them. She smiled as she watched them having such a good time. Her friends were happy, she was happy and the dirty gin felt so good going down her throat. Then she saw Cordelia grab Ryan's butt.

She dropped the martini glass. It shattered at her feet sending shards of glass and gin into an explosive puddle. She could hear Cordelia's words from earlier, 'Ryan looks so hot tonight.' Ryan laughed as she did it and Cordelia herself threw her own head back in laughter. They continued to dance, Ryan moving a little closer to Cordelia. Lila was furious. She took off towards the staircase and tore down the stairs. She grabbed Cordelia by the arm and whirled her around then slapped her in one fluid motion. Cordelia was stunned; her hand went immediately to the red mark burning on her cheek. Ryan took Lila's arm.

"What are you doing?" He yelled her.

"I saw what Cordelia just did." No one seemed to notice that they were yelling to each other.

"What did she do?" asked Ryan.

"She grabbed your ass," Lila said to Ryan but looked at Cordelia.

"It was all in fun. We're having fun, Lila." Ryan was confused at her overreaction.

"She's having too much fun,” Lila spat out the words at Cordelia. "You need to leave my man alone."

"You need to get over yourself," Cordelia said as she stormed off.

Ryan started after her. Lila yelled at him, "Let her go."

Cordelia ran up the stairs, grabbed her bag from the banquette and left the club.

"I can't just let her leave. We have to take care of each other tonight. She's taken something remember?"

"Yes, I remember. We all took something." Lila responded.

"Then you know I can't let her wonder off. What if she doesn't keep her wits about her this time? What if the alcohol changes the effect?" His eyes were pleading. "I have to go, Lila."

She honestly understood. She didn’t want Cordelia wondering the City alone. They were best friends. She needed to apologize. She had overreacted. Maybe she had felt an effect from the Laztripol. Maybe it had made her paranoid.

They grabbed Lila's bag and left Safety in search of Cordelia.

They were in the Meatpacking District. It was stylish and trendy with many restaurants and bars that fell into Cordelia’s style. They searched inside and out in the neighborhood for almost an hour: Spice Market, Pastis, Fig & Olive, The Living Room at The Standard and Plunge and Carte Blanche at Hotel Gansevoort. They even checked to see if she had registered at one of the hotels before deciding they should go back to the penthouse and hope that she was there.

When they arrived at the penthouse there were no lights on. That either meant Cordelia was already in bed or not yet home. They called out to Cordelia as they checked each room. The door to her bedroom stood open. The evidence showed that she wasn't home. Lila was worried. Ryan's head was beginning to clear of its dizziness. He was more annoyed at Cordelia than angry with her.

"You know what, she's an adult," he said to a worried Lila. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. "I know you're worried, so am I, but she'll be okay. She has to be." He them embraced her. “I know I’m the one that said we should go after her, but she’s not answering her phone. She’s not here. I have to believe that she can take care of herself. I don’t know what else to do.” Lila was trembling slightly. "Lila," he said her name as soothingly as he could.

"You're right. I just wish I hadn't let my emotions get the better of me." Ryan walked into the bathroom. "She just knows how to push my buttons and I know how to let her." Lila sat down on the bed and took off her shoes.

From the bathroom, "I think you're being a little hard on yourself. You saw something that upset you. I didn't even apologize for letting it happen. That just shows you that people perceive things differently." Ryan emerged from the bathroom in his robe. He walked over to her. "I just took it as Cordelia being Cordelia and you took it as a threat. I'm sorry if my reaction to it, and you, was upsetting. I just didn't think anything of it."

"I know. You're right. You've no need to apologize, but thank you for it just the same." She said and she gave him a kiss.

"I know how we could get our minds off of Cordelia,” he said with a knowing smile.

She smiled back. "Oh you do do you?" She kissed him again. “What could you possibly have in mind?" She gave him her best coy smile.

He turned her around quickly then slowly unzipped her dress. The quick then slow played out to teasing perfection. He opened her dress by placing his hands on her shoulders and pushed it aside exposing her skin to his kisses. He kissed her neck as he let his hands embrace her and find their way to her breasts. He inhaled the scent of her as she moved her body into his grasp. He turned back around to face him and the dress fell to the floor. She stood before him, her naked body exposed. She felt no embarrassment. She had made love to Ryan before and she trusted him. She was safe in his company, in his arms.

She was not one to just be taken; she reached down and opened his robe. He had dressed with this moment in mind when he'd left the bathroom. He was wearing nothing under his robe. His excitement was already standing. She put all lady-like manners aside and reached out and took it into her hand. His breath caught in his throat. He moaned slightly and placed his mouth on hers. The kiss was wet and deep, gentle at first then more passionate.

Turnabout was fair play. If she could reach out and touch his manhood, he could no longer stop his hands from touching her. He felt the moist flesh between her legs and she too moaned at the touch. He pushed her onto the bed and threw his robe off. Her breath quickened at the sight of him. She reached down and touched herself. That made him throb.

He knew he should use a condom, but they were in the moment.

"I need to get a condom," he said already breathless.

"No," she responded writhing on the bed as his hand joined hers in the touching.

He pulled her to the edge of the bed. He was less gentle than usual upon entering her. She moved her hips to meet his body. He leaned down to kiss her. He placed his hands on either side of her to hold his weight so he could watch her during their lovemaking.

"Ryan, you feel so good," she said before placing her mouth back on his. He kissed her so hard she thought her lips might be bruised the next day. Oh well, no need for lip stain tomorrow, right? She couldn't believe that thought actually ran through her mind as he thrust himself in and out of her. Their moans matching the quickening that had become their breathing.

"I love you, Lila," he said before moaning his climactic release. He continued to thrust and she was meeting him thrust for thrust. She didn’t take her eyes off of him as she grabbed him around the neck and held on. It came so quickly. She shuddered hard against him. The intensity of her orgasm was enough to make Ryan orgasm again.

He fell onto the bed and rolled onto his back. They both lay there, breathing hard, recovering. Lila rolled onto her side and gave him a kiss.

"I love you, too," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Mind if I join you," asked Ryan.

"Under the guise of conserving water, of course?” she said demurely.

"Of course," he smiled.

She ran into the bathroom laughing and he jumped from the bed following her and shut the door behind him.

When she heard the shower start, Cordelia opened the closet door and stepped out into their bedroom, her legs shaky from her own orgasm. The smell of sex was thick in the air. She quietly walked to her own room and quietly shut the door. She kept the image of her two friends in her mind as she lied down on her bed and touched herself to arousal one more time.

The sounds and feelings of the previous night seemed to evaporate away when Lila opened the door of the bedroom she shared with Ryan the next morning. The living room seemed to brim with the smell of freshly brewed coffee while the sound of instrumental jazz filled the air and sunlight infused the room through the open curtains. The best part of it all though was the sight of Cordelia. She was sitting crossed-legged on the sofa with a steaming mug of coffee in her hand and a magazine in her lap.

She looked up as she saw Lila enter room.

“Coffee’s ready,” she said as she held up her mug in gesture.

“Cordelia-“

“I know, Lila. I’m sorry too,” Cordelia spoke the words that were on both of their minds.

Lila sat down next to her friend and they hugged.

“I overreacted,” Lila said as she looked at Cordelia apologetically.

“And I shouldn’t have grabbed Ryan’s butt,” Cordelia said as she placed a wisp of hair behind Lila’s ear.

They both laughed and hugged again. Lila then proceeded to the kitchen to get herself a cup of coffee.

When she returned she sat down next to Cordelia. “Where did you go last night? We looked for you for at least an hour.” She took a sip of her coffee.

“I just wondered around trying to clear my head,” Cordelia responded. She had already given thought to the answer to that question. (Thank you Google Maps) “I ended up completely turned around on Bleecker Street and found myself in an area called Sheridan Square. I hailed a cab and came home. It sounded like the shower was running when I got here so I just slipped into my room and went to bed.”

Lila smiled. “I’m glad you got home safe. I just wish none of it had happened. About that shower, let me tell you.” Lila took another sip of her coffee. “I had really great sex with Ryan last night.”

Cordelia reacted with a cocked eyebrow’s worth of interest.

“Is it okay for me to talk about this with you?” Lila asked, gauging her friend’s reaction.

“Yes, you can talk about it with me,” Cordelia responded. “But thanks for asking.”

Again Lila smiled. “Well, it was fast and intense. And by fast and intense I mean the orgasm. It didn’t take long for either of us to have one.”

Cordelia nodded then took a sip of coffee.

“It didn’t occur to me until this morning, but do you think that had anything to do with the Laztripol?”

Cordelia shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never had sex after I’ve taken it.”

“It’s weird. I mean I didn’t feel like it did anything to me, but I’ve had good sex with Ryan before and it was nothing like that.”

“Well, it did say in Dad’s paperwork that there were no sexual side effects. Maybe it enhanced your sexual experience like it enhances my mood.” Cordelia took another sip of coffee and placed the magazine on the coffee table then turned to face Lila. “Did Ryan say if he felt different sexually?”

“We didn’t talk about it. We took a shower when we were done and then went to bed. That’s the shower you heard when you got home. I was exhausted and so was Ryan. I think we both fell right to sleep.” Lila looked at Cordelia as if she was waiting for her to comment. “Oh, Ryan did cum twice. I mean, in a row. That’s never happened.”

Cordelia perked up. “Hmm. That’s interesting. I bet it was the Laztripol.” She smiled at Lila. “I’m glad you guys got something out of it.” She held her coffee mug out to Lila. Lila responded in kind and they clinked their mugs. “Here’s to intense orgasms.” They laughed and drank. “I’m also glad we’re okay.”

“Me too,” Lila said as she leaned forward and hugged Cordelia again. “I’m glad we can talk frankly like this.”

“Lila,” Ryan called from the bedroom.

“I better go see what he wants.”

Unbeknownst to Lila, Cordelia watched her exit the room; images through the slats of the louvered closet door playing like a porno in her mind.

§

“Lila,” said a voice from across the room. Lila was lost in thought, on the way to the bedroom to see Ryan. She almost thought it was he calling her name.

“Lila, honey,” said a voice that was unmistakably female and distinctly familiar.

Lila looked straight at the sound, blinked and could finally see. It was her mother’s voice she’d heard. She burst into tears as her mother sat down in the chair next to her, taking her into an embrace that only a mother can give.

“I got here as quickly as I could, honey,” Mrs. Hayward said to her daughter. “It’s just me. I told Dad to stay at home.”

Lila nodded her head. Her mother wiped away the tears from her daughter’s worn face.

“I brought you a change of clothes. I thought you might like to get out of that dress and put on a pair a jeans.”

Lila had been so lost in her thoughts and the prognosis of her friends that she’d forgotten that she was wearing a formal dress. As she looked at the jeans and t-shirt her mother was presenting her, she was thankful that no one had made her seem out of place wearing a glamorous, black 1940’s-style gown while sitting in the ICU waiting room.

Thornclyffe - Part 4

2011-06-23T09:53:00.000-04:00

§

Depressed is how she felt. She wasn’t clinically depressed; never had been; moody, yes, but not depressed. Come to think of it, how could she know what depressed felt like. She was just down, sad. Her life had changed so much since Lila and Ryan had started dating. She was still their friend and she loved hanging out with them individually, but life was different now. The possibility that she might end up with Ryan had been snatched away from her; removed from play if you will. Sure there were times when she thought about going into bitch mode and doing whatever she could to steal him away from Lila, or to at least break them up, but when it came right down do it she didn’t have it in her. She loved them both and was trying to find her own happiness in the world so as to not be so negatively affected by their happiness. And why would she waste the time trying to convince Ryan to love her when he clearly didn’t? It was such a waste of energy.

She knew she was a bitch. She played the game “How Much Of A Bitch Can I Be Before Lila Gets Mad At Me?” all the time. If this were her parents’ favorite game show, $25,000 Pyramid, and they were in the Winner’s Circle she would always be giving while Lila sat on the receiving end. She always pushed it to its limits, but ultimately she would do anything for Lila and it would kill her if their friendship ended.

It was summertime. She should be happy. She had just completed her junior year at Brown. She was home for the summer, living a life of leisure, yet she was moping around the house. Then she saw her dad’s briefcase. It peaked her interest immediately. She hadn’t seen her dad or her mom around, but that didn’t mean they weren’t home. Why would her dad’s briefcase be at home if he weren’t?

“Dad?” she called out then listened.

No reply. No sound.

“Dad? Mom?” again there was no answer and no sound.

She looked around the room just to make sure that her dad wasn’t asleep on the sofa or in the chair. No one was there. She went straight to the briefcase and opened it. She was hoping to find something inside that might help her take the edge off of her mood and raise it just a bit at the same time. At this below sea level elevation in Downerville she was ready to chew a couple of Pamprin just for the mood elevators. She was not disappointed.

There amongst the paper work was a black pouch. Out of curiosity Cordelia opened the pouch and saw five vials of clear liquid inside. She wondered what they contained. She put the pouch down and looked at the paperwork, searching for the answer.

Cordelia’s father worked in research and development at the Wynstat Pharmaceutical laboratories located just outside of Thornclyffe. He didn’t often talk with her about what was in development at Wynstat, but she had ways of finding out. She had heard him mention the word “Lazarus” to her mom in conversation once. She had gleaned another word from that same conversation – antidepressant – and filed it away in the back of her mind.

She searched the paperwork for any information on what the clear contents of the vials might be. There were notes and FDA papers containing information that she didn’t understand – or if she was honest, didn’t want to read – and then she saw it – Laztripol, nickname Lazarus. This was it, the antidepressant her dad had been developing.

Scanning the papers quickly she saw that it did not have FDA approval yet…blah, blah, blah…there was a list of the same side effects that accompanied other antidepressants – nausea, insomnia – but there seemed to be no sexual side effects (That’s a plus Cordelia thought to herself)…blah, blah, blah…she continued scanning down the page. Another thing that leapt off the page was the unknown side effects the drug might have on a person who actually doesn’t suffer from severe depression. All of the test patients had been those diagnosed with severe depression and had been suffering from it for at least a year.

Cordelia had no fear when it came to untested side effects; she loved a good drug. Any effect, adverse or otherwise, was good for her. If the side effect was negative she knew not to take that one again. She removed one of the vials from the black pouch and took it upstairs to her bathroom. She furiously searched her medicine cabinet for something she could transfer the contents into. She found an aspirin bottle with a screw top. She didn’t even know companies still made aspirin bottles with a screw top. She didn’t even know that aspirin bottle was in her medicine cabinet, let alone how long it had been there. She wondered what else was in that cabinet as she stared at the bottle.

She dumped the aspirin into the toilet and flushed them. She then washed the bottle clean of the aspirin dust, shaking as much water as she could from it. A little water never hurt anything. She opened the vial and smelled it. No smell. She then poured the liquid contents of the vial into the aspirin bottle and tightened the cap. She took the repurposed aspirin bottle into her bedroom and promptly put it into her purse.

She then took the vial back into the bathroom, filled it with water and replaced the cap. She took it downstairs and placed it back inside the black pouch in her dad’s briefcase. She knew he would find out quickly enough that one vial was not filled with Laztripol. So using her sneaky, conniving brain she made sure to not completely tighten the cap before putting it back in the pouch. She tried to replace the pouch as she had found it. The water was already starting to leak out of the vial before she closed the briefcase. She smiled a diabolical smile at her pure cunning for deception. As the Laztripol had no odor, her father would be none the wiser as to the fact that it was merely water, not the Laztripol that caused his papers to wrinkle as it dried. He would be pissed at himself or an assistant for not placing the cap on tight enough. She didn’t care about that.

She ran back upstairs with the vague memory of a former ear infection flicking in snap shots through her mind. The medicine was administered in her ear via dropper. She remembered her mom buying a set of droppers but they had used only one of them. She thought she must still have the other one somewhere.

She got down on her knees and began to search through the contents in the cabinet under her sink. There was toilet paper, tampons, half-empty lotion bottles, mouthwash, air deodorizer, cleaning products, a bottle of vodka in the back (I forgot all about this) and a small zip travel bag containing extraneous make up utensils and an unused dropper. She smiled and bit her bottom lip as she looked at. She all but threw everything back into the cabinet and shut the door.

She ran to her bed, grabbed her bag and pulled the aspirin bottle out of it. She unscrewed the cap and inserted the dropper. She squeezed the rubber tip and watch as the Laztripol was sucked up into the plastic tube. She opened her mouth and lifted up her tongue. She let one-drop fall under it then closed her mouth. Her father had always told her that any drug in liquid form, or tablet form that is chewed, enters the blood stream faster. All that was left was to wait and see what would happen, if anything.

No more than 20 minutes later, maybe even 15, she began to feel the tingle. It was like a slow blush creeping from her head downward – the thrill of inhaling Poppers while having a major orgasm at the same time. Even without having done so, she knew this was different, longer lasting; this was building with intensity. Her heart rate began to increase, but not excessively. Heat coursed through her body creating a euphoric sensation. Definitely different.

Lazarus, the person, rose from the dead, hence the nickname. Laztripol was to help people get back to living; people who heretofore had been walking through life almost zombie-like due to debilitating depression so severe that it’s painful. If all the drug did for depressed people was help their neurotransmitter’s function better so they could actually function then they would never know what they were missing. Cordelia’s brainwaves were feeling anything but down. She was experiencing the smoothest high she had ever experienced. She felt like she was gliding every time she took a step. She was also very aware of her body. Her faculties were completely in tact; she didn’t think she could fly. She had all the euphoric feelings of being high, without feeling out of control – every nerve ending felt alive. She knew exactly what was happening. It was amazing. She was high and aware at the same time. Her thoughts were clear. At that moment she couldn’t imagine there being another drug that would be any better than this one. The problem: how to keep a supply? She couldn’t worry about that. She just wanted to enjoy what she was feeling.

Her mood had lifted. She was better than ever. She wondered how long it was going to last. She wanted to call Lila and tell her about it, but thought better of it. All it would take was one of Lila’s less-than-happy judgmental looks and it would kill her buzz. Even over the phone she would hear that look. She wasn’t about to do that. She would find a way to slip the experience into a conversation, but at the moment all she wanted was to go outside in her parents backyard and lie in the grass and feel the warmth of the sun on her face. She didn’t need anything else – food, water, music or companionship. She was perfectly content with her own thoughts and the feel of the grass, fused with the warmth of the sun, on her skin.

After what felt like an hour of feathers and fingers running up and down her body, she sat up and spied the pool. She threw caution to the wind and undressed completely; jumped in nude. She didn’t care that it was the middle of the day. No one was home that she could tell, and no one could see her over the fence. She didn’t think it would matter to her even if they could. Her body was hot and she knew it. If someone could see her and wanted to look, so be it. The guttural sound that exploded from her mouth as she emerged to the surface of the water was almost inhuman. The cold water had never felt so good. She had tried other drugs before, but none of them had excited her body quite like Laztripol.

What luck to have stumbled upon her dad’s briefcase and to actually have found something in it worth finding. It was like the drug gods had planted it there for her and laid the path for her to find it, unobstructed.

§

Laztripol. Lila remembered the first time she had experienced it. Nothing had happened to her. Cordelia was so excited about it. It was her latest find; like an undiscovered designer with the perfect one-shouldered dress, but a drug in liquid form.

Lila was not one for drugs and Ryan wasn’t either. That’s what had surprised her so much when he said yes. He had smoked marijuana before and the two of them together had once tried ecstasy, but for the most part they didn’t partake in illegal substances. Lila was too freaked out about affecting her brain and Ryan just didn’t like the way they made him feel. Cordelia was the one; she enjoyed the mellow high of smoking marijuana and the neon-rave rolling sensitivity of being high on ecstasy. She was never afraid to try something new. Her mother’s medicine cabinet was a treasure trove of light blue topaz-colored Valium and Percocet, carnation pink sapphire-colored Xanax and opal-colored Vicodin and Ativan. Her father was always bringing some new drug home. The minute it was FDA approved and he thought his wife might benefit from it, he would bring home a sample; usually a bottle’s worth.

Ryan was an art history major at Brown. He wanted to open an auction house like Christie’s. The opportunity arose for him to actually tour Christie’s in New York City. It wasn’t so much that an opportunity arose as his father made a considerable donation to the auction house’s educational arm – Christie’s Education. After receiving his undergraduate degree from Brown, Ryan hoped to complete a Master’s Degree at the New York branch of Christie’s Education. He wanted to eventually work for Christie’s so that he could take his education and first-hand knowledge and open a venture of his own.

He invited Lila and Cordelia to go to New York City with him when he went to tour the facility. It would be a chance for the three of them to spend some time away from Thornclyffe and from campus life at Brown. He thought they could all use some time away. He hoped that they could reconnect as friends.

His family owned a penthouse on New York’s Upper East Side at 1212 Fifth Avenue. Actually they owned half of the 15th floor, in a 15 floor pre-war building. It had beautiful views of Central Park at 102nd Street and while the renovations had kept all of the charm of the pre-war structure, it was modern in every other way. With his mom and dad not using the penthouse, there would be no need for them to stay in a hotel. There would be no need for them to worry about anything. Ryan’s father had paid for the entire trip for the three of them.

It was their last summer before senior year at Brown and then life in the real world. This was only a weekend trip to New York City, but with all expenses paid, they wanted to have a good time, within reason.

Aside from the 2 hours it took Ryan to tour Christie’s and meet with members of the educational department, the weekend was theirs. They shopped on Madison Avenue spending most of their time in Crafton’s-on-Madison, an upscale boutique department store bringing together designer merchandise both current and vintage; they took in a Broadway matinee of the hit show Pine Valley, The All My Children Musical; they ate at fabulous restaurants like SpinCycle and Sakiloo. It felt like the old days again. They were laughing and having fun together. Cordelia and Lila were actually walking arm-in-arm. Lila remembered feeling a sense of happiness that she hadn’t felt in a long time. All cares in the world seemed to be nonexistent; all hurt feelings forgiven or at least pushed aside.

It was Saturday night. They had just eaten dinner at the new, hard-to-get-a-reservation French restaurant, Beurre Blanc, and had returned home for a disco nap and change of clothes before heading back out again to the gay club, Safety. Although none of them were gay, Safety was rumored to have the best dance club DJ in New York City. They wanted to blow off some steam. Their junior year had been grueling with classes focusing on their declared majors getting more intense. They weren’t going to have another trip to NYC like this until after they graduated, so why not have a good time?

This was the perfect opportunity for Cordelia to enlighten her two friends on the joys of Laztripol. She pulled out the vial and Lila was immediately skeptical.

“What is that?” she asked Cordelia, afraid of the answer.

“It’s called Laztripol. My father helped develop it.”

“So it’s a drug?” asked Lila with that look Cordelia hated so much.

“Yes, it’s a drug,” responded Cordelia.

“Does your father know you have it?” Lila couldn’t just go with the flow.

“No, Lila, he doesn’t know I have it,” answered Cordelia, trying not to let the questions get under her skin, but close to failing. “It’s for depression.”

“If it’s for depression, why do you have it?” Lila was confused, understandably so.

“Well, because if you’re not depressed it works differently in your brain,” Cordelia responded with a smile. “They nicknamed it, Lazarus. You know the saying “high on life”? They other two nodded. “It’s like that in liquid form. It makes all of your nerve endings tingle and it makes you love everything, but it doesn’t make you lose your wits. That’s the coolest thing. You’re completely in control. You don’t want to jump out the window because it doesn’t make you think you can fly. And you don’t want to chill on the sofa because it doesn’t mellow you out to the point of sleep. It also doesn’t affect you negatively in the sexual area.” Cordelia bit her bottom lip. It was a habit she’d picked up when she learned how to flirt.

Lila continued to look skeptical.

“It’s the smoothest high I’ve ever felt and I didn’t feel any strange side effects after. I woke up the next day after I took it the first time and felt like myself. There was no headache, no nausea, nothing. I wanted water, but that’s typical of me in the morning. If that was a side effect it’s no different that ecstasy.” Cordelia was working on the up sale. “I haven’t even felt like I needed it again. That’s not to say that I haven’t wanted it, but I haven’t needed it like an addict. I just wanted to feel the tingle again.”

“Isn’t wanting it just as bad as needing it?” asked Lila. “Aren’t you just substituting words?”

“God, Lila you can be such a bore sometimes. Do you have a hard time finding the granny panties you wear?” Cordelia responded, her fight to stay calm lost. “Try it. Don’t try it. I don’t care.” She was exasperated. “I’m going to use it before we go dancing. I think it’ll be amazing.”

Ryan had been complacent to the point that they’d forgotten he was in the room.

“I’ll try it, Cordelia,” said Ryan.

“Ryan,” said Lila as she turned towards him, her face a mystification of shock, betrayal and hurt.

“Lila, we’re here in the City tonight. We can take a cab home from the club. I don’t ever do anything like this. I want to give it a try. I’m with my two oldest friends. When could there be a better time?” He smiled at her. He would never pressure her to try it, but he hoped that she would.

Lila took a deep breath, exhaled. “Okay.” She took another breath, “Damn it,” and said, “Okay,” as she exhaled. “I’ll try it with you.”

Cordelia’s face erupted into a smile that couldn’t be contained. She actually clapped her hands as she ran for her purse.

“Okay, so I only did one drop when I took it the first time. It took about 15-20 minutes for me to feel anything.” She produced the aspirin bottle and dropper from within; opened the bottle and inserted the dropper. She was talking very fast, excitement taking over. “I put the drop under my tongue because – I don’t know why, I just did – so lets do it that way again. Are you guys ready?”

Lila looked at Ryan. He gave her his 100-watt reassuring smile and she turned back to Cordelia and both of them nodded their heads. Cordelia placed one drop of Laztripol under each of their tongues.

“Now all we have to do is wait.” She smiled as she gave herself a drop.

©2011 Michael Rohrer

Drift Away

2011-06-16T10:26:00.000-04:00

June 12, 2011

"The Island smiled on us all week and then turned cold and started raining as if to say GET OUT." Words from Neal as we waited to board our ferry back to the mainland and the reality of our lives.

The rain started the night before and continued throughout the night and into the morning of our departure. I slept like a baby, unaware of anything until I heard the rain on the roof and skylights as I began to drift toward consciousness from my dreams.

Instead of getting out of my comfortable bed immediately, I chose to lie there, covered to the chin, drifting in and out of shallow sleep, listening to the rain.

Rainy days can be sad and melancholy. End of vacation can be sad and melancholy. I must admit that as the house became decluttered of our belongings and the bags, previously stowed away in a closet or under a bed for the week, began to fill up again, I was a little sad. It's natural. I was also happy to be returning to my life with memories that I would keep forever.

The beautiful blue and green water from Monday's arrival had been replaced by murky gray water for our departure. Out the fogged window by which we sat I could see the choppy waves of an angry ocean. Okay, that's dramatic; let's call it agitated. We watched as Martha's Vineyard slowly became smaller, fading away from our distance. I couldn't help but smile. No one could take the experience away from me. Everything has to end, we just have to live in it fully while it's happening and know that we were present in every moment. Side note: we saw Beth’s parent’s house from the water as we passed. We could actually pick it out even at our distance from land. That was cool.

The ride was smoother than I had anticipated it being. From the Oak Bluffs ferry dock we watched our ferry bobbing in the water. When we boarded, we could feel the sway of the boat. Out in the Atlantic it didn't feel much different than our initial passage.

There we were, comrades in cars, all of us waiting to debark the ferry. Smiles and nods one to another. Some of us had been on the Vineyard for a week, some of us for just the weekend.

We had started listening to Grey Gardens The Musical the previous evening on the way to Vineyard Haven to see Super 8. We continued where we had left off as we drove to the ferry. It seemed only natural to finish the show now that we were off the ferry. It was the day of the 65th annual Tony Awards. Why not indulge in a good musical score?

We stopped at Duncan Donuts to pick me up a coffee now that we were back on the mainland. I’m a little unclear whether we were still in Woods Hole or had made it Falmouth. Really does it matter that much? I mean a Duncan is a Duncan. It’s been my experience every time I go to one that the coffee is too light and too sweet. This time didn’t disappoint. Well, it disappointed in that I don’t like it that light or sweet, but I did need/want the coffee so I’m going to shut up about it.

The drive to Boston was roughly an hour and half. Without giving Neal a choice, I pushed play on the cast album for the 1992 Tony winning Best Musical Crazy For You. Neal and I have a history with that show. We were doing summer stock together the year that it won the Tony and were completely obsessed with the Tony telecast performance that entire summer. We both saw the show in New York at the Shubert Theatre on Broadway, albeit separately. We’ve both performed in productions of the show (again separately) and had the time of our lives. It seemed like a no-brainer. We talked about our experiences with our respective productions and how brilliant we thought Susan Stroman’s choreography was for the original Broadway production. It was the second show I had ever seen on Broadway. It was the show that allowed me entrance to the Shubert Theatre where A Chorus Line had played for 15 years. I have a lot of great memories wrapped up in that show.

It song-and-danced us all the way to Boston

Back at Neal’s we unloaded the car and then went to Burger King for a little lunch. I remarked to Neal that fatty (talking about myself) was going to have to start walking to work across the Queensboro Bridge in order to rid my body of the crap that I allowed myself to consume during the week. Vacation is not an excuse to eat whatever you want. I just let myself believe that for about 7 days. Oh where was the person who chose the apple over the M&M’s at the beginning?

When all that day’s errands were completed (groceries, car rental return) Neal started doing laundry. He threw mine in with his. He was watching So You Think You Can Dance when not emptying the washer, starting the dryer or folding the clean clothes. I was hard at work writing about the amazing experience I had just lived for a week.

Then it was Tony Awards time. That time of the year when those of us who love theatre watch as the Broadway season’s best are honored for excellence. Well, sometimes it’s the best that are honored. Sometimes it’s the politically correct choice or the easy choice. Anyway, it was Tony time. I was excited, as I always am on this very special of nights. Living in NYC has made many of these telecasts all the more special as I’ve had the opportunity to see the shows, hear the gossip, etc.

This season I was particularly interested as the company I work for, Stage Entertainment USA, was represented with a Best Musical nomination for the “divine musical comedy” that is Sister Act The Musical. Most of us didn’t think it had a chance in hell against the blockbuster, runaway hit that is The Book of Mormon, but one could always hope.

When all was said and done, it was really a no-brainer, no major surprise kind of evening. The Book of Mormon took home 9 wins out their 14 nominations and Sutton Foster took home her second Tony Award for her performance in Anything Goes. All the predications came true. Anything Goes took Best Revival of a Musical and Kathleen Marshall took home the Tony Award for her choreography for Anything Goes. When things are too predictable it can be boring. Two other predicted wins also happened but were anything but boring. The Normal Heart, Larry Kramer’s play about the AIDS crisis at its beginning in the 80’s took home Best Play Revival and Ellen Barkin, making her Broadway debut in said play, took home the Tony Award for Best Featured Actress in a Play. Those two moments were predicted, but amazing. Then there was the surprise factor. Nikki M. James was so surprised to win the Tony Award for Best Featured Actress in a Musical for The Book of Mormon that her speech made me cry. Tears fell down my cheeks and dripped off my face. It was such a beautiful moment to watch a truly thankful, humbled actor accept an award for something she loves to do. The shocker of the evening for me came when Norbert Leo Butz won Best Actor in a Musical for his role in Catch Me If You Can. I didn’t see that one coming. One shocker in a night full of The Book of Mormon, The Book of Mormon, The Book of Mormon, Anything Goes, The Book of Mormon.

Ah well. I bet Sister Act still had one kickin’ party.

Super 8, Not the Motel

2011-06-16T10:08:00.000-04:00

June 11, 2011

It was a lazy day. The morning was overcast. There was a chance of rain all day. We really had no plans. We thought if it didn’t rain we might walk a hiking trail in Menemsha that led to a rocky beach, but the gray skies that greeted us that morning quickly moved that hike to the “to do” list for next time.

A gray day does not equal a bad day. This one was one of those perfect days to lie on the sofa and read, have an in-home spa day, see a movie. Neal and I did all of the above.

We seemed to rise early each day on the Vineyard. It didn't seem to matter how late we went to bed, the rise time was between 6:30 - 7:30 am. This day was no different. I came downstairs and made coffee. I was almost finished with my first cup when I heard Neal moving around. He came downstairs shortly thereafter. He exclaimed that he thought he was going to use his facial steamer. It was a day for beauty treatments.

I refilled my coffee cup and moved over to the loveseat, Dead Reckoning in one hand, the coffee cup in the other. I situated myself on the loveseat, covered my body with a throw and proceeded to enjoy the end of my book.

In the meantime, Neal had decided to start his beauty regimen. There were curlers and wax sticks flying everywhere. The hot wax machine was plugged in and turned to low for a slow melt of the wax. The pumice stones were set out, the hot oil treatments, the Nair, toenail polish and mud masks.

Okay, hardly any of that is true. Neal did use a pumice stone on his feat. He did take a long shower, shluffing and buffing the dry spots. He washed and conditioned his hair. Then he came downstairs and steamed his face.

While he was in the shower I managed to end my time in Bon Temps and proceeded upstairs to grab the second novel I had brought we me on the trip – The Distant Hours by Kate Morgan. I was half a chapter in when Neal appeared freshly exfoliated and pumiced. I thought I too should shower and try to pretty myself up. It was a hard decision to put down The Distant Hours at that moment though. I love it when a book can hook you right away. This one had me around its pinky. Not surprising though as I had so enjoyed Ms. Morton’s two previous novels, The House at Riverton and The Forgotten Garden.

My choice of spa treatment had to do with a facial scrub. I like the apricot scrub by St. Ives. I scrubbed my face then washed it with a gentle cleanser. It felt very smooth when I was finished. I completed the treatment by moisturizing my face. The cheeks had just enough pink to them for me to know that I had done something. The forehead felt smooth. The blood was flowing and the skin was hydrated. Done with my brief spa treatment I was anxious to get back downstairs and back to Edie and her discovery of the secrets of Milderhurst Castle.

Neal was covered in a rust colored mask when I got back downstairs. Upon close inspection, his lips blended in with the color of the mask. He had steamed then applied the mask while I showered. He was now ready to wash off the mask, rinse the conditioner from his hair and possibly steam his face again. We don’t take enough time for these moments in our lives.

At some point I managed to get dressed. I cannot for the life of me remember if I came downstairs fully dressed after my shower or if I got dressed later. I do know that I plopped myself back on that loveseat and continued reading my book. Neal joined me soon after to lie on the sofa and read his own book – The Appeal by John Grisham.

Okay so it’s gray outside, we had pampered ourselves and we were being very lazy (not a bad thing on a vacation). I noticed Neal’s breathing had changed. I intended to glance over at him, but I held my gaze. His finger was on a spot in his book as if he were following along, but he wasn’t moving. I continued to stare, taking in the picture. He had fallen asleep. I decided what the hell and closed my book and joined him. I kind of just rested my eyes for about 5 minutes. I never really went to sleep. He stirred and looked at me, I smiled, he didn’t smile back; he hadn’t really seen me. He was still asleep. His eyes closed again. About 5 minutes later he stirred and did come to complete consciousness. It was almost time for us to depart for Vineyard Haven and the 4 pm showing of Super 8.

We arrived at the Capawock Theater on Main Street with 30 minutes to spare. The sky decided that now was the time to wring the clouds of their moisture and dampen us with its droplets. No bother, we had umbrellas. We bought our tickets ($7 each, must be matinee pricing) and then proceeded to a store called Off Main where I had seen some blue bottles that had peaked my interest on Friday. We went inside and I purchased two of them. I’ve wanted a blue glass vintage seltzer bottle for quite sometime, but haven’t managed to find one. I mean I’ve seen them online, but I want to be able to hold it in my hand and inspect it myself. I decided that the blue bottles I had seen on Friday fit the bill for the color I wanted, and I needed a blue bottle fix, so I just did it. On our way back to the movie theatre we stopped in another store, Bespoke Abode, when bottle on display caught my eye. It turned out to be green and not exactly what I was looking for, but on the way out the door Neal saw a different shade of blue (maybe cornflower?) bottle than what I had previously purchased. I decided to get that one as well. My souvenirs from Martha’s Vineyard were destined to be bottles in varying shades of blue.

Oh my God Super 8 was so much fun. We were in a tiny theater that you could tell was very old. It had one center aisle with approximately 210 seats. There weren’t many of us inside for the 4 pm showing, but more than I thought might be there. I guess the rain caused others to think of this day as a movie day. I am leery of going to the movies. It’s hard to find a time when you can actually watch the movie in peace. People just don’t respect each other anymore at the movies. Cell phones and smart phones changed everything. My brief stint on the east side of midtown Manhattan was the only place where people didn’t pull out their cell phones constantly. Maybe it’s because they’re an older crowd. I don’t know. I know that I loved going to the movies over there. Back to Vineyard Haven and the Capawock, there was a row of four people about 5 rows in front of us across the aisle and each of them had their phones out. A man two rows behind them had his phone out. Even the two older gentlemen two rows in front of us pulled out a cell phone. I was nervous. Seriously. I was hoping that the Vineyard moviegoers might be like those on east side, but I was becoming more skeptical and afraid that I was mistaken. Let me add here that after Neal and I had chosen our seats, four adolescent, unaccompanied by and adult, boys sat behind us. I was nervous. I wondered if we shouldn’t move. Then the lights went down and something magical happened. All the cell phones were turned off and actually stowed. If any of them came out during the movie I never saw it happen. That’s difficult to conceal with a big light up screen. That leads me to believe no one brought them out. As for the boys behind us, I loved them. We were watching a movie that had four boys and a girl, junior high age – I would say roughly their own ages – as its leads. Our boys were amazing. They added to the atmosphere of the picture. They were respectful and delightfully perfect.

At one point, a rather dramatic moment in the movie I might add, the film broke. The screen went black. One of the boys behind us in a very high-pitched voice said, “What” with a fantastic inflection on the end. I couldn’t help but laugh. It took about five minutes to get the film going again. People brought out there phones during the down time, but promptly stowed them again when the movie started. I’ve had only one other film break on me before. Actually it melted. It was Eyes Wide Shut; a terrible film that my sister and her husband wanted to depart upon melting. I refused. It was wretched, but I had to see it through to completion.

Super 8 was the opposite of wretched. It was exciting and funny and exhilarating and more than I ever expected it to be. It’s the movie I will recommend all summer without one thought to any of the super hero tent pole movies that will be opening over the course of various Friday’s during the next two months. Neal said that his husband Stephen had described it as feeling like an old Spielberg movie on par with Close Encounters of the Third Kind or E.T. I had to agree. It was like The Goonies meets Stand By Me meets E.T. If you’re reading this and you haven’t seen it just go see it and you’ll see what I’m talking about. It’s 1979 and the attention to detail is superb. I was 8 that year. It was a nostalgia trip worth taking and a story worth watching.

After we left Vineyard Haven we drove into East Chop to visit with one of Neal’s coworkers, Beth. Her family has a home on the Vineyard. It’s near the East Chop lighthouse and only a few doors away from the house used as Chief Brody’s house in Jaws. The house owned by Beth’s family has been in their family for at least 4 generations. I may be mistaken about that, but I believe the home belonged to Beth’s father’s great-aunt. He barely knew her, but she left it to him in her will. He wasn’t even old enough to occupy the house. It’s a little convoluted to me, I mean we did drink some wine while sitting at the house, but I do know that there is a photo of Beth’s father as a little boy, on the Vineyard, breaking a bottle of champagne over his grandfather’s boat. There is history in that house. Her family has history on the Vineyard. You could feel in while inside the house. The small rooms, the old wood floors, the low ceilings, the smell heightened by the damp air; it was amazing. And their view, ridiculous. I asked Beth if they ever took it for granted. She chuckled. I compared it to my former yellow bedroom. I loved it. I woke up with a smile every day when I opened my eyes and saw those yellow walls. She smiled. She said it does not get old, the looking out the windows and seeing the magnificent Atlantic Ocean across the street. We would all have to be bitter and dead inside if looking at that body of water got old.

After finishing off our bottle of Zinfandel, we took a few minutes for Beth to show us their collection of fossilized clamshells and their collection of sharks’ teeth. The shells were intriguing, but the teeth were incredible. Some of them were huge. I was fascinated and a little freaked out.

When we left the house to go to dinner in Oak Bluffs, we drove past what was used as Chief Brody’s house. The house has since been remodeled and looks nothing like how it did in the film. Beth had a hard time remembering between which two houses it actually was. No matter. I’ve been in front of it regardless of not knowing exactly which one it was. I won’t lie. I would like to know which one it was, but I was there and that’s interesting too.

Dinner was in Oak Bluffs on Circuit Ave. We chose Thai food. It was good. I’ve had better. The conversation was enthusiastic. Overall, the night was a pleasure. Being at Beth’s parent’s house was second in excitement only to Super 8.

We dropped Beth back at her parents’ house and drove back to our cottage and began the inevitable process of packing. We had actually lived in our cottage for the week; really lived. We had used the drawers and the closets and the refrigerator. Of course, emptying those storage spaces and packing the items back in our luggage didn’t take that long. It’s easy. Throw out the disposable keep the necessary.

With all the clothing except the next day’s outfit packed, the dishes washed and in the drainer, the perishable food placed in a bag in the trash, I rejoined Edie and continued learning about the Blythe family of Milderhurst Castle. Soon enough sleep took over and the same paragraph I had read 3 times continued to make no sense.

Candle extinguished, lights out.

Relax, There's No Sunset or Shark

2011-06-16T09:32:00.000-04:00

June 10. 2011

The storms of the previous night had once again washed the Vineyard clean and cleared away the previous day’s heat, not that there had been much of it. The air smelled fresh and the sky was blue.

I awoke around 6:30 am. I wouldn’t get up though. I continued to lie in bed for another hour, drifting in and out of sleep. I had been so tired from the bike ride we’d taken that I remembered turning the light next to my bed off slightly before 10 pm. Unheard of for me. I’m a midnight/1 am kind of guy most of the time.

So when I did get up I went straight to the sliding door in my bedroom and pushed the curtain to the side and the opened the door. I took in the gorgeous blue sky and the sound of the birds chirping. I breathed deep the floral smell that surrounded my cottage.

I made my way downstairs and began opening doors those as well. The cross breeze in the cottage was amazing. I wished I could get one that nice and refreshing in my own home in Astoria.

While I was enjoying my first cup of coffee Neal came downstairs to greet the morning. He had fallen asleep even earlier than I. It was a lazy Friday morning for both of us. He went outside to the side porch and laid in the sun while I took my second cup of coffee upstairs to my own deck in order to continue reading of Sookie and her vampire friends’ plan to kill one of their enemies in Dead Reckoning. I turned my chair to face the sun, felt the cool breeze on my body, enjoyed my cup of coffee and lost myself in Bon Temps and Shreveport for another chapter.

By the end of that chapter the cool breeze made me wish for a blanket. It was downstairs and I just couldn’t be bothered to go down there and get it. So I moved inside my room where an almost too comfy chair and ottoman sat near enough the door that I could still feel the breeze. Being inside kept me from being as chilled as I was outside and I continued reading another chapter. Not sitting on the subway or in bed getting ready for sleep is such a nice change for reading a book. I don’t take enough time to read outside of those situations. I can say that we had only turned the television on once by this point in the vacation; also a welcomed change.

This was the day that we drove to Vineyard Haven. It was massage day. Yes, you heard me right, massage day. I had never had one and being on vacation on Martha’s Vineyard seemed the perfect excuse to finally indulge. It was perfect timing too as we had ridden our bikes approximately 25 miles the previous day.

Neal booked me an hour massage and booked him an hour and a half. He’s been 40 since October so he needed a little extra time to work out the knots. My massage therapist’s name was Sandra. She explained how everything worked i.e. tell me if it’s too hard or too soft. She listened to me talk about my problem areas i.e. left slide lower back, right side shoulder blade and neck. That right side problem is from the previous day’s baptism in the Atlantic. I woke up that morning with a sore neck. Hello Sandra, work out my seizing kinks. So we’ve established that this was my first massage. Lets establish that I was nervous. Not about it being painful or anything, but about being naked on the table. Sandra told me I could wear as much or as little as I chose. I knew going in that Neal was going to fully disrobe. This wasn’t his first time. My biggest fear: erection. Now, I know that a massage therapist is used to men getting erections on the table. I have no idea why I was so concerned. I later admitted to Neal that I was also concerned about being so relaxed that I passed gas. Okay, so both of those things are ridiculous and are geared more towards me embarrassing myself than the massage therapist being embarrassed. I’m a dumb ass sometimes. I’m aware.

I chose to disrobe fully and experience the experience. It was truly amazing. I was knotted in more places than I was even aware. I just continued to breathe through it concentrating on relaxing. If I ever felt a tinge of movement down south I just repeated to myself she’s a woman, she’s a woman, she’s a woman. I kept an erection at bay the entire time. I didn’t feel the need to pass gas ever. I lost all concept of time. The hour was over before I knew.

Sandra had some good advice for me as far as stretching my chest in order to help release the knotted tension that I carry in my shoulders. She told me I needed to drink a lot of water for the rest of the day and provided me with my first cup herself. She was great. Honestly, I would go back to her in a heartbeat.

When I pulled out my money to pay, I was told that the bill had already been paid. They asked me if I knew someone named April. Of course, that’s my sister. It was only after Neal was finished that I learned he and April had conspired behind my back in order for her to provide me with a gift on the Vineyard. Once we had made our massage reservations, Neal had given my sister the information and she had called ahead and paid for mine. It was all presented to me on a card when I got there, but I hadn’t really paid that much attention to the card so I didn’t even register whom “April” was.

Post massage and glistening from the massage oil we were both hungry. It was time for lunch. We looked around Main Street, Vineyard Haven and settled on Waterside Market. It wasn’t on the water, but it had an open air feel about it and sandwiches as big as our heads. Truly, Neal and I each got the Farmhouse sandwich - grilled chicken breast, maple pecan goat cheese, spinach, bacon and onion jam on ciabatta. I got mine without the bacon. We each had to have half of the sandwich wrapped to go. Paying once and getting two meals isn’t such a bad deal.

I have to admit right now that in the previous post I was a little hasty in writing off Vineyard Haven. My words, “To me Vineyard Haven was nothing to write home about. It wasn’t as quaint as Oak Bluffs or Edgartown.” I judged too quickly; misjudged is more like it. We had ridden our bikes on the outskirts of a village that turned out to be simply lovely and just as quaint as Edgartown. We drove to the West Chop lighthouse. It was on private property so we admired it from the Jeep. Imagine having a lighthouse in your backyard. We continued our drive down a now one-way street – trees arched overhead to form a canopy – lined with some of the most gorgeous cottages we’d seen so far. Dare I dream that a cottage on Martha’s Vineyard is a possibility? Dare to dream. Dream the impossible dream. Just keep dreaming. Don’t dream it be it.

In a previous post, From Clear Blue to Cumulus, I mentioned the Flying Horses Carousel. It was open from 4 pm – close (between 8 & 10 pm) Friday through Sunday. That meant that on this day we could actually see it and ride it. We drove into Oak Bluffs and parked our Jeep. We had an hour to kill. We did so by going to Mad Martha’s Homemade Ice Cream. Neal loves ice cream and I was indulging myself so what the hell. I got Vanilla with Reese’s this time. Neal got Cookie Dough. Now I can’t remember what they were really called. Mine was something like Reese’s Cream and Neal’s was maybe Loads of Dough. Who knows? I didn’t focus on the name so I don’t remember it. Shoot me. Neal thought the ice cream we had gotten at Ben & Bill’s Chocolate Emporium was better. My friend Rob who had suggested Ben & Bill’s had also said it was better than Mad Martha’s. I was eating a vanilla based ice cream as opposed to a chocolate based so it was hard for me to compare. Apples and oranges. Fat is fat!

We passed the rest of our hour by playing skeeball – 9 games each to be exact. I started out great with a couple of 10,000-point holes in my first round but quickly fell to average. Neal, a competitor by nature, was so happy when he surpassed my high score. I ended up with 58 tickets and Neal ended up with 83. He was the victor after all. I hadn’t played skeeball in years. I must admit that I had a great time even if I did lose. I’m a competitor also.

Onto The Flying Horses – the oldest operating carousel in our country. It was $2 a ride. I bought two tickets. We only had to wait in line for one ride before it was our turn. We used that time to watch as people reached for the brass ring. You see there was an arm with a ring at the end for the outside and inside horse riders. There is one brass ring in each arm. That’s a chance for two people to get a free ride. When it was our turn, Neal and I chose the outside horses, as we are big boys. I missed grabbing a ring once. Neal chastised me for missing a brass ring opportunity. Take note here, Michael – opportunity is not a lengthy visitor. I couldn’t tell you the last time I actually rode a carousel. Now I can say it was June 10, 2011, and that it was the oldest operating carousel in our country. Is there anything better to access your inner child than a carousel? Maybe there is, but for me The Flying Horses was all access.

I had asked Wendy, the receptionist at the Center for Therapeutic Massage (that’s where we got our massages) about Jaws. I had to be a tourist and ask the dumb tourist question. I do love that movie. I knew going in that it was filmed on Martha’s Vineyard. I didn’t want to leave without seeing if I could recognize some of the areas used in the film. She said that Vineyard Haven had not really been used. She thought it was mostly Edgartown, Chappaquiddick Island and Menemsha as well as State Beach. I think a little South Beach might be in there too, but I’m not sure.

We had gone to Menemsha on the 8th and had actually seen the buoy in the water that Sandra thought was the one used for the dinging sound. Wendy also thought Menemsha Harbor was the harbor used in the movie. As for downtown Amity, we hadn’t found that yet. I kept thinking I would recognize it. I asked Neal if we’d been to the main drag of Edgartown. He thought we had. When we were on our way back to our cottage we discovered a road toward Edgartown Center that we had yet to take. As soon as we turned onto Main Street I knew I was there. I’m sure businesses have changed in the 35 years since Jaws filmed on Martha’s Vineyard, but it felt like what I remembered. I had to smile and I think I might have clapped.

Later that night, we pulled into the Menemsha Harbor parking lot and there they sat, all the people who, like us, had come to see the sunset over the Atlantic. My friend Rob had mentioned that people order lobster in “to go” boxes and take them to the beach to eat and wait for the ball of light to drop below the horizon. The white boxes covered many laps as people sat on the railing separating the parking lot from the beach or on beach chairs, waiting.

The evening was cloudy, but we wanted to see what we could see. How many chances do you get? It ended up being something we would leave on our “to do” list as the cloud coverage was just too much to allow the glorious colors of sunset to break through.

Standing on the same jetty as we had on my birthday, the sky was steely grey and the water was relatively calm, waves gently lapping at the shore. The dinging of the bell on the buoy in the water was both solitary and haunting. This was after all where the Orca sat sail in search of that infamous great white. I was walking back towards to parking lot when Neal called me back for the perfect final visual. As the waves rolling into the pond connected with the outgoing tide, swirls were created in the water. At just the right height said swirls created what appeared to be a shark fin.

Cue music.

There's Got to be a Morning After

2011-06-15T22:34:00.000-04:00

June 9, 2011

Last night there was a storm. It came and went just as quickly as an Internet hook-up. It was literally upon us and gone in an hour. I was already in bed, reading Dead Reckoning when the lightening started. There was no audible thunder at that time, just lightening. Sookie Stackhouse was also in the middle of a storm, as the one I was getting ready to experience in real life was approaching. It made the best ambience for reading that particular chapter. Anyway, the room in which I slept in our cottage had cathedral-style ceilings with exposed beams and two skylights mirroring each other on the angled ceiling. It was amazing lying in bed watching as the lightening lit up the sky. Slowly the thunder started rumbling, as the storm got closer to the Vineyard. Then it was upon us. The rain was pelting the windows. I wanted to run to Vampire Bill and hold his naked body close to mine. Not that I was scared, but because it would be romantic. Hell, it would be hot! Then I remembered I was human and real and Vampire Bill and Sookie were fictional characters. I just lay there and enjoyed the sounds. And then it was over. No more lightening, no more thunder, no more rain. It had moved on from us mere mortals.

When I awoke, I slid open the door that led to the deck off of my bedroom. After 2 days I already had a routine. I was greeted with the intoxicating morning smell of fresh rain and flowers. My piece of world had been washed clean and the washing left no residue, only nature’s fresh scent. I just stood there and inhaled deeply; “In with the good, out with the shit.” What a place to be for a week. There was no keeping the smile from my face.

On the Vineyard instead of having your Chinese food delivered you have your rental bike delivered. Just a quick call to Edgartown Bike Rental with our address, our height’s and a credit card number and all that was left was to wait. Taking a page from the Dominoes delivery book, the bikes were at our house in less than 30 minutes. They didn’t say they would be, but that didn’t change the fact that they were. I hadn’t ridden a bike in years. I told the deliveryman thus. His response, “It’s like riding a bike.” I’m pretty sure you don’t use that phrase to describe riding a bike, but it did elicit a smile from me.

Well, it is just like riding a bike. I was nervous at first – afraid: a) I was going to fall off, b) not be able to steer it straight, c) steer it off the curb of sidewalk or d) fall over into an oncoming car. I’m nothing if not dramatic. I did fine. I got better and more confident as the day progressed. That was the problem, you see, my lack of confidence that I would be able to do it. By the end of our ride I was no Lance Armstrong, but I was a better Michael Rohrer than when I started. Neal said as we made our final turn onto our road that I was “transformed”. It was exhilarating, the sense of freedom I felt throughout the course of the day as we rode.

We left the house shortly after 10 am and rode to South Beach. That’s the same beach to which we had walked 2 days earlier. It’s about two miles from our cottage. If you know me, and readers of the blog surely you do by now, I had to use the bathroom by the time we got there. I had gone twice before we started, but somehow managed enough liquid in my system to have to go again by the time we rode the two miles. Lord help me I think it’s nerves or something, but don’t cry for me, there were stalls at the beach so I emptied my bladder and we were back on the road.

Instead of returning on the same stretch of road we had just ridden, we looped back around towards Edgartown on a road that ran parallel to the beach. There were dunes between the beach and us, but at low points in the dunes we could see straight out into the water. It wasn’t as magnificent a view as the people in the homes to our left must have had, but it was still nice to be able to see the water as we rode.

Once we made it into Edgartown we took a moment to walk through an old cemetery that we had to pass everyday on the way to and from our cottage. I’m fascinated by old cemeteries. It’s history. On an island this old, gothic headstones covered with yellow moss are a lot of history. Many of the men were Captain’s. One woman’s headstone named her as “the widow of” and then listed her husband’s name, not even her own. Neal pointed out that her identity was completely wrapped up in being his wife. There were small headstones belonging to children. One gravestone in particular named both mother and child, buried together having perished on the same day. There was no husband/father buried next to her. Neal romanticized that maybe he had died at sea and there was nothing to bury. That’s an interesting idea except that I had seen a headstone that read “lost at sea”. I’m assuming there was nothing in the earth below it but an empty coffin, if that. It made me wonder if the woman in question had never married the father of her child or if he remarried after her death and was buried with that wife. Whatever the stories of these former inhabitants of the Vineyard, they had once lived there and they had died there. History.

We got back on our bikes and continued our ride down-island towards Vineyard Haven. We had yet to explore that part of the Vineyard so it seemed natural to take the adventure since we had the bikes until 5 pm.

My legs began to feel the burn when we got about halfway to our destination. I had not sufficiently trained on the stationary bike at my gym to prepare for the up/down terrain of Martha’s Vineyard. I was a trooper though. I didn’t let achy quads deter me from riding that bike as long and as far as we wanted to.

Side note: We stopped a little over half way to Vineyard Haven and watched as packages fell out of the back of a UPS truck. Oncoming traffic got the truck driver’s attention while a gentleman heading in the same direction as the UPS truck stopped and began to move the boxes out of the road. Neal and I helped with that transfer. The passenger side rider of the UPS truck joined us for the removal of packages from the street. She said, “That’s not something you see every day is it?” You know, it’s not. And people helping each other is not something you see every day either. At least not in NYC. No one was angry. No one was honking at the stopped vehicle whose driver was helping. I noticed a lot that the walkers and the bikers said “good morning” or “hello” to each other, to us. I started doing it myself. What a nice feeling. We don’t do things like that in NYC. I do it sometimes in my neighborhood, but I’ve moved to a street where people know each other and have been living there for years. I need to say “hello” more.

Back on the road, we continued our trek to Vineyard Haven. I think it was coasting down a hill on this leg of our ride that I really began to feel the freedom. I had a bike helmet on and even if I hadn’t my hair is too short for the wind to whip, but I swear the wind would have been whipping my hair. I felt kind of like a child. I used to love riding my bike in the neighborhood where I grew up. Coasting down hill was the best. I used to clothespin curtains or sheets around my neck and let them billow in the wind behind. It was that kind of feeling I had as we rode in the breeze.

There were areas on the road to Vineyard Haven that were strewn with dried pine needles. That took me back. When I was younger than 7-years old my mother’s parents lived one lot over from my granddaddy’s uncle. We called him Uncky and his wife was Aunt Anna. As a child her name registered as Ananna. I’m assuming people called her Ain’t Anna. Uncky and Ananna had a grand daughter, Crystal, who had been born one day before me. She lived in Louisville. We always made it a point to see each other when she was in Arlington. They had many towering, large Pine trees in their back yard. I remember the look of all those needles and pinecones on the ground, as well as the smell. Oh the smell. What a powerful sense smell is. Smelling the dried pine needles on our ride took me back to the tree house that was built amongst those trees. I loved it. Uncky and Ananna are dead now and that tree house does not exist anymore. I haven’t been behind their former house in years, but on this day I was surely there in my memory.

To me Vineyard Haven was nothing to write home about. It wasn’t as quaint as Oak Bluffs or Edgartown and it didn’t have the hillside cottages of the Aquinnah area. We continued on the bike route toward the area known as East Chop in order to see the East Chop lighthouse.

Located on Telegraph Hill, the lighthouse stood at the center of attention. On the day we saw her she was getting a fresh coat of white paint. We took a stroll across the small park to a fence that allowed us to look out over the vast Atlantic from a different vantage point than we had seen thus far.

Back on our bikes, we continued on East Chop Road until we ended up in Oak Bluffs. By our estimation we had ridden 15-16 miles. It was time for a little lunch. We chained our bikes to the bike rack and proceeded to the front porch of Island Bar & Grill, a restaurant connected to Island House Hotel. It was nothing spectacular, but we were hungry and needed a place to rest our weary legs and asses from the bikes. Also, they had outdoor seating, which was a plus for both of us.

A burger, a wrap, and a couple of beers later we were ready to get back on the road. One more errand to run before doing so. I had to buy a postcard for the guys in my box office back in NYC. One of them in particular requests a postcard every time one of the other three of us goes away for vacation. I had never sent one. This trip seemed the perfect time to rectify that situation. Postcard purchased and mailed now back to the bike.

As soon as we started my legs began to burn again. Wouldn’t you know it, we were also now cycling into a headwind. Damn. I was huffing and puffing with no house to blow down. I was just pushing through the pain. My legs were screaming. What that respite on the Island House front porch did was give me a false sense of recovery.

We peddled the bike route that ran along State Beach from Oak Bluffs to Edgartown. The plan that morning when we departed had been to stop at State Beach on the way back, so we had worn our swimming trunks and had packed flip-flops and beach towels. When we hit the bike route in front of the beach we made a decision to ride until we were almost past the beach before pulling over. That way we would have less road to cover in wet trunks to get back to our cottage. Ya gotta have a plan.

Bikes locked to a fence by the road, socks stowed in sneakers, flip-flops on, we headed to the beach. By this point it was between 3:30/4 pm; we’d been gone since shortly after 10 am that morning. It was a full day of riding.

We hit the beach and I prepared myself for the cold water that awaited me. I was apprehensive, but determined to fully immerse myself in the Atlantic. Neal suggested an old trick he learned as a former lifeguard – splash water on your face and chest as your brain and heart are the organs that have the most powerful reaction to the temperature. We did and then it was time. On the count of three Neal dove and I held my nose and went under. All we could do was laugh. Muscles on the right side of my back, as well as in my neck, seized. I was certain my scrotum would be as small as if I’d been on steroids (George Costanza anyone?) but my teeth didn’t chatter and I realized that now that the first submerge was over, we were used to the temperature. We did it again. Then we walked out of the water and sat on the beach. As my body warmed a bit, my muscles relaxed. Then it was back into the water. We took pictures and submerged one more time. How often do you get the opportunity? We had to seize the moment (just like my muscles) and run with it.

We dried off, got back to the bikes, changed shoes, stowed everything back in our respective backpacks and began the last leg our trip. Isn’t that always the leg that seems the hardest? The cold water had been shocking to our bodies, but it had also been good for the aching muscles of our legs. When we started to peddle both of us felt better. It didn’t take long though to feel the burn again. The cold Atlantic bath was but a small reprieve.

We made it through Edgartown – through the traffic that stopped for cyclists, through the beautiful, quiet neighborhoods where no cars were on the street, past the cemetery and onto the final stretch of Pease Point Way. We peddled on Herring Creek Road before turning onto Meeting House Way ever so briefly then home at the end of Sutton Way.

It was 4:30 pm. My legs were tired. It was a good tired, but they were tired. My sits bones felt bruised. There’s a reason they call it blazing saddles. We rode an estimated 24-25 miles; reason enough for the fatigue and the blaze.

Both of us chose to take advantage of the outdoor shower post ride. The breeze was cool and the warm water felt amazing. I stood in the completely private outdoor shower and washed the sweat of the bike ride and the salt of the cold Atlantic from my body. It was incredible. I’ve never been in an outdoor shower. It was freedom having the breeze whip around my naked body.

Our plans to drive to Menemsha and watch the sunset were scrapped as the sky began to darken and the wind began to change. Rumblings of thunder preceded the weather that we knew was inevitable. We went upstairs to the balcony off of my room and watched the storm clouds roll in. We acted like we had never seen a storm before. It was spectacular to be out there as the wind picked up even more and the dark clouds moved over us. The previous night had ended with a storm and so had this one.

I slept well.

Dawning 40

2011-06-15T08:26:00.002-04:00

June 8, 2011

Have you ever noticed how when you set an alarm clock, when you normally don’t set an alarm clock, that you don’t sleep as well? I know for myself it’s because I’m afraid I’ll oversleep or that I didn’t really turn the alarm on. So is the case for the morning in question. Staying in a vacation rental with an alarm clock that I not only didn’t want to set, but had never set before had me waking multiple times during the night – 1:30 am, 3 am. That alarm went off at 4:15 am and I grudgingly dragged myself out of bed with a small headache and a parched mouth. I can say I was thankful to end the dream I was having: convincing my mother, portrayed in the dream by Margo Martindale, I had never paid for sex. I don’t know what that was about. Nor do I know why my “mother” would say, “I don’t want to hear this, especially on the morning of your 45th birthday.” After that “45th birthday” comment I had to wake up and wake up fast. My dream mother aged me by 5 years.

It was the morning of my 40th birthday and Neal and I had chosen that morning to watch the sunrise. It was the dawning of a new decade for me; why not watch the dawning of a new day?

I am regular. If you think I mean a regular guy you are mistaken. I am definitely walking to the beat of my own drummer. In speaking of regularities I’m referring to my bowels. I never thought after 6 hours of sleep or at 4:30 in the morning I would be ready to go to the bathroom. Wrong! The sun was supposed to rise at 5:09 am. We were parked and waiting for it to happen by 4:50 am. As the sky started pinking, we got out of the Jeep. Mistake. My body started to come alive just as all the insects and rabbits and birds were coming alive to start the new day. I found myself in pain; so intense at times that I wanted to double over. I realize I don’t know what labor pains are like, but I wondered if I shouldn’t try the breathing exercises women use to get through contractions. Funny that it was the 40th anniversary of my birth that I was in such pain. Hope that wasn’t payback for what I put my mom through.

We had to drive back to our cottage earlier than we had anticipated. I must admit that sitting was better, but not by much. I was on edge. I was trying to hold it all together, and in, as best I could. When we got home I ran up the stairs and promptly shut the bathroom door and turned on the fan. Relief!! The headache was now the only annoying, persistent glitch in my way-too-early morning. I took two Excedrin and promptly went back to bed.

Three hours later I emerged from the cocoon of my bed ready to face the morning and my birthday. I was in a surprisingly good mood. Forty had not hit me nearly as hard as I thought it would. Hell, 39 hit me harder. I came downstairs proclaiming that it was my birthday and that I was 40. I am Michael hear me Rohrer. I can kick and stretch and I can kick.

Neal brought out a blue Tiffany and Co. bag that had my chin drop to the floor. He laughed. I laughed. He said the contents were not from Tiffany. There was a bottle inside with the word Wisdom and its recipe etched on it (contains knowledge, understanding, patience, intuition, and a dash of skepticism). It is a companion to the bottle he gave me for Christmas with the word Dream and its instructions etched on it (drink deeply and believe). There was also a necklace in the bag with a beautiful blue glass pendant that Neal bought for me the week before in Germany. My last name is German. Seems fitting that I have a gift from Germany, right?

I always feel that my birthday is not complete until I speak to my mom. She called me shortly after I opened my gifts from Neal. I spoke to her about the morning so far and about what Neal and I had done the previous day. Hearing “happy birthday” and “I love you” from my mom on my birthday makes me so happy. The smile creates a warm feeling of being loved that floods my body and soul.

Now to Aquinnah. Formerly known as Gay Head (insert comments here), Aquinnah is known for its brightly colored Gay Head Cliffs. Also there is the Gay Head lighthouse. As we drove up-island, a nautical term for west, it seemed to take forever to get to our destination. It wasn’t that it was so far from where we were staying; the speed limit was slower and the terrain was hillier. Speaking of said hills, they were beautiful and green. The homes hidden within dotted the landscape like white lights on a Christmas tree. From the heights that we reached as we drove we had awesome views of the water full of boats.

I don’t know if it is because of the hilly terrain, but there were many rugged, undeveloped areas with breathtaking views. By far, this drive had given us the best of those so far.

Upon arrival, we went to the observation deck that afforded us not only a view of the Atlantic, but also a fantastic view of those clay cliffs and the lighthouse. Again, I stood and breathed the air as I focused my camera on everything around me.

We then walked the trail that led to the beach. It was all down hill and quite a distance. The beach was lovely, albeit different than State Beach or South Beach. For one thing it was rockier. For another, it had a nude section. We entered the beach, removed our shoes and socks and started walking in the direction of the lighthouse. We wanted to see the cliffs from the beach vantage point where we had just seen them from above at the observation deck. As we walked I happened to look to my right. I guess I was going to say “hello” or give some kind of acknowledgement to the sunbathers we were passing. That’s when I saw it – nakedness. Full frontal, just enjoying the day. A man and a woman. We had crossed the invisible line onto “Jungle Beach”, one of the few remaining nude beaches in our country. We continued to walk. Neal hadn’t even noticed. I noticed every single nude body on that beach (truth: there were less than 10). Each one belonged to an older person. Not my cup of tea. Then the nude-beach-gods smiled down on me and presented me vision of a guy that was just my type. The sad part was he was lying on his stomach. The happy part was he was cute and so was his butt.

We had put our sneakers on sans socks at one point due to the large rocks we had to walk on. Walking back I got doused with a small wave that I didn’t seem to be able to outrun. Eventually, the shoes came off again as we were walking on sand. We carried our shoes with us as we walked back up the trail that would take us to our car. This was a painful situation. Not only were there small rocks on that trail, more than half of it was covered with wood chips; tiny, sharp, poking-into-my-feet wood chips. We just breathed through it. By the time we reach the clearing where we had soft grass, our feet were achy and dry enough to dust off the remaining sand and replace our socks and shoes. There was gladness all around.

We were then off to Menemsha, a small fishing village located in the town of Chilmark. It wasn’t very far from Aquinnah. We drove to the parking lot there in the harbor, parked and got out of the Jeep. We walked out onto the jetty. I noticed how clear the water was. It was such a beautiful shade of blue. It amazes me always when I can see to the bottom. We took in the view and snapped more photos. We then watched as a school of fish made dinner out of a school of minnows near the rocks of the jetty. They were crazy. It wasn’t exactly a feeding frenzy, but they disturbed the water plenty.

We couldn’t make up our minds about dinner. Of course, I wanted to go to dinner and celebrate myself. I guess because it was my birthday, I sort of got to make the decision. I mean how often does a person turn 40? Well, in my case that could be speculative. I mean there was a time in my life when I said that I was going to age one year for every five after I turned 25. By my calculations that means I just turned 28. That means I get one more chance to turn 40. Of course that means in real life I’d be 100. I’m not sure I could pass for 40 at 100, but hell I guess I could try. There’s a sucker born every minute. Moisturizer please.

I consulted my guidebook and we finally decided on Atria for dinner. At 4:45 pm I called and got a reservation for 7 pm. Atria (pronounced Ah-tre-ah) is a fine-dining restaurant set in an 18th-century sea captain’s house located on Upper Main Street in Edgartown. The name refers to the brightest of three stars that form the Southern Triangle constellation. I’m southern and I must say that word made me move this restaurant choice to front of the line. Not that the food was southern. It was merely a word that connected me to my roots.

Our table was situated on the closed in front porch; beautiful windows overlooking a lush green yard peppered with white Adirondack chairs. We were seated in front of a window with a Dogwood tree in full bloom just on the other side of the glass. It was lovely. It reminded me of my granddaddy Dunn. He loves Dogwood trees.

I started with a glass of Prosecco and Neal a Maker’s on the rocks. Shortly our starter arrived – Island Lobster Mac n’ Cheese made with mascarpone, cheddar, goat cheese, crispy arugula and cherry tomatoes. I was anticipating something too rich of which to eat a lot. It was rich, but I’ve had richer. It was actually amazing and the portion was perfect to share and get a couple of large spoonfuls each.

For my entrée I enjoyed my first swordfish. It was grilled, prepared with watercress & preserved lemon plus dill whipped potatoes, crispy capers, shaved red onion and lemon beurre blanc. It was amazing. The swordfish was a steak. It was tender and light without tasting too fishy. In fact, it didn’t taste like fish at all. This was no Mississippi catfish. It was such a good chance of a choice. You can’t be on an island in the Atlantic and not indulge yourself in seafood.

As we mulled over what to have for dessert we took our wine out to the lawn to sit in the aforementioned Adirondack chairs. I noticed a swing hanging from a branch of the large tree in the front yard. I couldn’t resist its call. I couldn’t swing too high, as I would hit the privacy bushes that were behind me, but I did throw my head back and enjoy it briefly, keeping in mind that I had just eaten and could easily vomit.

Neal was a target when it came to Mosquitoville, so we didn’t stay outside very long. We headed back to our table, wine in hand, and ordered two molten chocolate cakes with vanilla bean ice cream on top. Hey it was my birthday. The plate had the usual decorative markings of chocolate, but it also had chocolate covered coffee beans and an 8” stick of rolled chocolate placed diagonally from plate to ice cream. It was not only pleasing to the palate it was pleasing to the eye. Of course that’s what one should expect from fine dining.

Our wine for the evening was a Chardonnay. I’m not really a white wine drinker. I like my reds. Last summer I discovered rosé. My segue between winter and summer is now rosé. However, our waitress, Melissa, suggested Unfiltered Chardonnay from Newton Vineyard. I decided since I was trying swordfish for the first time that I should be adventurous with my wine as well. I’m so glad I was. I wish I knew how to use my nose more effectively when smelling wines. I can often taste the berries I'm supposed to taste, but I wish I could smell them before I taste them. Melissa had already described the wine to us as buttery. I agreed upon first taste, as it was a preconceived notion. Not preconceived was the fact that it was the best Chardonnay I’d ever consumed. The website for Newton Vineyard describes the wine thus: this profound and powerful Chardonnay exhibits a rich, complex intensity that can only be found in unfiltered wines. The grapes are predominantly grown in the Carneros region where bay breezes and morning fog combine to create the cooler climate ideal for growing Chardonnay rich with concentrated flavors. That sounds like a lot of who hah to me, but the truth is it was amazing and Melissa was right, it was perfectly suited for our meal and our dessert. Thanks girl. Look me up when you get to Astoria.

As we sat at the table finishing our wine and waiting for our check we began to talk of Sondheim. Specifically, “Not A Day Goes By” from Merrily We Roll Along. I also mentioned “Good Thing Going” and “Our Time” from the same show as well as “Move On” from Sunday in the Park with George. I purchased both of those original cast albums the summer after graduating from college in 1994 with money I had received from said graduation. To this day songs from both of those shows remind me of Neal and Matt and our connection, started in college, and strengthened over time.

On the way home it seemed a no-brainer that I should play “A Weekend in the Country” from Sondheim’s A Little Night Music. Neal agreed with my choice. The song had not ended when we reached our cottage so we sat in the Jeep until its completion. Proper endings are necessary when something is that perfect.

“Isn’t it bliss.”

From Clear Blue to Cumulus

2011-06-15T08:26:00.000-04:00

June 7, 2011

I woke at 7:33 am on our first morning on the Vineyard. I couldn't help but smile as I looked around my gorgeous yellow room (I miss having a yellow bedroom) as the sun was streaming through the skylights. I got up, thanked God for a new day and promptly walked over to the sliding door that opened onto the balcony attached to my room, opened it and breathed deep. Then I stopped and took in the sounds - birds were alive with the sounds of morning. It was clear, fresh and green.

Neal was already up and sitting downstairs surfing the web. I assumed he was checking out things for us to do, but I chose to not ask because it just didn't matter. Vacation – ideas and options with no concrete plans.

My task at hand was coffee. I've been drinking it for years, but I no longer use a regular coffee maker. I use a French press. Therefore, I have to read the directions for the coffee to water ratio every time I use a coffee maker and just hope that I get the taste result I'm used to. How hard can it be you ask? Well, I'm the one looking foolish with measuring cups and spoons trying to get one tablespoon to six ounces of water and figuring out on the pot where those markings are. I must look a fool.

Post breakfast it was time for a walk to the beach. The rental info said we were 2 miles from South Beach. We had driven there the night before and it didn't seem that far to me, but what did I know. I travel by subway – underground – with speed that makes miles mean nothing to me.

Face completely slathered in SPF 85 sunscreen, a cap and glasses (I was turning 40 after all. Sun damage keep out) we set out for our morning walk. The sky was clear blue easy – not a hint of a cloud. The still cool air felt amazing on my exposed skin. We were walking into the breeze. Through the air were carried alternating top notes of sweet floral and woodsy cedar combined with bottom notes of salty sea air. You don't realize how amazing something is, something you never even think about, until you're doing it. I never think about the smell of the water while walking to the subway. I can tell you this, there was no overheated garbage smell on this walk. And the destination – rolling waves crashing on a nearly deserted beach – was not an underground train. A haze was barely peaking over the horizon as we left the beach.

Walking back did not bring the same breeze. The day was warming. There were small wisps of clouds now in the air. We broke a sweat as we walked and talked about parents and vacationing. All in all it took us an hour and seven minutes to complete our jaunt.

To Oak Bluffs we went. It was time to let the sight seeing begin. My camera was packed in my small Jack Spade bag and my guidebook was hidden in its back pouch. I knew I was a tourist, but I hate looking like a tourist. I try to blend in no matter where I am. Access those old acting skills please.

We found 4-hour parking around Ocean Park, a seven-acre grassy space with an 1880's bandstand at its center that, according to the walking tour brochure, so epitomized the resort community of Oak Bluffs that it was incorporated into the town seal in 1980. The parking area at Ocean Park sat in front of an amazing semi-circle of Victorian homes. It reminded of the summer cottages (White Elephants) in Newport. All the homes faced the Atlantic. Those properties cost some serious cash. We had 4 hours to explore.

We made our way to Circuit Avenue. Not only had I seen it was the main strip in my guidebook; my friend Rob, a frequent summer visitor to the Vineyard, had told me to check it out. Rob had told me about Ben and Bill’s Chocolate Emporium. He looked through my guidebook and saw that it wasn’t listed. He said that we should definitely check it out over Mad Martha’s. He wrote it down on a post it that he then stuck into my book. We found Ben and Bill’s immediately. I wanted to go in and Neal, the ice cream whore of the two of us, was game. Rob has suggested we get the kid’s size, as the small was as large as your head. We did just that. Not feeling the need to leap from his go-to favorite, Neal chose the kid’s size chocolate chip on a regular cone. It was large enough that he got a spoon to go with it. I chose Almond Joy – chocolate ice cream with whole almonds, coconut flakes and chunks of Almond Joy inside. I chose a waffle cone. I didn’t take a spoon. We found a bench just off Circuit that was partially shaded and sat and enjoyed our cones. It was amazing ice cream, and such a large portion that it stood in for our lunch.

With the ice cream finished it was time to see Oak Bluffs. Neal saw a pamphlet for a Historic Walking Tour of Oak Bluffs. We had seen that on the Internet and discussed it prior to heading into town earlier that day. We decided to take the brochure, follow the map and walk the town at our leisure.

The tour began next to where we had been sitting eating our ice cream cones – The Flying Horses, the oldest continuously operating carousel in the nation. We did not get to ride was it’s only open Friday – Sunday at that point.

We made our way to Trinity Park where at the center stood The Tabernacle. From what I gather, in the 19th-century tent meetings used to be held on that spot. The tent was replaced in 1879 with the permanent structure currently standing there. Sharing the greensward with the park is Trinity United Methodist Church, built in 1878. Surrounding the park in a circle were "gingerbread" or "Painted Ladies" cottages painted in dramatic colors of pink, lavender, blue, red and green – very Victorian with their filigree (suggesting lace) wood work. It was like a fairytale – say Hansel and Gretel. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed that it existed. The houses evoked another era; one in which I can’t imagine living.

Beyond Trinity Park we moved deeper into neighborhoods – where a white cottage was the most drab, boring color imaginable – where small side streets weren’t even drivable; streets that had signs telling you to walk your bike. If most of the houses were built in the 1800’s, many of the trees were at least that old (if not older). Standing tall and creating shade, the trees combined with the bushes created a lush landscape that fit perfectly with the cottages they surrounded.

There were 20 stops on the walking tour. Neal had suggested we look at the brochure and choose what we wanted to see if we didn’t want to see it all. He thought it would at least help us get a sense of Oak Bluffs. I was so glad he suggested it and that I had said yes. We ended up seeing everything on the tour. We took our time and took in the lovely, quaint neighborhoods of Oak Bluffs. It couldn’t have been a nicer experience on a more beautiful day. The clouds had changed to fluffy, white cumulus.

We hung out in Oak Bluffs for 3 hours and 40 minutes. It felt like 10 hours, but not in a bad way. We were tired from all the walking we had done that day starting with our walk to the beach and including our tour of Oak Bluffs, but it was a good tired. An I’m-ready-to-be-back-at-the-cottage-and-chill-with-a-beer kind of tired not an I’m-exhausted-and-need-to-go-to-bed kind of tired. It was a productive day full of exciting sights and tastes.
We pulled off the side of the road on the way back to our cottage and got out of the car without shoes and took a moment to admire the Atlantic from State Beach.

A stop off at the Stop and Shop gained us some summer fixin’s (potato salad, coleslaw) and bags of chips to go with our grilled hot dogs for the evening. Stella Artois was welcome refreshment.

It's Only 6:15? (that would be AM)

2011-06-15T08:25:00.001-04:00

June 6, 2011

When I awoke the next morning, Neal was already awake. I heard a zipper being zipped in his room. It sounded like someone (Neal) saying 'I'm awake" in a high-pitched voice. He said he'd been up for about 45 minutes already. I asked what time it was. He said, "6:15." I said "6:15?" That would be AM of course. I was sure it was at least 8 am.

I was going to walk to my favorite little Boston coffee shop, The Sugar Bowl, and get some coffee, but we ended up driving to McDonald's and going through yet another drive thru. Day 2 of vaca and day 2 of drive thru. Who am I?

With episodes of Today and Friday Night Lights (my first ever) finished, we showered, dressed and loaded the car. I was antsy. I mean we'd been up since 6:15 am. It was after 9 am by that time and I needed to do something.

We loaded the car and made a Target run (are the gays shopping at Target again?) to buy those last minute essentials - OFF!, loofah's, body wash, sunscreen. Next stop, a gas station for a beverage to take on the road. I went straight (gayly forward) to the water, but on the way I passed Sun Drop. Yes, Sun Drop. I hadn’t had one since October. I indulged. I also bought the water and an apple. I may have eaten drive thru twice and gotten a soda, but I wasn’t about to let myself go just because I was on vacation. I was going to the beach after all. The apple was chosen over the peanut M&M's that I wanted. Restraint folks, you can do it if you really want to.

We slammed the doors of our silver Jeep, merged right onto I-93 South and our vacation (Operation 40) started. The tunes (J-Lo, Rihanna, Britney, Lady Gaga and Katy Perry) were blaring. It was all I could do to keep the windows up.

Just past the Entering Cape Cod sign we crossed over Bourne Bridge and I turned into a Kennedy. Not! Crossing the bridge gave a beautiful view of the properties that line the water in Bourne Village. I was reminded of crossing the Claiborne Pell Bridge into Newport.

We were so close to Woods Hole, MA, where we were catching the ferry to Martha's Vineyard that I wanted to roll down the window and see if I could smell the water. Again, I kept the window up. It seemed the restraint I was trying to use towards the fast food was branching out into other areas. There was nothing but me stopping me from rolling down the window and smelling the water. I just didn’t do it. Dumb ass!

I would be withholding the truth if I didn't tell you that by the time we got to Woods Hole I had to use the bathroom so bad that I was in pain. Yes, I am nothing if not predictable about needing the bathroom when there isn't one. A small plane to Paducah anyone? Of course, the road had many bumps and we hit them all throwing my bladder into a flip and my insides onto anxiety row. Damn you, Sun Drop.

We stopped at what we thought would be a cute place to eat before boarding the ferry and wouldn't you know it, no public restroom. We got back in the car and headed the 6 miles back up the road to where we'd seen other restaurants. Only God and my self-control saved me wetting my pants. The wooden spoon I was biting on didn't hurt either.

The pleasure that comes when you finally get to go to the bathroom came over me and stayed for what felt like 5 minutes. It wasn't that long, but it was at least 2 minutes of pure urination. Lord! I didn't even order a beverage for lunch. Forget that. We were getting a boat next and I couldn't even deal with that pressure!

We ate at The Quarterdeck in Falmouth. It was rushed as we had 15 minutes to get back to the ferry and claim our place in line. Neal suggested, and I agreed, that this be the last time we rushed for anything for the entire week. Amen!

Lane number 2, 30 minutes 'til departure; we sat and waited. Nothing like waiting in the traffic on the bus the day before. This was an anticipatory wait. The breeze was blowing through the open windows (finally rolled down) as we watched the ferry arrive. I was excited, but very chill.

The cars all exited and loaded onto the ferry with precision and speed. The men in charge had it down to a science. We drove our car onto the ferry, locked it up and proceeded to the upper deck. The sun was shining, the breeze was blowing, the birds were chirping and I was feeling the stress of city life departing my body.

The harbor looked like the harbor I had described in my current short story, Thornclyffe; sailboats dotted the water. I was in the harbor of my fictional town. Crazy cool.

Our ferry began to shake as we began to slowly move out into the Atlantic. We were sitting facing the back. I was curious why the benches didn’t face forward. I hadn’t realized there were benches at both ends. We just happened to sit at the end in which we had entered the passenger deck from the car deck. We moved around to the other side and took in the vast ocean. It was gorgeous – blue in the distance, more green up close. Neal talked of loving the water; I talked of being afraid of it. Imagine me afraid of something. What? No! Well the truth is, not being able to see the bottom and what’s below/around my feet freaks me out. There would be no jumping off the ship and hitting the bottom and using my feet to launch myself upward toward the sun. There would be no bottom to anchor. Freaks. Me. Out.

While staring at the homes that dotted the landscape on Martha’s Vineyard, we heard a dog start barking. I turned to see at what it was barking. It was staring up. I followed its gaze. There was a seagull floating over the deck. It was just gliding above us like a kite over the beach. It was strange yet fascinating. Of course I was hoping in wouldn’t poop on us. Neal made a comment after a while of feeling like Tippi Hedren in The Birds and looking for a phone booth on the ferry in order to get away from our floating passenger. And just like that, the seagull caught a crazy wind and was gone. We watched as it was blown away, unable to steer itself. No need to worry about the bird. It reappeared later in our trip. It was still hovering when we exited to go to the car deck.

We drove off the ferry and I remember saying “Oh my God.” We were in Oak Bluffs and it was beautiful; everything I could imagine and did. I pulled out the handy, here’s-where-every-turn-is directions provided by my rental agent and we were on our way to pick up the rental packet for our week on Martha’s Vineyard. I dubbed it Operation 40. I was surprised at how much the small towns of Oak Bluffs and especially Edgartown reminded me of Amagansett, NY, or Salisbury, CT. I wasn’t in either of those places though. I was on an island in the Atlantic off the coast of Massachusetts. I was escaping and relaxing.

I must admit as we drove to the cottage, a cottage heretofore only seen in pictures, that I was struck with images of Deliverance. Okay it wasn’t like that, but the road turned from paved to dirt. Neal said that is typical of other places. You think there’s nothing there, but it’s a dirt road leading to hidden homes built for privacy. That’s exactly what we had. There were homes near us, but not enough to worry about and the trees were so tall and the bushes so lush that they created a natural barrier and the privacy any one craving it would get.

We unloaded our belongings at 19A Sutton Way and got settled. The ceiling fans were on, the windows were open. The sliding door in my bedroom was open. The breeze filled the house. New York City? What New York City? I zipped my life in New York City up into a bag and hid it in a back corner of my mind. I opened myself up to the cool breeze that washed over me as I stood on the balcony connected to my room. Bliss!

With everything unpacked and stowed in drawers and closets (hey we were living there for a week, we might as well get out of the suit case and into the dresser) we hopped in our silver Jeep and headed to South Beach, a mere two miles down the road.

It was beautiful. I took off my flip-flops and felt the sand between my toes. The evening was lovely. The walk on the beach lovelier if that’s possible. We walked and talked for at least an hour. Our feet, and my lower back, were actually sore when we finally decided we’d had enough. I was conflicted. I wanted to sit down in the Jeep, but I didn’t want my first walk on the beach to be over.

Having a full kitchen we knew we wanted to buy groceries and prepare food for ourselves instead of constantly going to restaurants. Hell, that would just be a waste of money when you have a working stove, microwave and gas grill. We bought the staple provisions of milk, cereal and coffee. We also bought cheeses and crackers, fruit and nuts. We bought pork chops for the evening. In my mind, that gas grill was screaming for the near 2-inch thick pork chops we found in the Stop and Shop. I suggested barbequing them and we found a honey brown sugar barbeque sauce.

Two gay boys, neither of whom owns a grill, was a comedy routine for those lucky enough to be watching, through an open space in the trees or bushes, when we tried to light the grill. We tried all three knobs until Neal suggested that maybe the propane wasn’t on. We couldn’t see as we had waited until after dark to start grilling. I suggested Neal get the flashlight that he packed (at the last minute just in case we needed one). Looks like we needed it. He turned on the tank and we had fire. Tom Hanks didn’t shout anything about making fire and neither did we, but it was exciting nonetheless.

We didn’t know how long to cook the meat. Neal came inside and Googled “grilling thick pork chops” or something along those lines and we followed the directions. Sear for one minute, flip, sear for one minute, flip, cook for 3 minutes, flip, cook for three minutes, flip. Of course the temperature of the grill wasn’t hot enough when we started and we reduced the heat in the middle of searing and flipping. That being said, the meat was not done when we took it inside and cut it open. Back to the grill for another 6-10 minutes and viola – the other white meat was perfect.

There’s something to be said for enjoying a meal that you prepare yourself. We poured a Rosé to go with ours and sat and enjoyed the fruits of our labor.

Towards Boston and 40

2011-06-15T08:25:00.000-04:00

June 5, 2011

The sky was overcast but the rain delayed its downpour until after the bus departed.

Once again I found myself on the Bolt Bus to Boston – aisle seat number 35 on a packed-to-capacity bus. I was hoping to get lucky enough to have a seat to myself. Lucky stayed off the bus this time ‘cause there weren’t enough seats. I found myself sharing space, and air, with a nice enough man (of Indian decent) in dire need of deodorant. Thankfully it was an express bus.

One of the things I hate the most about traveling via bus or train is the cell phone and ipod usage. When I travel on Amtrak I always choose the quiet car to avoid the hazards over-chatty passengers and one-sided conversations. On a bus, however, there is no quiet car –we’re all just sitting side by side in a single compartment made of metal, rolling at high speed down the road on rubber tires. Thankfully, Robert, our bus driver, alerted the cabin’s occupants to place all cell phones on vibrate. "If you don't know how to turn your phone on vibrate, press the volume button all the way down until the phone vibrates." Loved him already. He went a step further and asked that all DVD players, ipods, and computers be used with headphones and that the volume be turned low. I wondered if it would be odd to ask for his address so I could send him a "thank you" note.

Vacation had begun. I was merely waiting for the traffic to part like the red sea and let my Bolt Bus through.

I sat in my seat, breathing, releasing, smiling. Not even the gray sky was going to bring me down. I'm was on my way to Boston, to Neal's and from there on to a ferry that would take me to an island off the coast of Massachusetts. That's right people. I was on the first leg of a trip whose destination was Martha's Vineyard. I've never been and it seemed the perfect escape to celebrate turning 40 and for starting a new decade.

I think I've said this before, but the most difficult part of the Bolt Bus journey to Boston is getting out of Manhattan. It doesn't matter the time of day or day of the week. The bus sits in traffic. Traffic caused by so many people trying to get somewhere. What're you gonna do? You just sit and wait; inch forward a little and wait; watch people crossing in the crosswalks and wait, move a little for no apparent reason because the light is red and wait; listen to some idiot behind you who has already fallen asleep with his ipod too loud and wait; watch the street fair to the right of your bus and wait. Suddenly you're moving freely and watching all the beauty - people, greenery, buildings - through the window as you pass by.

I looked to my left and saw many cool restaurants that I immediately thought I'd like to patronize and just as quickly I realized I wouldn't remember where they were. Upper West Side is as good and I could do. Somewhere on Amsterdam in the 80's.

There was a moment when I found myself waiting next to the gorgeous greenery that is Central Park. What a phenomenal piece of land. I'm not sure if there is a better escape from the hectic pace of NYC (when you can’t leave it) than to just lose oneself in the middle of the park, find a place to sit and then just listen. You'll hear birds and the babbling of a brook as it empties into a pond. It's the most amazing experience. Of course I was sitting on a bus, but I was on a bus to somewhere, not nowhere, so I kept my focus on Boston.

Nearly an hour later we were just getting to 145th Street in Harlem. I'm always surprised by Harlem. You can always tell when you're there. And just like that we were across the Macombs Dam Bridge and streets once lined with unmoving vehicles gave way to the Major Deegan Expressway and the freedom of movement.

Did I say freedom of movement? I did, didn't I? Well, it was short lived. I was pretty sure that at our rate of speed this trip would not be one of those bus trips to Boston that arrived early.

Finally there was a thinning to the traffic - for real this time. I was skeptical, but sending all the positive energy I could muster out the front window and to the motorists in front of us to “keep on moving”. As I looked to my left I saw the parking lot of traffic, filled with cars full of people trying to reenter my lovely city. They were now the ones sitting and waiting. I was glad it wasn't me.

Time for a fear break – just a slight one. There had been a lot of bus accidents in the news as of late. One of those accidents had even happened in my home county. Now I know that I've made this trip via bus many times and at different times of the day and night. I felt safe, but my mind was working on an annoying little gray lint ball of fear. Any sudden slow down, jerky movement towards the shoulder of the road or honk made my heart race. At 6:24 pm we heard the sounds that reverberate through a vehicle when driving too close to the curb; that loud sound of caution alerting you to wake up or readjust back into the center of your lane. We were on the rumble strip. Imagine that sound vibrating through all of the tires on a bus. It made everyone look out the window. Turned out the bus driver had pulled off the Interstate on purpose. He needed to reset the electrical outlets. It was less than two minutes; the sound and the announcement had done wonders in waking all of the sleepers. For a while after that it was phone calls, conversations and the sound of texting.

The journey started gray in New York, but eventually we chased our way down the road to where sunshine shone bright in the sky. Then the day faded to gray again as the sun began to set. The difference this time was the gray of dusk still maintained a hint of blue sky. The rain was somewhere back on the Interstate.

Obviously the bus made it to Boston, albeit 25 minutes late (thank you traffic). As for my seatmate, it wasn't so bad as long as he sat still. Movement released that body odor that some find attractive, but made me want to throw him in a shower. He also played his ipod - on low, but still audible. I got used to it eventually. I was reading Dead Reckoning and managed to get lost in Bon Temps and the new adventure of Sookie Stackhouse.

Neal picked me up at the train station. We tried to have dinner at DBar but their kitchen had just closed. I mean - just. We headed over to the next parking lot and the drive through for some beefy, cheesy goodness with a side order of fried rings. That would be a Whopper with cheese and onion rings. The guilt I felt over eating that mess was quickly assuaged as my hunger pains curbed and my thoughts of vacation took over.

I hadn't seen Neal in quite a while so we had lots to chat about, not least that Neal had just returned from a week's vacation in Europe earlier that afternoon.

Fast-forward to dinner eaten, conversations complete, check lists checked and lights turned out. Neal was still on European time so he was exhausted. I was tired, but nothing seemed more inviting than wrapping up in my favorite duvet and reading another chapter of Dead Reckoning.

Sleep made my lids begin to droop so I let myself succumb as its wave took me to Dreamsville.

Thornclyffe - Part 3

2011-06-01T08:29:00.000-04:00

The room was littered with copies of Us Weekly, People, OK!. There was no magazine that she wanted to look through, no pictures or articles that captured her attention. She couldn’t read about one more celebrity divorce, scandalized beauty queen or bad teen mom. She even tried for a while to find the differences between the two pictures in a copy of Highlights but found she zoned out longer than she could stay focused. She sat, she paced. She was so tired of waiting. She wanted Ryan to wake up. She would’ve settled for Cordelia to wake up, although she knew that it would take everything in her power to not walk into her room and lash out at her with harsh words.

Then Lila’s realized she was hungry; she knew she needed to eat, should eat. She was well aware of the fact that she could do nothing for her two comatose friends by sitting in the waiting room. She needed to keep up her strength. How many times had she seen a “doctor” on some television program tell the family they needed to rest or eat? Too many times to count. She was aware that the programs weren’t real life, but when the writers are smart, they slip in real advice with fake traumas.

She knew the cafeteria was on the ground floor. She walked to the elevator, pushed the button and waited.

When the doors opened on the first floor she hadn't remembered stepping into the elevator or pushing the button. Her subconscious mind had taken over leaving her conscious mind free to wonder through its memories.

She walked through the cafeteria buffet line little more aware than a zombie. She stared at blobs of Jell-O and leaves of lettuce that both seemed to be moving, cottage cheese that made her question her sanity, meat in gravy that didn’t even look real. Nothing looked like food. She was exhausted and delirious. She blinked her eyes and shook her head. She had to focus on what was in front of her. She grabbed a small salad and an iced tea. She tried to leave her thoughts of Ryan and Cordelia up on the ICU floor, but she couldn’t. They were here with her. Trapped in limbo while she tried to eat.

§

Over the course of the summer that Lila told Cordelia that she and Ryan had become an item, things were tense between the three of them. Lila and Ryan went out on dates, of course, but they also went out for drinks or dinner and a movie with Cordelia – three friends out for a few laughs. Ryan was insistent that they try to maintain a since of normalcy in their lives. Lila made every effort to plan girls afternoons or evenings just for her and Cordelia; Cordelia canceled many of those dates.

By the time they headed back to Brown for the fall semester things had gotten back on track, or so the couple thought. Cordelia seemed much more accepting of the fact that Lila and Ryan were indeed an item instead of a fling. She had become much more receptive to their dinner invitations. She loved them both. She was alone; why not enjoy the company of her two best friends?

The why proved itself in time. Attending college is stressful. There’s the headache of making yourself go to class, making yourself do homework. There is research to be done and papers to write. And don’t forget the social events. Cordelia was always heavily booked on the social calendar. Combine all of those things and mix them in the mind of a jealous 19-year-old and then throw in watching the man you love coo at his girlfriend – your best friend – across the table and you’ve got a powder keg waiting to explode.

It started small. Ryan, Lila and Cordelia would be enjoying coffee and the three of them would be talking about something they had in common; a class, a teacher, a favorite new cocktail, and the conversation would veer off into Loveland. Cordelia would pretend to be interested in what the other two were talking about, and for a while she managed to hide frustration for what she saw as their blatant disregard for her feelings. The moments of discussing each other’s lives – the three of them as friends – became less while the moments of Lila and Ryan discussing their life together increased. It was more than she could bear at times. Instead of full inclusion in the dinner she felt like an intruder on their moment, an inclusion out of habit rather than desire.

At first she started zoning out – not paying attention to what they were talking about. Then she started drinking more. She would put on a smile and pretend to be listening, but she really couldn’t have cared less about the weekend getaway the two of them had planned or the fact that they had purchased a couple’s spa package for over the Christmas holiday. Mostly she just wanted to leave. Every time, she just wanted to leave. She kept asking herself why she continued to say yes to their invitations. Would it be so bad if she just said no?

Finally, she had taken all she could take. She was drinking her second glass of wine while the two of them were halfway through their first glass. She was listening to Ryan talk about his art history class. He was directing all the words to Lila. Cordelia wondered if they even remembered she was there.

“You know, I think I’m just going to go,” Cordelia interjected into Ryan’s story.

“What? Why?” asked Lila, taken aback.

“Honestly, every time the three of us are out together it is more and more the Ryan and Lila show. I’m here too, you guys. You hardly include me in the conversation.” She added a shrug as she took a drink of wine. “Normally, I would just interject myself, but I find it so tedious to sit here and listen to the two of you talk about shit that you can talk about anytime instead of us talking about things like we used to.” She stood up as she finished her thought, picked up the near empty glass of wine and downed it. “I need a break from the two of you and our dinners together. I’ll see you later. Ryan, you’ll take care of the wine?” She said this almost as an after thought and then left the restaurant.

“I need to go after her.” Lila was on her feet immediately.

“No. No you don’t.” Ryan was not angry he was almost compassionate. “I’m sure it’s awkward sitting here with us. We’re a couple and we’re not including her. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Sit back down and let’s have dinner.”

Lila sat down hesitantly.

“She’ll be fine,” Ryan confirmed.

Cordelia was unaware that Lila had become conscious of the newly developed facial ticks and the exaggerated eye rolls that had become her outlet for focusing her frustration. Lila was concerned for Cordelia. She wanted to reach out to her friend and have an honest conversation about how her relationship with Ryan was affecting her relationship with Cordelia. She was unable to find the words. Just like the day in Windsor when she told Cordelia about the kiss and what it had led to.

Treading lightly around Cordelia was taking its toll on her. She didn’t want to lose her friend, but she didn’t know how much longer it would be worth it. She sacrificed her own happiness in discussing Ryan in order to spare Cordelia’s feelings. She often wished they could just talk; talk like the girlfriends they used to be. She didn’t want her relationship with Ryan to come between her and Cordelia, but if Cordelia made her choose, she knew she would choose Ryan.

It was early in their dating life and there were no guarantees, but she felt so good about it. Saying that she would give up a friend for a man had never been her MO, but the more she thought about it the easier it was to admit she would release Cordelia from her heart.

“Lila Hayward, please report to the ICU nurses station.” There was an announcement over the intercom. Lila thought that she had heard her name but wasn’t certain.

“Lila Hayward, please report to the ICU nurses station.” The announcement was repeated.

Lila felt her heart sink into the pit of her stomach, which then knotted with a pain that nearly caused her to double over. She took a deep breath, picked up her tray, dumped it, placed it on the conveyor belt and walked towards the elevator. She realized she was shaking. She was afraid every eye in the cafeteria was on her. She didn’t want them to know she was Lila Hayward. She didn’t even know why it mattered if they knew, she just wanted to appear to be a girl finished eating and leaving the room.

When the doors to the elevator closed she stood inside taking deep, calming breaths. She had only two floors to try and prepare herself for whatever news she was getting ready to hear. Her fear that Ryan had died outweighed her hopes that he’d awakened. That’s always the way I guess. In situations like these one always prepares for the worst. Lila was no different.

When she reached the nurses station she looked around for who might have had her paged. There was a single nurse sitting behind the desk.

“Hello. I’m Lila Hayward. I was just paged to this nurses station.”

“Hi, Lila,” said the nurse. When there was no immediate recognition she continued. “It’s Jenny Commons.” The girl behind the desk had been a neighbor and classmate of Lila’s. In her exhaustion Lila hadn’t even recognized her.

“Jenny? Hi.” Lila smiled for what felt like the first time in hours. She and Jenny had not been close friends, but they had been speak-in-the-hall-or-at-the-mall friends. Jenny had always been kind to Lila and Lila could only hope she had been kind enough to Jenny in return. Their lack of close friendship had more to do with Cordelia than Lila. Jenny didn’t care for Cordelia so an intimate friendship with Lila had been out of the question.

“I’m so sorry about Ryan and Cordelia,” Jenny said.

“Did something happen?” Lila asked as her breath immediately quickened and she looked down the hall towards their rooms.

“No. Nothing has happened,” Jenny responded, reaching up without thought to comfort Lila by holding her hand, hoping for a calming tone to her voice. “I just mean that they’re here at all.”

“Oh.” Relief. “Me too.” She gave Jenny a smile, but it was tinged with sadness. “Thank you for saying so, Jenny. I mean that. I know how you feel about Cordelia. It means a lot to me.”

Jenny removed her hand from Lila’s, “Dr. Martin had you paged. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Jenny picked up the phone and spoke briefly before looking back and Lila. “He’s on his way.”

“Thank you, Jenny.”

Jenny smiled, “It’s going to be okay, Lila.”

Lila nodded her head in acknowledgment, placed her elbows on the nurse’s station and her head in her hands. She closed her eyes and waited.

“Lila.” She heard Dr. Martin’s voice and turned to see him.

“Has there been any change, Dr. Martin?”

“They’re both still in a coma, Lila, but we may have found something that could help us with Ryan.” Lila’s eyes lit up. That must be why she had been paged.

“Is there something I can do to help? Is that why you paged me?”

“We ran a tox screen on Ryan.” He watched Lila react at the thought of Ryan being on drugs. “It’s standard procedure when someone without a history of seizures has one. The results showed us a drug we didn’t recognize.” At these words, Lila knew what it was before Dr. Martin could say it out loud.

“We searched the FDA database for drugs awaiting approval. It was Laztripol. We found Laztripol in his system. I wasn’t aware that Ryan suffered from depression. However, what concerns me more is that Laztripol has not yet received FDA approval and is therefore not on the market.” His words chilled Lila and angered her at the same time.

“Where did Ryan get Laztripol? How long has he been taking it?”

There was a time when she would have protected any of her friends to the end, especially Cordelia and Ryan. She had taken the blame for Cordelia’s antics many times before when her own punishment was to be less severe than Cordelia’s. However, the time for protection and secret keeping had passed.

“I can answer the first question, Dr. Martin,” she said without looking him in the eyes. “He received it from Cordelia.”

“What do you mean he received it?” he asked, confused by her choice of words.

“I mean that he unknowingly ingested it,” Lila responded. “He didn’t ask for it. He didn’t want it.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “He certainly didn’t need it. Cordelia slipped it into his drink. He didn’t know and I didn’t know. Confronting her about it led us here.”

“Why would Cordelia put an anti-depressant into Ryan’s drink?” Dr. Martin looked at her like a student primed for the day’s lesson, ready to absorb all of the information. It was crucial that he learn it.

“Because she figured out that in its liquid form it was a really smooth high.” Lila wished she didn’t know this information, was embarrassed that she had to repeat it to Dr. Martin.

To himself: “The Laztripol could be what caused the seizure.” To Lila: “Thank you, Lila. This information may be just what I needed to help reverse Ryan’s coma. I can’t guarantee it, but now I know what I’m dealing with.”

He gave her upper arm a squeeze then dashed in the direction of Ryan’s room.

Lila wondered back into the sterile brightness of the ICU waiting room. Her heart was beating a little faster and her hope was renewed.

©2011 Michael Rohrer

Crop Circles and Vampires

2011-05-31T09:50:00.004-04:00

Sav·age: fierce, ferocious, or cruel; untamed

Alexander McQueen was not limited in creativity; his designs knew no limits. Isn't that the way we should live our lives?

If he wanted a dress decorated with fresh and silk flowers he designed it.

If he wanted antlers as the headpiece to complete the look of a gorgeous cream gown, he made it or had it made (most often by Phillip Treacy).

He was not afraid to push the boundaries of fashion and actually create new and innovative designs. His runway shows did not often provide something ready-to-wear, but they did give the viewer drama, extravagance and spectacle. Fashion is all of those things. If the wearer chooses well, the clothes merely enhance the persona or mystique. McQueen had a penchant for fantasy, rebellion and shock value, all of which are visible at Savage Garden, the new exhibit showcasing his work now on display at The Metropolitan Museum of Art: The Costume Institute.

There were two quotes of McQueen's that stuck with me as I walked through the exhibit. I was trying to stay in the moment and be present in front of each piece so I did not write them down. One was about loving the grotesque and the other was about making people look.

We as creative artists have to make people look. We have to make them see. We have to make them read or listen. There is beauty in everything, even the grotesque.

I felt euphoric as I walked through the exhibit. It was stunning in its design, both visual and sound. Every room was created to help you visually and aurally experience the clothing it housed – from the eerily mysterious to the Scottish plaid to the romantic to the dramatically over-the-top.

Alexander McQueen was limited in his life. He was a tortured soul, as many creative types tend to be. He committed suicide by hanging himself on February 11, 2010. A life cut short by demons that nothing could heal, brilliance taken from the world of fashion way too soon.

We only have now. We are here for this brief time; this one moment that in a blink is over. We have to dare to be different and have the courage to be so.

As I approach 40 I am overwhelmed by the desire to create something moving, lasting, emotional.

As for the title of this blog, I was walking to the subway with my friend Sara. We passed a small yard with concrete circles filled inside by circles of grass. Sara yelled out, "Crop circle." We laughed. As we continued to walk we passed what appeared to be a stake in the road. I made a comment about vampires. Sara said "Crop circles and vampires, it's gonna be an adventure."

Fashion is always an adventure. Daring fashion even more so. Alexander McQueen dared. He may be gone from this world, but his contribution to fashion lives on to show the world what it had and what it lost.

Crop circles and vampires are each savage and beautiful in their own way. They go together about as much as plaid, tulle and a bustle. If you get the chance to see McQueens’s use of those three things you’ll get to see how awesome an unexpected combination can really be.

Beau·ty: the quality present in a thing or person that gives intense pleasure or deep satisfaction to the mind, whether arising from sensory manifestations (as shape, color, sound, etc.) or a meaningful design or pattern.

Push Your Destiny to its Boundaries with the Wind of God at Your Back

2011-05-26T22:24:00.009-04:00

“You are responsible for your own life.”

Desire is not enough to change your life. Real change takes the courage to act upon your desires. I don't seem to possess enough courage - yet.

I never attended the church of Oprah on a regular basis. That does not mean I think she is anything less than a powerful woman. She puts her money where her mouth is. She pursues what she believes in. She is not afraid to tell you what she believes and she's not afraid to tell you why you should believe it too. On the flip side, I think she will listen to why you don’t believe. Maybe I’m wrong about that, but we all have to be able to listen, right? She was a master at giving us the powerful story of survival and redemption. She found the truth and exposed the lies. She sat and she shared and she talked and she preached and she gave.

After 25 years of trying to help people change their lives Oprah has now signed off; at least The Oprah Winfrey Show has signed off. As most of us know, Oprah will continue to try and enlighten the world through her own network, OWN. It seems fitting that her initials Oprah Winfrey followed by Network should spell OWN as she has owned the daytime talk show crown for most of that 25 years.

“Please take responsibility for the energy you bring into this place.”

As I watched Day 2 of The Oprah Winfrey Show 2-day secret celebration (an event if ever there was one) I enjoyed watching the surprise-hating Oprah's face as she was met with surprise guest after surprise guest. Then I found myself struck with tears as one man after another began to talk about his education. An education he would not have had without Oprah’s generosity. Each man was a recipient of the Oprah Winfrey Scholarship at Morehouse College in Atlanta. A select few had recorded their stories. She was visibly moved. I was drenched. My glasses actually started to fog up as the tears fell from my cheeks. Then, as if that accomplishment weren’t moving enough, Kristen Chenoweth took center stage to sing “For Good” from the musical WICKED. The song in itself is powerful enough as its lyrics talk of friendship, forgiveness and how life has been changed because "you" were in it. Then the ultimate surprise – small lights began to fill the stage as men who had earned degrees thanks to the Oprah Winfrey Scholarship filled it. It didn't stop there. Lights began to move down the aisles as man after man filled the space – men there to celebrate how Oprah and her generosity had changed their lives. Four hundred and fifteen men with educations from Morehouse College because of Oprah. She wept. I wept. I wept as I thought about how blessed I am that I didn't have to worry about getting an education. I thanked God for it and realized how I had taken for granted that my parents would pay for my education then I thanked God for them. I continued to weep as I asked God for the courage to make a change in my own life and to inspire others with my actions and words.

“You have to know what sparks the light in you so you, in your own way, can illuminate the world.”

It takes more than desire. I don't know my purpose. I'm not clear on my road. I just want to be able to proceed with an open heart and mind. I wonder how much potential I squander every day just sitting on the sofa?

“Embrace the life that’s calling you.”

Courage is hard. I have the word tattooed on my right wrist. I look at it often. I pray for the courage to face the challenges of my life and make the changes that will affect me and maybe someone else along the way.

“Everybody has a calling and your real job in life is to figure out what that is and get about the business of doing it.”

Oprah left a legacy of courage to fight for what you believe in, to find change through spiritual enlightenment, to read the words of a good book, to value the merits of a getaway with your best friend.

I may not have always agreed with what she said, but I never would have experienced The Secret and the changes it brought to my way of thinking if it hadn’t been for Oprah showcasing it on her show and my friend Neal calling me to tell me I should watch that day.

Desire is the seed. Courage is the water. The fruit the tree will bear is Change.

“We have the power to change our own lives.”