There are a countless amount of small pizza/sandwich shops dotting the streets of Center City Philadelphia. Just walk down any block or turn any corner and you'll see signs boasting "Home of the Gyro" or "Philly's Best Slices" or "Free Delivery" on flyers scotched taped to the glass or scripted in green and red neon dangling from the chipped paint that frames the storefront windows. You'll see names like Lorenzo's or Randazzo's or Taste of Sicily, but when you walk inside, you're no longer surprised to see the place being run by Hispanics or Asians. And usually there's no more than 2 or three people behind the counter, one taking and ringing up orders and another further back in the tiny overheated kitchen flipping burgers, dunking baskets into the deep fryer or spinning dough in the air.
But it seems that a new pizza place (around in the neighborhood for less than a year) is bringing back not only the true family business, but the true family Italian business. I'm talking about a very small place at 18th and South Streets called Lazarro's. It's freshly painted facade of red, white and green stripes is brightly illuminated by stark white florescent lights. It's tiny waiting/order area has a counter under the front window with 3 bar stools, 2 glass encased drink coolers and a small colored television set hanging from the wall close to the ceiling. The tiled counter is topped with a glass barrier running the width of the store (which is only about ten feet). But what's truly amazing is what goes on behind that glass barrier, in the small confines of the prep area and kitchen in the rear. I went in to this place the other night to get a cheesesteak on my way home from Uncles and found myself entranced by the bustling activity that filled the small pizza shop.
The waiting area is crowded with people waiting to place or pick up orders. I wait my turn and am eventually greeted by a rugged looking Italian man standing at the register. Slightly overweight and with a beard stubble growth that was probably only hours old, he greeted me enthusiastically with a thick, almost unintelligible accent. His fresh white t-shirt looked a size too small and his thick tanned arms, complete with a layer of dark hair, seemed to strain against the cotton fabric. I placed my order (cheese steak, provolone cheese, mayonaise) and, as he wrote it vigorously down on a pad of paper, he barked out the order over his shoulder: "Chiss stick, plo-vlone, minnaize!" A second later, like the far off chirp of a cicada, came a voice from the back of the kitchen, in a similar thick accent: "Chiss stick, plo-vlone, minnaize!" As I handed the man my money, I spotted the man behind the 2nd voice. Thick dark hair greased back and a beard lining the squared contour of his jawline, a thin muscular Italian man wearing another brilliantly white t-shirt slapped a slab of frozen steak onto the grille and began attacking it with a pair of steel spatulas.
Then I noticed a third guy at the service desk, checking orders against what was being boxed up or bagged. A forth guy pounded his fists into a ball of raw dough, spreading it out into a disk shape before sliding it down the counter for yet another guy to pour the sauce and spread the cheese across someone's future dinner. A sixth guy was making salads. A seventh was, I would assume, the hoagie man. An eighth was checking the pizzas in the oven while yet the ninth was removing and boxing pizzas that were cooked. A tenth man serpintined his way through the other workers pushing a broom infront of him across the kitchen floor. All were fashioned in the same t-shirts, tight fitting against tanned necks and arms, all ranged in age from about 20 to 35 and all looked to be brothers. The only English spoken was to the people on the public side of the service counter.
I was completely amazed by the efficiency that had obviously been perfected in such a small space. Ten men, each with their own little job, blending together to create an atmosphere that flowed effortlessly from order taken to order completed. I suddenly found myself smiling slightly as I watched this, thinking that this must be what it is like to be inside a beehive.
It was an amazing thing to watch.
And the cheesesteak was very good.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
History Revealed ...
It's days like this that I wish I had a digital camera (and a computer strong enough to upload images).
Today, Tuesday, I left my house and stepped into the cold, wet and dreary August afternoon. Temperatures are barely making it out of the 50's today and there is a constant drizzle with intermittent heavy soaking rains as band after band of storms follow the path of a stalled cold front that has been hovering over the city for the past 2 days. My house is a complete mess, filled with plaster dust after 2 weeks of repair work in my livingroom, diningroom and kitchen, all the result of damage from a leaky roof that had finally been replaced about a month ago. Now the time has come for some cleaning, priming and painting, but this will probably be the last day of cool enough temperatures to work indoors and my original goal was to wait until September to start. Besides, I had a few errands that I needed to run and, since it didn't look like the rain was going to end any time soon, I decided to brave the elements and head out into the city.
My first stop was the bank on Walnut Street. I tapped the ATM and was heading to Suburban station to pick up my weekly trans-pass, but made an about face at 17th Street and walked to The Post bar instead.
The Post has been my old stomping ground for years and has been the subject of many postings (no pun intended) within this blog. But, as history has often repeated with this establishment, trouble befell the owner in the couple of years. It is my opinion that owning this bar is pretty much a curse rather than a blessing. Three owners have died (2 by illness and 1 by a drug overdose) and the last owner is now serving time in jail for dealing crystal meth. The new owners (a lesbian with or without a partner) has taken the liberty of finally doing what had needed to be done for several years: close the Post's doors and completely gut the place and remodel. Outside of some new paint and the occasional taping of an extension cord, this is the first remodel the bar has seen in nearly 2 decades. I don't know how long this remodel job is supposed to take, but from what I've seen today, it looks like progress is going smoothly and fairly quickly. Hopefully, this will also break the curse.
Today, I turned onto Chancellor Street and noticed that the door to the bar was open. I decided to have a look at what sort of remodelling was being done. I was more than taken by surprise by both the progress and the reveal of a bar that has been around for more than 30 years.
The core of the main pub, the large oval bar, was completely gone. In its place was nothing more than a pile of old sinks in the center of the room. The tvs that had often filled the room with images from everything from superbowl games to Oscars to the somber images of continuous coverage of the world trade center attack were gone. The ceiling (long ago ripped down to fix a bad leak and never repaired, but instead painted black in an attempt to make the termite infested wooden struts look more industrial) remained, but the ceiling fan was now dangling, hanging at an odd angle like the ghostly images of the barnacle encrusted chandelier taken at the site of the Titanic wreck.
Beyond the main room, past the narrow doorway that once led down a small ramp to the "game room" and the back bar beyond, the black painted walls were stripped, revealing the studs underneath. A lone green light (which instantly reminded me, for some reason, of the green light at the end of the dock in the Great Gatsby)dangled from the ceiling in that room. From my vantage point in the front door, the light seemed to hold a certain sadness to it, the way it dangled from a weak cord. I guess that was why I was reminded so much of Fitzgerald's book, something I hadn't thought about since Junior High when I read it. But I remember the symbolism behind that light in the story; how it represented Gatsby's longing for, not only Daisy, but everything: money, happiness, success. But it always came back to his one true love. And that's what this light brought to me. It was like I was suddenly seeing this bar's true history for the first time and how it longed for what it once was. The bar has seen so much tragedy and chaos. This light (to me) seemed to reflect that.
This image in my mind, this sense of history being revealed and the bar's longing to capture it (as strange as it may sound) became more relevant when my eyes scanned the main room and fell upon the graffiti riddled wall that once held the incredible male nude sketches done by the former owner's lover. As I said, all the walls have been stripped, but what lay underneath the drywall was evidence of another time, a long forgotten time.
I can only imagine that the writing on the wall had been done many many years ago back when the original Post bar was stripped of it's rich history for the first time, back when the rich panelling (from what I heard described) was torn down and the original bar (with its four strong columns standing guard on each corner) were removed. On the wall infront of me today was layer upon layer upon layer of spray-painted messages, some unreadable, some overlapping others, and some stood out: "Rodney Loves Phil", "Glory Daze", "This Sucks - Mike". These were just some of the messages on the wall that I could read (and remember before getting home to write this). It made me wonder about the men who spray painted these messages. Were they regulars back in the '70s? Was this their time capsule, so to speak? I wanted to walk further into the room and examine the writings more, but I heard noises coming from the back room.
As I write this, I am filled with a mixture of emotions: curiosity and wonder. Whatever happened to these people? Are they alive? Have they passed on? What would they think if they saw their little "tribute wall" had been exposed after all these years? Other emotions are happiness and sadness. Happy because I was able to stumble upon this and I know that not too many people will ever see this reveal. Sadness because, like that light, I long for the times when the Post was like family to me. Now all the regulars are scattered, their common thread destroyed by the greed of one man and his drugs.
No matter what is done to the post, no matter how many improvements they make, it will never be the same. Too many things have changed in the last couple of years. People--friends--who were tight back then are no longer talking to one another, while others have found new watering holes.
When that wall of writings is once again covered, it will be joined with the memories of the last of that generation along with the memories of a new generation that had never witnessed what The Post was like in its true hay day. The memories will be drywalled, spackled and painted over, forever covered. Sure, there may be times to remember and talk, but like everything else, the images will begin to fade, being replaced with new memories, some good and some not so good.
As I write this, a new band of heavy rains begins to beat against my bedroom window. In August, I'm wearing jeans, a t-shirt and a button down flannel. The sky is still grey and cold.
...And a bar stands alone, its ghosts calling out from a mold-covered wall.
Today, Tuesday, I left my house and stepped into the cold, wet and dreary August afternoon. Temperatures are barely making it out of the 50's today and there is a constant drizzle with intermittent heavy soaking rains as band after band of storms follow the path of a stalled cold front that has been hovering over the city for the past 2 days. My house is a complete mess, filled with plaster dust after 2 weeks of repair work in my livingroom, diningroom and kitchen, all the result of damage from a leaky roof that had finally been replaced about a month ago. Now the time has come for some cleaning, priming and painting, but this will probably be the last day of cool enough temperatures to work indoors and my original goal was to wait until September to start. Besides, I had a few errands that I needed to run and, since it didn't look like the rain was going to end any time soon, I decided to brave the elements and head out into the city.
My first stop was the bank on Walnut Street. I tapped the ATM and was heading to Suburban station to pick up my weekly trans-pass, but made an about face at 17th Street and walked to The Post bar instead.
The Post has been my old stomping ground for years and has been the subject of many postings (no pun intended) within this blog. But, as history has often repeated with this establishment, trouble befell the owner in the couple of years. It is my opinion that owning this bar is pretty much a curse rather than a blessing. Three owners have died (2 by illness and 1 by a drug overdose) and the last owner is now serving time in jail for dealing crystal meth. The new owners (a lesbian with or without a partner) has taken the liberty of finally doing what had needed to be done for several years: close the Post's doors and completely gut the place and remodel. Outside of some new paint and the occasional taping of an extension cord, this is the first remodel the bar has seen in nearly 2 decades. I don't know how long this remodel job is supposed to take, but from what I've seen today, it looks like progress is going smoothly and fairly quickly. Hopefully, this will also break the curse.
Today, I turned onto Chancellor Street and noticed that the door to the bar was open. I decided to have a look at what sort of remodelling was being done. I was more than taken by surprise by both the progress and the reveal of a bar that has been around for more than 30 years.
The core of the main pub, the large oval bar, was completely gone. In its place was nothing more than a pile of old sinks in the center of the room. The tvs that had often filled the room with images from everything from superbowl games to Oscars to the somber images of continuous coverage of the world trade center attack were gone. The ceiling (long ago ripped down to fix a bad leak and never repaired, but instead painted black in an attempt to make the termite infested wooden struts look more industrial) remained, but the ceiling fan was now dangling, hanging at an odd angle like the ghostly images of the barnacle encrusted chandelier taken at the site of the Titanic wreck.
Beyond the main room, past the narrow doorway that once led down a small ramp to the "game room" and the back bar beyond, the black painted walls were stripped, revealing the studs underneath. A lone green light (which instantly reminded me, for some reason, of the green light at the end of the dock in the Great Gatsby)dangled from the ceiling in that room. From my vantage point in the front door, the light seemed to hold a certain sadness to it, the way it dangled from a weak cord. I guess that was why I was reminded so much of Fitzgerald's book, something I hadn't thought about since Junior High when I read it. But I remember the symbolism behind that light in the story; how it represented Gatsby's longing for, not only Daisy, but everything: money, happiness, success. But it always came back to his one true love. And that's what this light brought to me. It was like I was suddenly seeing this bar's true history for the first time and how it longed for what it once was. The bar has seen so much tragedy and chaos. This light (to me) seemed to reflect that.
This image in my mind, this sense of history being revealed and the bar's longing to capture it (as strange as it may sound) became more relevant when my eyes scanned the main room and fell upon the graffiti riddled wall that once held the incredible male nude sketches done by the former owner's lover. As I said, all the walls have been stripped, but what lay underneath the drywall was evidence of another time, a long forgotten time.
I can only imagine that the writing on the wall had been done many many years ago back when the original Post bar was stripped of it's rich history for the first time, back when the rich panelling (from what I heard described) was torn down and the original bar (with its four strong columns standing guard on each corner) were removed. On the wall infront of me today was layer upon layer upon layer of spray-painted messages, some unreadable, some overlapping others, and some stood out: "Rodney Loves Phil", "Glory Daze", "This Sucks - Mike". These were just some of the messages on the wall that I could read (and remember before getting home to write this). It made me wonder about the men who spray painted these messages. Were they regulars back in the '70s? Was this their time capsule, so to speak? I wanted to walk further into the room and examine the writings more, but I heard noises coming from the back room.
As I write this, I am filled with a mixture of emotions: curiosity and wonder. Whatever happened to these people? Are they alive? Have they passed on? What would they think if they saw their little "tribute wall" had been exposed after all these years? Other emotions are happiness and sadness. Happy because I was able to stumble upon this and I know that not too many people will ever see this reveal. Sadness because, like that light, I long for the times when the Post was like family to me. Now all the regulars are scattered, their common thread destroyed by the greed of one man and his drugs.
No matter what is done to the post, no matter how many improvements they make, it will never be the same. Too many things have changed in the last couple of years. People--friends--who were tight back then are no longer talking to one another, while others have found new watering holes.
When that wall of writings is once again covered, it will be joined with the memories of the last of that generation along with the memories of a new generation that had never witnessed what The Post was like in its true hay day. The memories will be drywalled, spackled and painted over, forever covered. Sure, there may be times to remember and talk, but like everything else, the images will begin to fade, being replaced with new memories, some good and some not so good.
As I write this, a new band of heavy rains begins to beat against my bedroom window. In August, I'm wearing jeans, a t-shirt and a button down flannel. The sky is still grey and cold.
...And a bar stands alone, its ghosts calling out from a mold-covered wall.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
A Bite Out of the Big Apple (Part 2) ...
Although I have done alot of writing recently (maybe I have a muse, who knows?), I looked back and much of it is negative. Whether it's fighting demon dogs or demon boyfriends, I have been getting out alot of buried emotions and feelings. I just felt it was time to write about something a little more positive; a good memory of mine. So, here it goes.
A while back, I wrote this blog about a trip I had taken to New York City to visit with my friend, Scott. (Ironically, that blog began very similarly to this one.)
Anyway, it was my birthday weekend, 2001, and I can honestly say that I haven't had a better birthday before or since. We had done so much that weekend that I can't really remember if it was Friday through Sunday or just an overnighter, but there was alot we did.
First of all, Scott had been warning me for the entire week prior that there was going to be alot of things in store for me, many big surprises. I had no idea what these things may be and he wasn't cluing me in on a single one of 'em. I was working that last day before heading up and he called me from the road, saying he was about 30 minutes away. I had suddenly gotten the feeling that there was going to be a limousine pulling up infront of work and I started to get alittle nervous...excited, but nervous. When he called again and said he was outside, I said good-bye to my co-workers and headed out. There he was, outside, waiting in his bright red Jeep Wrangler. I felt slightly relieved as I hopped inside, thinking that would've been over the top. But at the same time, I was sort of disappointed. It would've been a real treat to head up to New York in the back of a limo. After we started heading north, I reluctantly mentioned my thoughts to which Scott replied: "You know, I was actually thinking about hiring one, but money was beginning to get tight with everything else I had planned."
Everything else? Geez, what was I in for?
We arrived at his house in Astoria, Queens, a couple hours later and there was just enough time to shower and change before we were due to head out again. I still had no idea what we were doing or where we were going, but I at least figured it was going to be somewhere in Manhattan.
We hopped on the subway and headed into town, all the while Scott keeping shut about our evening. When we surfaced from the underground tunnels of Manhattan, we were somewhere in Midtown. Scott asked me if I figured out where we were going yet, but I still had no clue. We crossed several intersections and I kept my eyes peeled for anything or any place that I may have mentioned to him in passing, but nothing was coming to mind. Then, up ahead, I saw a sign. High above us, rising vertically against the side of the building, red neon beckoning us like a bug zapper to a moth: Radio City Music Hall. Scott looked at me and said: "Have you figured it out yet?"
For a while I remember thinking: Is he going to take me to see the Rockettes? It was December after all and Rockefeller Center was a world famous destination at Christmastime, the Rockettes being the headliner. But I wasn't a big fan of seeing a row of women kicking their legs up infront of me. I told him I still hadn't a clue. We turned the corner and headed towards the entrance to the main building in the complex, 30 Rockefeller Center. Once inside the lobby I became completely clueless. Until I noticed the bronze plaque hanging next to the elevator: Rainbow Room.
I looked at Scott, my mouth hanging open. "You've got to be kidding me."
"We're not eating here, but we don't have alot of time. We're on a tight schedule and we're just here for a drink."
We stepped into the elevator and the doors closed behind us. My
stomach turned and my ears popped as the express elevator quickly raced upwards and opened at the 65th floor. Waiting for the doors to open, I was anxious to see one of my favorite paintings come to life: Ken Keeley's Welcome New York, Day. It was my understanding that this was the view one would see when approaching the Rainbow Room. I was disappointed, however, when the doors opened and we stepped out into a darkly paneled hallway. But that disappointment didn't last long when we were escorted to our table in the Rainbow Grille, with it's panoramic view of lower Manhattan. Although we were seated in the center of the room (apparently, the tables along the windows were reserved days in advance), the view was spectacular. Evening had arrived and the city was aglow all around (and below) us. It was a crisp clear December night and the lights of the city and New Jersey were spread out like a blanket as far as the eye can see.
The one somber image three months after the event was the stark white glow coming to us from Lower Manhattan. Ground Zero. Like the last burning embers of a dying campfire, the glow beckoned everyone's attention, the buildings surrounding Ground Zero silhouettes; bordering the perimeter like dedicated soldiers keeping watch. Around the glass enclosed room, you can see all eyes stealing glances in that direction, whispers being made, memories kept fresh with the site of a thin layer of smoke still drifting up from underground even after all these weeks.
As with everyone else, Scott and I looked out, thinking our own thoughts, reliving our own fears and memories. It was something that needed to be done before moving on. Before long, however, we were toasting over deliciously overpriced drinks and readying ourselves for the rest of the night.
I don't remember the exact order of things that happened next, but what happened when we left 30 Rock was a surprising treat. We stumbled upon a street artist. A crowd had gathered in the chilly night to watch the man crouched down on the cement, an assortment of spray cans and household tools surrounded him. We watched as he set out a blank sheet of paper and went to work, layering color upon color of spray paint onto the paper and then scratching combs and putty knives and paint cans across the surface in practiced precision, created a colorful skyline of New York City. I was amazed at how this guy worked and stayed to watch him do a few more. Scott tried to urge me on (the time frame for our next destination was apparently growing thin). I held off leaving to watch the street person do a couple more. It was taking him all of about 3 minutes to create each image.
I finally turned away to light a cigarette. When I turned back, for a second I couldn't find Scott. I looked up and down the street until finally I spotted him emerging from the gathering crowd. He smiled and handed me a rolled up piece of paper.
"What's this?" I asked, taking the baton.
"A taste of New York." He replied.
"Thanks again, Sir!" A voice called out. I looked past Scott and saw the street artist looking in our direction.
Our next stop was a place I have only heard of by reputation, although that rep was long dead. We arrived at Studio 54 to see Molly Ringwald in "Cabaret". What amazed me about Studio 54 was the fact that it was alot smaller than I envisioned. What amazed me more (about Cabaret and Scott) was that I found ourselves sitting in the front row of small cocktail tables. Floored was an understatement. The actors, when entering or exiting the stage, had to pass right by us. At one point, I looked up and Molly was standing right next to me getting ready to run up on stage. It was really something.
During intermission, we had a drink or two at the bar up on the balcony, talked about what it must've been like to have been here to witness all that had taken place within these walls, all the screwing, all the drug taking, all the celebrity spotting. Things that will never be repeated again with such debauchery.
After the show, we had to jump into a cab for our next destination. We exited the cab in The Village and walked down a narrow alleyway to a small carriage house once owned by Aaron Burr, Vice President to Thomas Jefferson, but who's political career was completely severed after duel challenge led to his fatally shooting Alexander Hamilton.
One if by Land - Two if by Sea was a an incredible place to have dinner. We waited at the bar, beside the 2-story illuminated Christmas tree, waiting for our table to be ready. The bartender offered us a glass of wine while we waited and, although I can't remember the details, we watched as some wealthy woman sat at the bar and got drunk. I seem to recall her singing to the piano player, but I could be mistaken. Once at the dinner, we shared a bottle of wine, toasted my birthday and ordered dinner. I don't remember what I had for dinner, but one thing I do remember was desert.
At work, there is a coffee shop downstairs that I went to every morning. A wide array of flavored coffees offered, my favorite pick when available was always the creme brulee. Scott, at some point, had prearranged to have my desert be the crem brulee (instead of the traditional slice of birthday cake). Incredibly rich, it was the perfect ending to a great night.
After dinner, we went to a couple of bars, had a few drinks and hopped into a cab for the ride back to Queens. I thanked Scott for a fantastic night on the town to which he replied: "There's one more thing." He set a large wrapped box on the bed. I stared down at it, unable to figure out what it was. He had already done too much for me and this, I felt, was going to be over the top and I pretty much told him so.
"It's something you mentioned liking and really, it wasn't all that much." he said.
I unwrapped the box and pulled back the flap. Inside was something wrapped in bubble wrap. I pulled it out. It was a picture...
Okay..this is where I have to do some explaining: We were both co-workers in 2 separate Thomas Kinkade Galleries, me in philly, him in New York. I, personally, cannot stand the artist, but I knew when I took the job how popular he was and that it was going to be some easy money to make, which it was. What I didn't know about Kinkade was that he had a series of Plein Aire paintings. These were images outside the normal "light" thing that he is best known for. A more impressionistic style, these were quick paintings he did on location around the world, often using these as studies for his more detailed works. Of these impressionistic paintings, my favorite was a small 8x10 image of London's Tower Bridge. The oringal not for sale, his canvas lithograph was an already sold-out edition of 550. I've never been to London, but for some reason the image of the Tower Bridge was something that I really liked. And here I was unwrapping it from a roll of bubble wrap on Scott's bed.
The next morning, it was back into the city. A walking tour in midtown. We took an elevator ride up to the top of the Empire State Building (kind of a surreal feeling considering 3 months prior we were at the top of a building that was no longer there). We did a little bit more walking before heading back to Queens and jumped into Scott's jeep for the ride back down to Philly.
So, that was it...
I have thanked him time and time again and I'll do it one more time. Thank you, Scott, for giving me the best birthday I have ever experienced, filled with drinks, fun, celebrity spotting and cherished gifts and memories. It's great to have a friend like you and I only wish we can share more good times together instead of over the phone or the internet.
Scott recently paid me a visit a couple months ago. I'll write about that in a future post.
A while back, I wrote this blog about a trip I had taken to New York City to visit with my friend, Scott. (Ironically, that blog began very similarly to this one.)
Anyway, it was my birthday weekend, 2001, and I can honestly say that I haven't had a better birthday before or since. We had done so much that weekend that I can't really remember if it was Friday through Sunday or just an overnighter, but there was alot we did.
First of all, Scott had been warning me for the entire week prior that there was going to be alot of things in store for me, many big surprises. I had no idea what these things may be and he wasn't cluing me in on a single one of 'em. I was working that last day before heading up and he called me from the road, saying he was about 30 minutes away. I had suddenly gotten the feeling that there was going to be a limousine pulling up infront of work and I started to get alittle nervous...excited, but nervous. When he called again and said he was outside, I said good-bye to my co-workers and headed out. There he was, outside, waiting in his bright red Jeep Wrangler. I felt slightly relieved as I hopped inside, thinking that would've been over the top. But at the same time, I was sort of disappointed. It would've been a real treat to head up to New York in the back of a limo. After we started heading north, I reluctantly mentioned my thoughts to which Scott replied: "You know, I was actually thinking about hiring one, but money was beginning to get tight with everything else I had planned."
Everything else? Geez, what was I in for?
We arrived at his house in Astoria, Queens, a couple hours later and there was just enough time to shower and change before we were due to head out again. I still had no idea what we were doing or where we were going, but I at least figured it was going to be somewhere in Manhattan.
We hopped on the subway and headed into town, all the while Scott keeping shut about our evening. When we surfaced from the underground tunnels of Manhattan, we were somewhere in Midtown. Scott asked me if I figured out where we were going yet, but I still had no clue. We crossed several intersections and I kept my eyes peeled for anything or any place that I may have mentioned to him in passing, but nothing was coming to mind. Then, up ahead, I saw a sign. High above us, rising vertically against the side of the building, red neon beckoning us like a bug zapper to a moth: Radio City Music Hall. Scott looked at me and said: "Have you figured it out yet?"
For a while I remember thinking: Is he going to take me to see the Rockettes? It was December after all and Rockefeller Center was a world famous destination at Christmastime, the Rockettes being the headliner. But I wasn't a big fan of seeing a row of women kicking their legs up infront of me. I told him I still hadn't a clue. We turned the corner and headed towards the entrance to the main building in the complex, 30 Rockefeller Center. Once inside the lobby I became completely clueless. Until I noticed the bronze plaque hanging next to the elevator: Rainbow Room.
I looked at Scott, my mouth hanging open. "You've got to be kidding me."
"We're not eating here, but we don't have alot of time. We're on a tight schedule and we're just here for a drink."
We stepped into the elevator and the doors closed behind us. My
stomach turned and my ears popped as the express elevator quickly raced upwards and opened at the 65th floor. Waiting for the doors to open, I was anxious to see one of my favorite paintings come to life: Ken Keeley's Welcome New York, Day. It was my understanding that this was the view one would see when approaching the Rainbow Room. I was disappointed, however, when the doors opened and we stepped out into a darkly paneled hallway. But that disappointment didn't last long when we were escorted to our table in the Rainbow Grille, with it's panoramic view of lower Manhattan. Although we were seated in the center of the room (apparently, the tables along the windows were reserved days in advance), the view was spectacular. Evening had arrived and the city was aglow all around (and below) us. It was a crisp clear December night and the lights of the city and New Jersey were spread out like a blanket as far as the eye can see.The one somber image three months after the event was the stark white glow coming to us from Lower Manhattan. Ground Zero. Like the last burning embers of a dying campfire, the glow beckoned everyone's attention, the buildings surrounding Ground Zero silhouettes; bordering the perimeter like dedicated soldiers keeping watch. Around the glass enclosed room, you can see all eyes stealing glances in that direction, whispers being made, memories kept fresh with the site of a thin layer of smoke still drifting up from underground even after all these weeks.
As with everyone else, Scott and I looked out, thinking our own thoughts, reliving our own fears and memories. It was something that needed to be done before moving on. Before long, however, we were toasting over deliciously overpriced drinks and readying ourselves for the rest of the night.
I don't remember the exact order of things that happened next, but what happened when we left 30 Rock was a surprising treat. We stumbled upon a street artist. A crowd had gathered in the chilly night to watch the man crouched down on the cement, an assortment of spray cans and household tools surrounded him. We watched as he set out a blank sheet of paper and went to work, layering color upon color of spray paint onto the paper and then scratching combs and putty knives and paint cans across the surface in practiced precision, created a colorful skyline of New York City. I was amazed at how this guy worked and stayed to watch him do a few more. Scott tried to urge me on (the time frame for our next destination was apparently growing thin). I held off leaving to watch the street person do a couple more. It was taking him all of about 3 minutes to create each image.
I finally turned away to light a cigarette. When I turned back, for a second I couldn't find Scott. I looked up and down the street until finally I spotted him emerging from the gathering crowd. He smiled and handed me a rolled up piece of paper.
"What's this?" I asked, taking the baton.
"A taste of New York." He replied.
"Thanks again, Sir!" A voice called out. I looked past Scott and saw the street artist looking in our direction.
Our next stop was a place I have only heard of by reputation, although that rep was long dead. We arrived at Studio 54 to see Molly Ringwald in "Cabaret". What amazed me about Studio 54 was the fact that it was alot smaller than I envisioned. What amazed me more (about Cabaret and Scott) was that I found ourselves sitting in the front row of small cocktail tables. Floored was an understatement. The actors, when entering or exiting the stage, had to pass right by us. At one point, I looked up and Molly was standing right next to me getting ready to run up on stage. It was really something.During intermission, we had a drink or two at the bar up on the balcony, talked about what it must've been like to have been here to witness all that had taken place within these walls, all the screwing, all the drug taking, all the celebrity spotting. Things that will never be repeated again with such debauchery.
After the show, we had to jump into a cab for our next destination. We exited the cab in The Village and walked down a narrow alleyway to a small carriage house once owned by Aaron Burr, Vice President to Thomas Jefferson, but who's political career was completely severed after duel challenge led to his fatally shooting Alexander Hamilton.
One if by Land - Two if by Sea was a an incredible place to have dinner. We waited at the bar, beside the 2-story illuminated Christmas tree, waiting for our table to be ready. The bartender offered us a glass of wine while we waited and, although I can't remember the details, we watched as some wealthy woman sat at the bar and got drunk. I seem to recall her singing to the piano player, but I could be mistaken. Once at the dinner, we shared a bottle of wine, toasted my birthday and ordered dinner. I don't remember what I had for dinner, but one thing I do remember was desert. At work, there is a coffee shop downstairs that I went to every morning. A wide array of flavored coffees offered, my favorite pick when available was always the creme brulee. Scott, at some point, had prearranged to have my desert be the crem brulee (instead of the traditional slice of birthday cake). Incredibly rich, it was the perfect ending to a great night.
After dinner, we went to a couple of bars, had a few drinks and hopped into a cab for the ride back to Queens. I thanked Scott for a fantastic night on the town to which he replied: "There's one more thing." He set a large wrapped box on the bed. I stared down at it, unable to figure out what it was. He had already done too much for me and this, I felt, was going to be over the top and I pretty much told him so.
"It's something you mentioned liking and really, it wasn't all that much." he said.
I unwrapped the box and pulled back the flap. Inside was something wrapped in bubble wrap. I pulled it out. It was a picture...
Okay..this is where I have to do some explaining: We were both co-workers in 2 separate Thomas Kinkade Galleries, me in philly, him in New York. I, personally, cannot stand the artist, but I knew when I took the job how popular he was and that it was going to be some easy money to make, which it was. What I didn't know about Kinkade was that he had a series of Plein Aire paintings. These were images outside the normal "light" thing that he is best known for. A more impressionistic style, these were quick paintings he did on location around the world, often using these as studies for his more detailed works. Of these impressionistic paintings, my favorite was a small 8x10 image of London's Tower Bridge. The oringal not for sale, his canvas lithograph was an already sold-out edition of 550. I've never been to London, but for some reason the image of the Tower Bridge was something that I really liked. And here I was unwrapping it from a roll of bubble wrap on Scott's bed.
The next morning, it was back into the city. A walking tour in midtown. We took an elevator ride up to the top of the Empire State Building (kind of a surreal feeling considering 3 months prior we were at the top of a building that was no longer there). We did a little bit more walking before heading back to Queens and jumped into Scott's jeep for the ride back down to Philly.
So, that was it...
I have thanked him time and time again and I'll do it one more time. Thank you, Scott, for giving me the best birthday I have ever experienced, filled with drinks, fun, celebrity spotting and cherished gifts and memories. It's great to have a friend like you and I only wish we can share more good times together instead of over the phone or the internet.
Scott recently paid me a visit a couple months ago. I'll write about that in a future post.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Goal 1, Day 1, Part 2 (The Demon Dog) ...
When last we left our non-smoker, he was battling temptation by refusing to get out of bed and make coffee...
Before I go any further, I need to best try and describe this smoking addiction and how I view this battle between myself and my demon. I tend to be a very internally visual person, allowing my mind to race into parts unknown, creating scenarios that more often than not become nothing more than an overactive imagination. My friends often say that I over analyze things and sometimes they are right. There are other times when my thoughts and feelings are right on the mark, or at least within the in-field. Psychic? Some say.
But I'm drifting away again...
Back to my monster...
On my first morning as a non-smoker, I decided to walk the 20-25 blocks to work, meandering through the tree lined streets of Center City. What I didn't expect at such an early hour, however, was the heat. At nine a.m. it was already pushing 80 degrees and the humidity was climbing at a rapid pace. By the time I was halfway to work, I found myself trying to find every sliver of shadow to hide from the blistering sun. As I made my way down Walnut Street, I quickly discovered that I wasn't the only person walking in this fashion. It seemed like several people were hugging the stone and brick facades of the storefronts, afraid to step out into the harsh morning sunlight as if they may instantaneously burst into flames if any bit of their sweaty flesh should come within direct contact.
I watched as these people (and myself) inched closer and closer to the buildings with each passing block as the shadows grew shorter from the rising sun. And all the while, I kept wanting a cigarette even though I knew that, in this heat, inhaling a lungful of smoke was about as pleasurable as kneeling down behind a 30 year old VW Bug and inhaling the fumes through the exhaust pipe (not that I've ever tried, mind you). But the feeling; the need for a cigarette continued to eat away inside me, trying to get me to reach into the breast pocket of my shirt and pull out the 1/2 empty pack of smokes I foolishly brought with me that morning (for just such a mental breakdown). I realized that this feeling was really taking control, eating away at my insides to the point where it was beginning to feel more physical than mental.
The feeling was beginning to take on a shape...
As I begin to describe this monster within me, I can't help but be drawn back to a short story I once read: "The Sun Dog", written by Stephen King, and found in a book with three other novellas titled "Four Past Midnight".
In "The Sun Dog", the main character, a boy of about 11, receives a Sun camera for his birthday. It's one of those poloroid jobs where each picture is spit out of the camera with a mechanical whirring sound and you can watch as the picture slowly begins to develope infront of you. The camera this boy received, however, only took what appeared to be one photograph; a photograph of a picket fence outside of a rundown house. With each click of the button, the camera would spit out the same image no matter where you pointed the viewfinder. Even replacing the film didn't change the outcome. Except for the shadow...
Slowly, from the left side of the developed photos, a shadow starts to appear. In each picture taken, the shadow grows larger until a dog, mangy and hungry looking, appears from outside the shot. With each picture it takes a step further into the frame. If you were to stack the photos on top of one another and quickly flip them (as they did in the story) a little movie would be created with this ugly dog walking into the shot from the left.
Then the dog slowly begins to turn toward the camera. Whomever is taking the initial photograph is spotted by the dog and the dog, in each photo progressively snapped, begins to charge the photographer; snarling for the camera; leaping into the air to attack.
So, the image of The Sun Dog became stuck in my head as I felt this monster deep inside me scratching, biting & clawing his way out, trying to satisfy its own need by making me light up. I can feel the pack of cigarettes in my breast pocket pressing against my chest with each step I took; a heartbeat against my own, pulsing in sinc with my own footfalls. It's the heartbeat of my demon.
My Sun Dog started to take shape in my mind. If you can imagine a poorly documented commercial on television, maybe one for some new pain relieving pill. "University studies have shown how this little green pill, when swallowed..."
--Cut to the bad diagram, white on a black screen, used as a visual tool. It is nothing more than the outline of a human being, the head turned in one direction, a raw diagram of the throat leading from the mouth down to the oval shape representing the stomach. Animating the diagram (a green circle being the pill) you see how the medicine reacts to the body, getting absorbed into the bloodstream and suddenly turning in many happy faces floating throughout the body, eliminating pain as they go.
I started to imagine that bad diagram as me. My insides consisted of nothing more than the outline of a throat and a stomach (and of course a bright box of Marlboros floating around in the left chest area where my breast pocket was located. My demon, not a Sun Dog as Stephen King described but my own demon dog, was not even really a dog per-say. It was more of a arts and craft creation gone wildly possessed.
For starters, my Domeon Dog appears in my mind as mostly 2-dimensional. He is like a piece of heavy duty black construction paper crudely cut into a shape that can only be described as part Jack Russel/part Pitbull, a combination of my most loved and most feared breeds. The edges of the cutting are slightly curled, casting the faintest hint of a shadow along the edges onto the background, the interior field of the human diagram (me). Its ears stand upright, giving the impression of a devil's horns. The mouth is cut out to appear always opened, but ready to snap shut; never smiling, always hungry and angry. The mishapen rows of upper and lower teeth, childlike cuttings of slightly different sized triangles cut from the blackness of the rest of the figure are razor sharp. The eyes are two construction paper cut-out on one side of the Demon Dog's profiled silouette, cartoonish, but alive with fire. The eyes are unseeing, but they know...they know the hunger.
When my Demon Dog moves, it's like stop-motion photography. Each movement is sharp and unflowing into the next; twitching. But it is constant and ferocious at the same time. The snarls from the Demon Dog are viscious and gutteral. The sharp claws on the black paws are feverishly clawing away, faster and faster, like a dog scratching at the base of a door, desperate to be let outside to relieve itself.
The Demon Dog is trapped in the crude outline of the stomach in the diagram. It's scratching and clawing at the outline, pushing and stretching the stomach from inside making it look like a mishapen elastic ball. The snarls are deep and angry. The firey eyes are fixed on the floating pack of cigarettes just inches away.
As I made my way through the tree line paths crossing the grounds in front of Independence Hall, I could actually feel the Demon Dog's prescence inside me, scratching his way to the surface. My hand reached for the pack of cigarettes in my pocket, but fingers never actually touched cardboard. Instead, I took a deep breath, held it a second and slowly let it out. I could feel the Demon Dog settle slightly in the pit of my stomach and I could actually hear him whimper softly. In my mind, I pictured the diagram stomach and the Demon Dog trapped within its outline. The stomach, in sinc with my deep breaths, seems to be shrinking slightly around the Demon Dog, giving it less room to move. I took another deep breath and imagined the Demon Dog being forced to crouch within the walls of the outlined stomach.
After a few more seconds of deep breaths, the Demon Dog was settled; the craving had passed.
But that dog was merely lying in wait, buying his time. There were several more opportunities for him to jump and stretch that stomach lining. Like a celebrity stalker, he just rested...and waited...
**Author's note: I am completing this posting on the morning of my forth day of Goal 1. Although I am doing well, I must admit, the Demon Dog has won a few battles over the last couple of days. The war will be long, I can tell.
Before I go any further, I need to best try and describe this smoking addiction and how I view this battle between myself and my demon. I tend to be a very internally visual person, allowing my mind to race into parts unknown, creating scenarios that more often than not become nothing more than an overactive imagination. My friends often say that I over analyze things and sometimes they are right. There are other times when my thoughts and feelings are right on the mark, or at least within the in-field. Psychic? Some say.
But I'm drifting away again...
Back to my monster...
On my first morning as a non-smoker, I decided to walk the 20-25 blocks to work, meandering through the tree lined streets of Center City. What I didn't expect at such an early hour, however, was the heat. At nine a.m. it was already pushing 80 degrees and the humidity was climbing at a rapid pace. By the time I was halfway to work, I found myself trying to find every sliver of shadow to hide from the blistering sun. As I made my way down Walnut Street, I quickly discovered that I wasn't the only person walking in this fashion. It seemed like several people were hugging the stone and brick facades of the storefronts, afraid to step out into the harsh morning sunlight as if they may instantaneously burst into flames if any bit of their sweaty flesh should come within direct contact.
I watched as these people (and myself) inched closer and closer to the buildings with each passing block as the shadows grew shorter from the rising sun. And all the while, I kept wanting a cigarette even though I knew that, in this heat, inhaling a lungful of smoke was about as pleasurable as kneeling down behind a 30 year old VW Bug and inhaling the fumes through the exhaust pipe (not that I've ever tried, mind you). But the feeling; the need for a cigarette continued to eat away inside me, trying to get me to reach into the breast pocket of my shirt and pull out the 1/2 empty pack of smokes I foolishly brought with me that morning (for just such a mental breakdown). I realized that this feeling was really taking control, eating away at my insides to the point where it was beginning to feel more physical than mental.
The feeling was beginning to take on a shape...
As I begin to describe this monster within me, I can't help but be drawn back to a short story I once read: "The Sun Dog", written by Stephen King, and found in a book with three other novellas titled "Four Past Midnight".
In "The Sun Dog", the main character, a boy of about 11, receives a Sun camera for his birthday. It's one of those poloroid jobs where each picture is spit out of the camera with a mechanical whirring sound and you can watch as the picture slowly begins to develope infront of you. The camera this boy received, however, only took what appeared to be one photograph; a photograph of a picket fence outside of a rundown house. With each click of the button, the camera would spit out the same image no matter where you pointed the viewfinder. Even replacing the film didn't change the outcome. Except for the shadow...
Slowly, from the left side of the developed photos, a shadow starts to appear. In each picture taken, the shadow grows larger until a dog, mangy and hungry looking, appears from outside the shot. With each picture it takes a step further into the frame. If you were to stack the photos on top of one another and quickly flip them (as they did in the story) a little movie would be created with this ugly dog walking into the shot from the left.
Then the dog slowly begins to turn toward the camera. Whomever is taking the initial photograph is spotted by the dog and the dog, in each photo progressively snapped, begins to charge the photographer; snarling for the camera; leaping into the air to attack.
So, the image of The Sun Dog became stuck in my head as I felt this monster deep inside me scratching, biting & clawing his way out, trying to satisfy its own need by making me light up. I can feel the pack of cigarettes in my breast pocket pressing against my chest with each step I took; a heartbeat against my own, pulsing in sinc with my own footfalls. It's the heartbeat of my demon.
My Sun Dog started to take shape in my mind. If you can imagine a poorly documented commercial on television, maybe one for some new pain relieving pill. "University studies have shown how this little green pill, when swallowed..."
--Cut to the bad diagram, white on a black screen, used as a visual tool. It is nothing more than the outline of a human being, the head turned in one direction, a raw diagram of the throat leading from the mouth down to the oval shape representing the stomach. Animating the diagram (a green circle being the pill) you see how the medicine reacts to the body, getting absorbed into the bloodstream and suddenly turning in many happy faces floating throughout the body, eliminating pain as they go.
I started to imagine that bad diagram as me. My insides consisted of nothing more than the outline of a throat and a stomach (and of course a bright box of Marlboros floating around in the left chest area where my breast pocket was located. My demon, not a Sun Dog as Stephen King described but my own demon dog, was not even really a dog per-say. It was more of a arts and craft creation gone wildly possessed.
For starters, my Domeon Dog appears in my mind as mostly 2-dimensional. He is like a piece of heavy duty black construction paper crudely cut into a shape that can only be described as part Jack Russel/part Pitbull, a combination of my most loved and most feared breeds. The edges of the cutting are slightly curled, casting the faintest hint of a shadow along the edges onto the background, the interior field of the human diagram (me). Its ears stand upright, giving the impression of a devil's horns. The mouth is cut out to appear always opened, but ready to snap shut; never smiling, always hungry and angry. The mishapen rows of upper and lower teeth, childlike cuttings of slightly different sized triangles cut from the blackness of the rest of the figure are razor sharp. The eyes are two construction paper cut-out on one side of the Demon Dog's profiled silouette, cartoonish, but alive with fire. The eyes are unseeing, but they know...they know the hunger.
When my Demon Dog moves, it's like stop-motion photography. Each movement is sharp and unflowing into the next; twitching. But it is constant and ferocious at the same time. The snarls from the Demon Dog are viscious and gutteral. The sharp claws on the black paws are feverishly clawing away, faster and faster, like a dog scratching at the base of a door, desperate to be let outside to relieve itself.
The Demon Dog is trapped in the crude outline of the stomach in the diagram. It's scratching and clawing at the outline, pushing and stretching the stomach from inside making it look like a mishapen elastic ball. The snarls are deep and angry. The firey eyes are fixed on the floating pack of cigarettes just inches away.
As I made my way through the tree line paths crossing the grounds in front of Independence Hall, I could actually feel the Demon Dog's prescence inside me, scratching his way to the surface. My hand reached for the pack of cigarettes in my pocket, but fingers never actually touched cardboard. Instead, I took a deep breath, held it a second and slowly let it out. I could feel the Demon Dog settle slightly in the pit of my stomach and I could actually hear him whimper softly. In my mind, I pictured the diagram stomach and the Demon Dog trapped within its outline. The stomach, in sinc with my deep breaths, seems to be shrinking slightly around the Demon Dog, giving it less room to move. I took another deep breath and imagined the Demon Dog being forced to crouch within the walls of the outlined stomach.
After a few more seconds of deep breaths, the Demon Dog was settled; the craving had passed.
But that dog was merely lying in wait, buying his time. There were several more opportunities for him to jump and stretch that stomach lining. Like a celebrity stalker, he just rested...and waited...
**Author's note: I am completing this posting on the morning of my forth day of Goal 1. Although I am doing well, I must admit, the Demon Dog has won a few battles over the last couple of days. The war will be long, I can tell.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Goal 1, Day 1 ...
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I awoke this morning as a non-smoker. Or at least that was my intention...
A few weeks back I wrote on here about my three life-changing goals I have mapped out: quit smoking, get back to the gym/eat more healthy & get out of debt. I have myself three separate dates to begin each, but never mentioned them to anyone. If I failed, or worse yet, never even attempted to start, then I really didn't want any more disappointment that what I would've dished out upon myself.
Yesterday was supposed to be my "prep day" for goal number one: cleaning, wiping down the mini-blinds, basically ridding the house of the aroma of stale cigarette smoke that has undoubtedly accumulated on every surface but unnoticed by me. But instead of cleaning, yesterday I awoke with sudden need to get things off my chest. I don't know if I had possibly had some sort of a dream to make me feel this but all morning, I felt a desperate need to write.
So, stealing a page from my friend, Rob's self-help manual, I sat infront of my computer and began to write a letter. A letter to a long-ago ex-boyfriend who had controlled my life. A form of "Therapy E-mail" as Rob likes to describe it. I really had no idea where the letter would take me or what I would write about. Nor did I have any clue that I would wind up sitting there at my desk for nearly two hours typing feverishly and reliving details from a relationship a lifetime ago. Least of all, I never realized the feelings of anger and hatred that would rise and swell inside me and spill out onto my computer screen.
By the time I had finished I was emotionally drained, but I didn't feel finished yet. There was still more to be said about a few other things going on in my life. So, I turned back to my computer, opened my email program and wrote a long winded letter to my friend, Scott, up in Maine.
When that letter was finally complete, I felt even more drained. I was seriously wanting a cigarette and my pack had already been finished off about an hour earlier. It was mid-afternoon and my original plan was to finish the pack of cigarettes I had that day (trying to spread them out into the evening) and that would be that. No more smokes. During the course of the day, I would be cleaning non-stop. But after writing for over 2 hours on my blog and then writing another long emotionally draining letter to Scott, the last thing I could think of was cleaning and the ONLY thing that dominated my mind was the need for a smoke.
I quickly grabbed a shower, got dressed and headed out the front door. I bought a pack of Marlboro's and walked the city streets, trying to clear my head. I found myself soon heading towards Uncles and quickly ducked inside for a beer. It was still early and I knew no one would be there, at least no one I really cared about. However, the place was loud with afternoon drunks and Willy's voice bouncing off the mirrored walls was enough to give me the feeling that my eardrums were about to begin bleeding, so I finished my beer and continued my walk.
Without even remembering how I got there, I found myself staring into the dark waters of the Delaware River, twenty blocks from my house. I stood on the cement banks and stared. A PATCO train slowly crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge. Joggers passed by me on the brick pathway. A sailboat lazily drifted downriver, its occupants basking in the afternoon sunlight. I stood there, unmoving, for about five minutes, taking everything in, the sounds, the smells, the sights. Across the river in New Jersey, past the waterfront development, I could make out the hazy treeline of some distant hill beyond Camden's city limits. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, letting the warm summer air fill my lungs. When I opened my eyes again, everything was the same. I really didn't know what to expect; maybe some sort of revelation, some clue as to what I was doing here. But everything was as it was; no clearing of the mind, to great idea, nothing. So, Like Forrest Gump when he reached the Atlantic Coastline, I simply turned around and headed back towards the city.
Needless to say, no prepwork was done to help me with Goal #1. The furthest I had gotten with that yesterday was a few loads of laundry, emptying and washing out my ashtrays and making the decision that, for the remainder of the day, any smoking will be done outside on the stoop. No great battle plan, but it was a start.
So...back to this morning, this first day of this first goal...
My alarm sounded at six a.m. and my eyes opened. I reached out and hit the alarm off. I was a non-smoker and I felt as if I could take on the world!
The feeling, unfortunately, lasted a fraction of a second when I remembered the 1/2 pack of cigarettes lying on the table downstairs in the livingroom. I can almost feel them taunting me; urging me out of bed to share with them that first cool drag of the morning which would ultimately set the tone for each drag thereafter. I can imagine the pack dancing across the back of the sofa, long female stockinged legs in high heeled shoes tapping across the back cushions, a provocative little twist of toe on the pillow, mimicing one stamping out a cigarette on a sidewalk. I can almost hear them calling out to me, begging me to smoke them. Their chorus of tiny voices sounding much like the high pitched giggles that first drifted out from deep within the colorful bushes to greet Dorothy when she took that long ago trip.
I needed coffee, but coffee would only encourage the smoking. They go hand in hand like peanut butter and jelly, Abbott and Costello, Shaggy and Scooby.
I eventually fell back to sleep.
I awoke a half hour later to my phone alarm going off. I quickly silented the second alarm and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I decided that my need for coffee was driving my desire for a cigarette, so I wasn't going to get out of bed to make any. I was just going to stay here until the time came to get into the shower. If the craving got too strong, I would simply force myself to nap for a few minutes.
Most people find this odd, but it's a habit I had long ago adopted from my mother. We are both slow morning risers and each set our alarm clocks hours before we actually need to be up. This gives me the opportunity to lounge around in bed while the coffee's brewing, watch the morning news and not have to worry about rushing to take a shower and get out the door. So forcing myself to take little naps to avoid the urge to smoke, even if it is making me miss my much needed morning coffee, wasn't such a major issue. I still had at least 90 minutes before I had to leave the house.
(To be continued...)
**author's note** unfortunately, by the time this is posted, I will have already failed my goal of the day. I really don't feel all that bad. I've been up since 6am and I had one cigarette at 6:30-PM All of this writing about the desire to smoke actually made said desire that much stronger. I'll talk about that more tomorrow.
A few weeks back I wrote on here about my three life-changing goals I have mapped out: quit smoking, get back to the gym/eat more healthy & get out of debt. I have myself three separate dates to begin each, but never mentioned them to anyone. If I failed, or worse yet, never even attempted to start, then I really didn't want any more disappointment that what I would've dished out upon myself.
Yesterday was supposed to be my "prep day" for goal number one: cleaning, wiping down the mini-blinds, basically ridding the house of the aroma of stale cigarette smoke that has undoubtedly accumulated on every surface but unnoticed by me. But instead of cleaning, yesterday I awoke with sudden need to get things off my chest. I don't know if I had possibly had some sort of a dream to make me feel this but all morning, I felt a desperate need to write.
So, stealing a page from my friend, Rob's self-help manual, I sat infront of my computer and began to write a letter. A letter to a long-ago ex-boyfriend who had controlled my life. A form of "Therapy E-mail" as Rob likes to describe it. I really had no idea where the letter would take me or what I would write about. Nor did I have any clue that I would wind up sitting there at my desk for nearly two hours typing feverishly and reliving details from a relationship a lifetime ago. Least of all, I never realized the feelings of anger and hatred that would rise and swell inside me and spill out onto my computer screen.
By the time I had finished I was emotionally drained, but I didn't feel finished yet. There was still more to be said about a few other things going on in my life. So, I turned back to my computer, opened my email program and wrote a long winded letter to my friend, Scott, up in Maine.
When that letter was finally complete, I felt even more drained. I was seriously wanting a cigarette and my pack had already been finished off about an hour earlier. It was mid-afternoon and my original plan was to finish the pack of cigarettes I had that day (trying to spread them out into the evening) and that would be that. No more smokes. During the course of the day, I would be cleaning non-stop. But after writing for over 2 hours on my blog and then writing another long emotionally draining letter to Scott, the last thing I could think of was cleaning and the ONLY thing that dominated my mind was the need for a smoke.
I quickly grabbed a shower, got dressed and headed out the front door. I bought a pack of Marlboro's and walked the city streets, trying to clear my head. I found myself soon heading towards Uncles and quickly ducked inside for a beer. It was still early and I knew no one would be there, at least no one I really cared about. However, the place was loud with afternoon drunks and Willy's voice bouncing off the mirrored walls was enough to give me the feeling that my eardrums were about to begin bleeding, so I finished my beer and continued my walk.
Without even remembering how I got there, I found myself staring into the dark waters of the Delaware River, twenty blocks from my house. I stood on the cement banks and stared. A PATCO train slowly crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge. Joggers passed by me on the brick pathway. A sailboat lazily drifted downriver, its occupants basking in the afternoon sunlight. I stood there, unmoving, for about five minutes, taking everything in, the sounds, the smells, the sights. Across the river in New Jersey, past the waterfront development, I could make out the hazy treeline of some distant hill beyond Camden's city limits. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, letting the warm summer air fill my lungs. When I opened my eyes again, everything was the same. I really didn't know what to expect; maybe some sort of revelation, some clue as to what I was doing here. But everything was as it was; no clearing of the mind, to great idea, nothing. So, Like Forrest Gump when he reached the Atlantic Coastline, I simply turned around and headed back towards the city.
Needless to say, no prepwork was done to help me with Goal #1. The furthest I had gotten with that yesterday was a few loads of laundry, emptying and washing out my ashtrays and making the decision that, for the remainder of the day, any smoking will be done outside on the stoop. No great battle plan, but it was a start.
So...back to this morning, this first day of this first goal...
My alarm sounded at six a.m. and my eyes opened. I reached out and hit the alarm off. I was a non-smoker and I felt as if I could take on the world!
The feeling, unfortunately, lasted a fraction of a second when I remembered the 1/2 pack of cigarettes lying on the table downstairs in the livingroom. I can almost feel them taunting me; urging me out of bed to share with them that first cool drag of the morning which would ultimately set the tone for each drag thereafter. I can imagine the pack dancing across the back of the sofa, long female stockinged legs in high heeled shoes tapping across the back cushions, a provocative little twist of toe on the pillow, mimicing one stamping out a cigarette on a sidewalk. I can almost hear them calling out to me, begging me to smoke them. Their chorus of tiny voices sounding much like the high pitched giggles that first drifted out from deep within the colorful bushes to greet Dorothy when she took that long ago trip.
I needed coffee, but coffee would only encourage the smoking. They go hand in hand like peanut butter and jelly, Abbott and Costello, Shaggy and Scooby.
I eventually fell back to sleep.
I awoke a half hour later to my phone alarm going off. I quickly silented the second alarm and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I decided that my need for coffee was driving my desire for a cigarette, so I wasn't going to get out of bed to make any. I was just going to stay here until the time came to get into the shower. If the craving got too strong, I would simply force myself to nap for a few minutes.
Most people find this odd, but it's a habit I had long ago adopted from my mother. We are both slow morning risers and each set our alarm clocks hours before we actually need to be up. This gives me the opportunity to lounge around in bed while the coffee's brewing, watch the morning news and not have to worry about rushing to take a shower and get out the door. So forcing myself to take little naps to avoid the urge to smoke, even if it is making me miss my much needed morning coffee, wasn't such a major issue. I still had at least 90 minutes before I had to leave the house.
(To be continued...)
**author's note** unfortunately, by the time this is posted, I will have already failed my goal of the day. I really don't feel all that bad. I've been up since 6am and I had one cigarette at 6:30-PM All of this writing about the desire to smoke actually made said desire that much stronger. I'll talk about that more tomorrow.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
A Letter ...
Dear Don,
In my starting efforts to try and better myself as a person, physically, spiritually and emotionally, it seems clear that I must travel back in time to try and figure out where some of my inner turmoil had begun. I cannot possibly blame you entirely, but there are several issues in my life that can be directly or indirectly traced back to you, our relationship and my avoidance of you after our break-up. Even the house I currently live in can be traced back to you since I started living here with a friend I had made after beginning to hang out at the 247 bar in order to avoid seeing you at Woody's. You were my first real boyfriend, but I don't think in the five years we were together I can actually say that I truly loved you and I realize now that I was nothing more than a possession to you.
I can remember seeing you way back 20-23 years ago in the CSR bar when we were both underage, me with long curly hair sitting alone at the bar and you coming in with your much older boyfriend, your hair spiked in that long forgotten '80s style wearing loud colored shirts to match. We never really spoke, but i thought you were attractive. It was a few years later when you finally came up to me and began talking. I had always been shy but you, being the loud opinionated Italian/Irishman that you were, didn't care. We hung out as friends for a few weeks before we started dating. Little did I know that you were also dating someone else at the time, but you soon broke up with him and started going out with me. I realize now how volitile the relationship was from the get-go, but the weaker part of me was just happy to be in a relationship and that, I realize was my first huge mistake.
This all goes back to 1986. I know that because in the early summer of that year I purchased my first "new" car, a 1987 Chevy Beretta, bright red with tinted windows and custom pinstripe done by a childhood friend who did detail work in a car dealership. I know that because late in that summer, we had our first physical altercation and, as materialistic as the reason may have been, I had my true first opportunity to bag the relationship, but instead I made my 2nd huge mistake. I allowed you to manipulate me and allow me to blame myself.
We were down in Wildwood staying with your family and you, me and your two cousins, Julie and (I forget the older sister's name) went out barhopping. We all got alittle drunk and I really don't remember what started it all, but I got so pissed off at you that I flicked my cigarette at you and it bounced off your cheek. You came at me with such force and anger that I was sure an all-out brawl would ensue. But, as luck would have it, the bartender behind me saw the entire thing, leaped over the bar and grabbed you before you got to me. Ironically, it was you to be escorted out of the place while your cousins tried to calm me. I kept trying to tell your cousins that you were doing something to my new car, but they assured me that they knew you better than me and that you were just outside cooling off. They tried to get me to dance, but I had to see for myself.
We left the bar and headed for the parking lot. There you were, standing beside my car. You immediately started to apologize for overreacting, but I ignored you and carefully circled my car, scanning every inch of the bright red surface. It didn't take me long to notice the broken antennae and soon after the huge 2 foot long scratch going down the center of my hood. I remember staring at you and asking you point blank what had happened? I remember you trying to tell me that this was how you found the car. I remember your cousins telling you that that was bullshit; that I was just inside the bar telling them that you were out here doing something to my new car. Yet you kept denying it.
The ride back to the beachhouse was silent until you finally screamed out from the back seat that yes...it was you. I simply said, "I know" and continued driving.
Back at the beach house, the rest of your family was sound asleep. You apologized again and said that you would pay for the damages. You asked me if I was leaving. I wanted to so bad, just pack my car and drive home right then and there, never to lay eyes on you again. But it was also 3 in the morning and I had been drinking, so instead I continued to give you the silent treatment. You got up and walked out of the house and headed down to the beach.
Part of my silent treatment had been to keep my anger in check. The last thing I wanted was to raise royal hell with you and wake the entire family. So I followed you out to the beach, readying my self for battle. Instead, after yelling and screaming out there under a blanket of stars, I was suddenly on my knees crying and begging for YOUR forgiveness for being MAD. I still don't know how you managed to do that to me, but I remember you coming over to me and giving me a hug and, thinking about it still so vividly in my mind, I know now that that was your whole intention, to manipulate me into believing that my actions IN the bar led YOU to do damage to my car.
Over the next several months, I started to lose my longtime friends. Not so much lose them than give them up for you and YOUR friends, people I had nothing in common with. My waking hours were either spent at work (where you called me several times a day to make sure I was actually there) or your place. I stood by and watched my life slowly deteriorate and become your's. Our weekend nights out at woody's started fairly early and ended early because you had the need to pound back 3 or 4 shots of Jack Daniels within the first hour of being there and, in most cases, by 10:30 or 11 we were back at your place lying in bed and watching tv. You would get a 2nd wind and roll a joint or smoke a bowl. I would take acouple hits and roll over and go to sleep.
When you DID manage to make it through the night, we often went to the Bike stop. Several times there I would leave to go to the bathroom only to return and see you in a darkened corner feeling someone up. And what do I do? I turn the other cheek.
When I actually came across someone from my past, a guy I had a couple dates with a few years earlier, you were in the bathroom. We were upstairs at woody's and I was talking to this guy and you came out of the bathroom, grabbed the beer I was holding for you and stood there between us, defiantly. You stared at him and you looked back at me. "Who's this?"
"This is an old friend of mine, Dave. Dave, this is my boyfriend, Don." Dave reached out his hand, but you looked down at it and then back up at him and didn't say a word. I remember the look Dave had given you, but more importantly, the look he gave me. "Chris, it was good running into you. Good luck." And with that, he turned away.
"What did he mean by that?" You demanded.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? Why so rude?" I shot back.
"How do you know him?"
"I dated him...when I was 18!" I turned and walked away, livid. "Thanks for being such an ass to someone I haven't seen in 4 years."
"What? Do you want him again?"
I stopped right in the middle of the flight of stairs leading back down to the first floor. People trying to get by grumbled, but I ignored them. I Looked back at you and suddenly opened up with both barrels: "Let me get this right! I have to sit back and watch you flirt with complete strangers and feel them up and make out with them in the basement of the bikestop, but I come across an old friend and something has to be going on between us??? You're a fucking idiot!!!"
"You tell'm, girlfriend." someone in the passing crowd shouted. Who knows, it could've been Dave himself, but it was enough to make me see that I was causing a seen. I turned and continued down to the first floor and out of the bar.
You apologized and insisted on going back to Dave and apologizing to him, but I wouldn't allow it. I never saw or spoke to Dave again.
***cybernote to Dave DiPietro: it's been about 18 years since this occurred, but please accept MY apologies for having such an asshole as a boyfriend.
Another episode that clearly stands out in my mind, Don, was my best friend's wedding. We were about a year into our relationship and by this time, Mark had been another childhood friend that I let go because of you. But I still lived at home, across the street from him and was invited to his wedding, which so happened to be taking place down the street from your house. I stopped over to see you before heading to the wedding and told you I would see you later in the day. Instead I called you from the reception and told you that I was going to go to a party at Mark's parents' (across the street from where I grew up and lived). You grumbled and bitched and asked what were you supposed to do, just sit home and wait? I explained that I hadn't seen these people in a long time and I wanted to catch up. None of them knew that I was gay, let alone seeing another guy and I planned on keeping it that way.
So there we were, 15 or 20 of us out infront of Mark's house, laughing and drinking and remembering the good times. Then, from across the street, I heard my mother calling. It was after midnight and she was quite upset. "Don's on the phone. What the hell is he doing calling at this hour?" I picked up the phone and you were already screaming at me. "Where are you?"
"I'm at Mark's house. Why?"
"No you're not. I drove down your street and didn't see you."
"How can you miss us? We're the only house on the block with a bunch of bridesmaids in ugly dresses hanging out in the front yard."
"Well I'm going out for a DRINK!"
"Go then. I hanging out with my friends."
The next morning you called telling me you broke your wrist because you punched a wall after I made you so upset. I later found out that you punched a wall in the adult bookstore, putting a hole right through the drywall.
Don, we were in a bad relationship for over five years and for nearly four of those, I wanted out, but didn't know how. It had finally ended though on the day before Easter. I was in the middle of a project and was getting frustrated with myself and you wanted to go out. I said that I wasn't going to go out, but you were getting angry with me. I finally said, "Look, this just isn't working. Go out. Have a good time and leave me to what I have to do."
"Are you breaking up with me?"
"C'mon. I'm not happy. You're not happy."
"Fine!" And you hung up. I was actually relieved. It wasn't the reaction I was expecting, but at least another fight wasn't taking place. By this time all of our conversations were nothing more than arguements in different tones. But a few minutes later, you called me back. I figured it was going to be more apologizing and trying to work things out, something that I had no intention of doing. Not this time. I've apologized enough for your actions. Instead, you said the strangest thing: "I just want you to know that, if anyone asks, I'm telling them that this break up is YOUR fault."
"Fine, Don." I replied, exhausted. "Tell them whatever you want. I really don't care anymore."
I thought that that was the end of it, but was I in for a rude awakening. You once told me: "Don't ever cheat on me. I will find out." It was a strange comment to make, considering that, although our sex life was all but completely gone after the first 2 years, I was completely monogomous as I am in any relationship I'm in. But, Don, no truer words were spoken. For months and even YEARS after our break-up, I was running into people you had fooled around with behind MY back. Thinking back, I can remember you taking secretive phone calls in the other room.
So there you have it, Don. You were right. I WILL find out. I knew long before this letter was written. I have avoided you for a few years after our break-up because I was afraid that I would just out and out KILL you right there on sight. I started hanging out on the other side of town, met a new group of people. Kept our relationship secret and from there, through a series of paths, both good and bad; right and wrong, here I am, writing to you...FINALLY...after 16 years, to tell you how much I hate you. I hate you for manipulating me. I hate you for cheating on me. I hate you for making me give up all the friends of my youth. I hate you for so many things, but most of all, Don...I hate you for making me hate MYSELF.
I hate myself for ALLOWING you to manipulate me
I hate myself for ALLOWING you to make me give up my friends
I hate myself for KNOWING all along, on some level, that you were cheating on me and not nipping it in the bud.
I hate myself for PUTTING UP with this shit for five years.
I hate myself for WAITING 16 YEARS to tell you this
I hate myself for BURYING it only to let it surface and repeat itself in all but ONE reltationship since. And in that one relationship in which it didn't happen...
...I hate myself for THINKING that a relationship couldn't actually BE any other way.
Don, it wasn't until just this very second that I realized how much I actually buried my emotions where you were concerned. I write this letter and think: my God...did this actually HAPPEN to me?
I don't think that I will EVER see true happiness. Not in this lifetime. Time does not heal all wounds. In many cases, it just scabs over and scars, leaving you with a neverending reminder of the pain that once was. It's been 16 years and the hate, although buried deep down, is still there and is still strong. I will always carry the burden of having known you and will, more importantly, always carry the burden of losing my identity and my self worth.
People tell me I'm bitter and it's a name I have given myself. I am currently (as stated in the opening of this letter to you) trying to overcome it. Although you will never see this letter, it's out there as proof that I am finally letting it out. I am accepting my part in that mess of a relationship and that I am tired of granting your request of taking blame for our break-up. Although it's been a long time, it was a good 2 years after our break-up that I was able to break free of the whole "Don and Chris" label. Whenever people asked what happened, I bit my tongue and simply said things just didn't work out. It wasn't until much more recently that I am able to say that a good deal of who I am today was because of the emtional abuse that you put me through, but I still left everything vague. Now it's out, at least a couple of key examples of the MANY.
So, Don, it's been a long time coming, but I'm here to tell you that I will not let you win in the end. You have manipulated me for too long and I'm just seeing that now. It's going to stop. So let me just give you one last piece of advise before I forever put this behind me and try to finally make pease with myself and get on with my life.
That little piece of advice: GO FUCK YOURSELF!
Chris
In my starting efforts to try and better myself as a person, physically, spiritually and emotionally, it seems clear that I must travel back in time to try and figure out where some of my inner turmoil had begun. I cannot possibly blame you entirely, but there are several issues in my life that can be directly or indirectly traced back to you, our relationship and my avoidance of you after our break-up. Even the house I currently live in can be traced back to you since I started living here with a friend I had made after beginning to hang out at the 247 bar in order to avoid seeing you at Woody's. You were my first real boyfriend, but I don't think in the five years we were together I can actually say that I truly loved you and I realize now that I was nothing more than a possession to you.
I can remember seeing you way back 20-23 years ago in the CSR bar when we were both underage, me with long curly hair sitting alone at the bar and you coming in with your much older boyfriend, your hair spiked in that long forgotten '80s style wearing loud colored shirts to match. We never really spoke, but i thought you were attractive. It was a few years later when you finally came up to me and began talking. I had always been shy but you, being the loud opinionated Italian/Irishman that you were, didn't care. We hung out as friends for a few weeks before we started dating. Little did I know that you were also dating someone else at the time, but you soon broke up with him and started going out with me. I realize now how volitile the relationship was from the get-go, but the weaker part of me was just happy to be in a relationship and that, I realize was my first huge mistake.
This all goes back to 1986. I know that because in the early summer of that year I purchased my first "new" car, a 1987 Chevy Beretta, bright red with tinted windows and custom pinstripe done by a childhood friend who did detail work in a car dealership. I know that because late in that summer, we had our first physical altercation and, as materialistic as the reason may have been, I had my true first opportunity to bag the relationship, but instead I made my 2nd huge mistake. I allowed you to manipulate me and allow me to blame myself.
We were down in Wildwood staying with your family and you, me and your two cousins, Julie and (I forget the older sister's name) went out barhopping. We all got alittle drunk and I really don't remember what started it all, but I got so pissed off at you that I flicked my cigarette at you and it bounced off your cheek. You came at me with such force and anger that I was sure an all-out brawl would ensue. But, as luck would have it, the bartender behind me saw the entire thing, leaped over the bar and grabbed you before you got to me. Ironically, it was you to be escorted out of the place while your cousins tried to calm me. I kept trying to tell your cousins that you were doing something to my new car, but they assured me that they knew you better than me and that you were just outside cooling off. They tried to get me to dance, but I had to see for myself.
We left the bar and headed for the parking lot. There you were, standing beside my car. You immediately started to apologize for overreacting, but I ignored you and carefully circled my car, scanning every inch of the bright red surface. It didn't take me long to notice the broken antennae and soon after the huge 2 foot long scratch going down the center of my hood. I remember staring at you and asking you point blank what had happened? I remember you trying to tell me that this was how you found the car. I remember your cousins telling you that that was bullshit; that I was just inside the bar telling them that you were out here doing something to my new car. Yet you kept denying it.
The ride back to the beachhouse was silent until you finally screamed out from the back seat that yes...it was you. I simply said, "I know" and continued driving.
Back at the beach house, the rest of your family was sound asleep. You apologized again and said that you would pay for the damages. You asked me if I was leaving. I wanted to so bad, just pack my car and drive home right then and there, never to lay eyes on you again. But it was also 3 in the morning and I had been drinking, so instead I continued to give you the silent treatment. You got up and walked out of the house and headed down to the beach.
Part of my silent treatment had been to keep my anger in check. The last thing I wanted was to raise royal hell with you and wake the entire family. So I followed you out to the beach, readying my self for battle. Instead, after yelling and screaming out there under a blanket of stars, I was suddenly on my knees crying and begging for YOUR forgiveness for being MAD. I still don't know how you managed to do that to me, but I remember you coming over to me and giving me a hug and, thinking about it still so vividly in my mind, I know now that that was your whole intention, to manipulate me into believing that my actions IN the bar led YOU to do damage to my car.
Over the next several months, I started to lose my longtime friends. Not so much lose them than give them up for you and YOUR friends, people I had nothing in common with. My waking hours were either spent at work (where you called me several times a day to make sure I was actually there) or your place. I stood by and watched my life slowly deteriorate and become your's. Our weekend nights out at woody's started fairly early and ended early because you had the need to pound back 3 or 4 shots of Jack Daniels within the first hour of being there and, in most cases, by 10:30 or 11 we were back at your place lying in bed and watching tv. You would get a 2nd wind and roll a joint or smoke a bowl. I would take acouple hits and roll over and go to sleep.
When you DID manage to make it through the night, we often went to the Bike stop. Several times there I would leave to go to the bathroom only to return and see you in a darkened corner feeling someone up. And what do I do? I turn the other cheek.
When I actually came across someone from my past, a guy I had a couple dates with a few years earlier, you were in the bathroom. We were upstairs at woody's and I was talking to this guy and you came out of the bathroom, grabbed the beer I was holding for you and stood there between us, defiantly. You stared at him and you looked back at me. "Who's this?"
"This is an old friend of mine, Dave. Dave, this is my boyfriend, Don." Dave reached out his hand, but you looked down at it and then back up at him and didn't say a word. I remember the look Dave had given you, but more importantly, the look he gave me. "Chris, it was good running into you. Good luck." And with that, he turned away.
"What did he mean by that?" You demanded.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? Why so rude?" I shot back.
"How do you know him?"
"I dated him...when I was 18!" I turned and walked away, livid. "Thanks for being such an ass to someone I haven't seen in 4 years."
"What? Do you want him again?"
I stopped right in the middle of the flight of stairs leading back down to the first floor. People trying to get by grumbled, but I ignored them. I Looked back at you and suddenly opened up with both barrels: "Let me get this right! I have to sit back and watch you flirt with complete strangers and feel them up and make out with them in the basement of the bikestop, but I come across an old friend and something has to be going on between us??? You're a fucking idiot!!!"
"You tell'm, girlfriend." someone in the passing crowd shouted. Who knows, it could've been Dave himself, but it was enough to make me see that I was causing a seen. I turned and continued down to the first floor and out of the bar.
You apologized and insisted on going back to Dave and apologizing to him, but I wouldn't allow it. I never saw or spoke to Dave again.
***cybernote to Dave DiPietro: it's been about 18 years since this occurred, but please accept MY apologies for having such an asshole as a boyfriend.
Another episode that clearly stands out in my mind, Don, was my best friend's wedding. We were about a year into our relationship and by this time, Mark had been another childhood friend that I let go because of you. But I still lived at home, across the street from him and was invited to his wedding, which so happened to be taking place down the street from your house. I stopped over to see you before heading to the wedding and told you I would see you later in the day. Instead I called you from the reception and told you that I was going to go to a party at Mark's parents' (across the street from where I grew up and lived). You grumbled and bitched and asked what were you supposed to do, just sit home and wait? I explained that I hadn't seen these people in a long time and I wanted to catch up. None of them knew that I was gay, let alone seeing another guy and I planned on keeping it that way.
So there we were, 15 or 20 of us out infront of Mark's house, laughing and drinking and remembering the good times. Then, from across the street, I heard my mother calling. It was after midnight and she was quite upset. "Don's on the phone. What the hell is he doing calling at this hour?" I picked up the phone and you were already screaming at me. "Where are you?"
"I'm at Mark's house. Why?"
"No you're not. I drove down your street and didn't see you."
"How can you miss us? We're the only house on the block with a bunch of bridesmaids in ugly dresses hanging out in the front yard."
"Well I'm going out for a DRINK!"
"Go then. I hanging out with my friends."
The next morning you called telling me you broke your wrist because you punched a wall after I made you so upset. I later found out that you punched a wall in the adult bookstore, putting a hole right through the drywall.
Don, we were in a bad relationship for over five years and for nearly four of those, I wanted out, but didn't know how. It had finally ended though on the day before Easter. I was in the middle of a project and was getting frustrated with myself and you wanted to go out. I said that I wasn't going to go out, but you were getting angry with me. I finally said, "Look, this just isn't working. Go out. Have a good time and leave me to what I have to do."
"Are you breaking up with me?"
"C'mon. I'm not happy. You're not happy."
"Fine!" And you hung up. I was actually relieved. It wasn't the reaction I was expecting, but at least another fight wasn't taking place. By this time all of our conversations were nothing more than arguements in different tones. But a few minutes later, you called me back. I figured it was going to be more apologizing and trying to work things out, something that I had no intention of doing. Not this time. I've apologized enough for your actions. Instead, you said the strangest thing: "I just want you to know that, if anyone asks, I'm telling them that this break up is YOUR fault."
"Fine, Don." I replied, exhausted. "Tell them whatever you want. I really don't care anymore."
I thought that that was the end of it, but was I in for a rude awakening. You once told me: "Don't ever cheat on me. I will find out." It was a strange comment to make, considering that, although our sex life was all but completely gone after the first 2 years, I was completely monogomous as I am in any relationship I'm in. But, Don, no truer words were spoken. For months and even YEARS after our break-up, I was running into people you had fooled around with behind MY back. Thinking back, I can remember you taking secretive phone calls in the other room.
So there you have it, Don. You were right. I WILL find out. I knew long before this letter was written. I have avoided you for a few years after our break-up because I was afraid that I would just out and out KILL you right there on sight. I started hanging out on the other side of town, met a new group of people. Kept our relationship secret and from there, through a series of paths, both good and bad; right and wrong, here I am, writing to you...FINALLY...after 16 years, to tell you how much I hate you. I hate you for manipulating me. I hate you for cheating on me. I hate you for making me give up all the friends of my youth. I hate you for so many things, but most of all, Don...I hate you for making me hate MYSELF.
I hate myself for ALLOWING you to manipulate me
I hate myself for ALLOWING you to make me give up my friends
I hate myself for KNOWING all along, on some level, that you were cheating on me and not nipping it in the bud.
I hate myself for PUTTING UP with this shit for five years.
I hate myself for WAITING 16 YEARS to tell you this
I hate myself for BURYING it only to let it surface and repeat itself in all but ONE reltationship since. And in that one relationship in which it didn't happen...
...I hate myself for THINKING that a relationship couldn't actually BE any other way.
Don, it wasn't until just this very second that I realized how much I actually buried my emotions where you were concerned. I write this letter and think: my God...did this actually HAPPEN to me?
I don't think that I will EVER see true happiness. Not in this lifetime. Time does not heal all wounds. In many cases, it just scabs over and scars, leaving you with a neverending reminder of the pain that once was. It's been 16 years and the hate, although buried deep down, is still there and is still strong. I will always carry the burden of having known you and will, more importantly, always carry the burden of losing my identity and my self worth.
People tell me I'm bitter and it's a name I have given myself. I am currently (as stated in the opening of this letter to you) trying to overcome it. Although you will never see this letter, it's out there as proof that I am finally letting it out. I am accepting my part in that mess of a relationship and that I am tired of granting your request of taking blame for our break-up. Although it's been a long time, it was a good 2 years after our break-up that I was able to break free of the whole "Don and Chris" label. Whenever people asked what happened, I bit my tongue and simply said things just didn't work out. It wasn't until much more recently that I am able to say that a good deal of who I am today was because of the emtional abuse that you put me through, but I still left everything vague. Now it's out, at least a couple of key examples of the MANY.
So, Don, it's been a long time coming, but I'm here to tell you that I will not let you win in the end. You have manipulated me for too long and I'm just seeing that now. It's going to stop. So let me just give you one last piece of advise before I forever put this behind me and try to finally make pease with myself and get on with my life.
That little piece of advice: GO FUCK YOURSELF!
Chris
Thursday, July 26, 2007
To Kill a Mockingbird ...
The Old City Section of Philadelphia can be a very interesting area of town to work, play and relax. The architecture ranges anywhere from the original colonial structures dotting narrow cobblestone paths to Georgian and Victorian facades bordering streets like mismatched dominoes to large warehouses converted into overpriced lofts, while maintaining their Old City charm while holding on to their identities by keeping the names of thier original uses, like the Chocolate Works or the Hoopskirt Factory. Rising up from the rubble of some of the fallen and forgotten foundations, you can now see glass and steel reflecting the sunlight and giving those fortunate enough to afford it, a spectacular and unobstructed view of the office towers in Center City a mile west.
Tourists flock to this part of the city for the nation's history, found anywhere from Independence Hall and the Betsy Ross house to the new Liberty Bell Pavilion and the great fortresslike structure that is the National Constitution Center. Restaurants are packed, most days from open to close as visitors wait anxiously for their turn on the Duck Boats or the London double decker tour busses. The clip clop of a countless array of horse drawn carriages can barely be heard above the scripted tourguides telling riders the significance of The Real World House.
Walking the streets is much better than trying to navigate your way around siteseeing traffic, unless of course, you happen to be late for work or on your lunchbreak on a beautiful summer afternoon and suddenly find yourself on the tail end of a tourgroup of 30 to 50 people all stopping to snap pictures of a church steeple or a park bench that just so happens to have proof (read off of a bronzed plaque) that some founding father once sat there to clean the mud off his shoes.
I enjoy my casual morning strolls from the bus stop to work. Oftentimes, when the morning air isn't too thick with the building humidity of the day, I will walk from home, taking a different route each time and discovering things I have never seen before even after more than ten years living in Center City. It was upon one of these walks that I found myself suddenly attacked, without provocation. No, it wasn't a mugger. No, it wasn't a gang of misfit teens.
But I can honestly say that I now feel what it must've been like to be Tippy Hedren all alone in that little rowboat...
The other day, I was doing my usual walk from the bus stop, up 4th street to Arch, and decided to cut through the grounds of the Quaker Meeting House, a large 2-story brick building that takes up nearly an entire city block. Within the confines of the 8 foot bricked wall surrounding the grounds there are nice little garden areas with benches scattered about where you can sit and have lunch or escape from the noise of traffic passing down Arch Street.
That morning, however, I was doomed to cross the angry path of an overprotective mockingbird keeping a watchful eye on her nest.
Little did I know that mockingbirds build their nest low to the ground, under or in closely packed shrubs. I sort of found this out the hard way when I passed through the iron gates from 4th street and headed up the brick pathway that would lead me out through a matching set of gates directly across from work. I wasn't ten feet inside the walled garden when, above me and to my right, I hear a loud and obnoxious screech. There, ontop of a lightpost, is a mockingbird, it's head bobbing feverishly in my direction. It screeched again and took up toward the roof of the meetinghouse.
I ignored it and continued on my way, the tiny sound of the plastic grocery bag brushing against my leg is the only sound reaching my ears on an exceptionally quiet morning. As I rounded the corner, I suddenly got a chill up my back. It may have happened before the actual incident or it may have been simultanious. I couldn't be sure. All I know was that there was a soundless rush of air that passed by my left ear and I quickly spun around to catch the tail of the mockingbird disappearing up into the tree over me. I stopped and stared up, thinking that this bird did not just try to fly into me.
But there it was, out on a branch staring down at me, screeching and pointing with his head and....well...mocking me. I decided that I don't care how little that thing was, there was no way I was running. I stood there for a minute staring back up into the tree, watching the bird bounce from limb to limb until...and I can't tell if it was my imagination, but...it zeroed in on me. I stared in amazement as the bird spread his wings and took flight. Then, when its path was clear, it close its wings tight against the side of its body and, with a screech that I can only imagine sounding like the last sound to escape the mouth of a Kamikaze pilot, this demonbird came at me like a heat seeking missile.
With barely a second to react, I arched my back to try and get out of its path and swung my plastic bag up infront of me at the same time. The bird, as if pulled by a wire, suddenly did a sharp right turn just inches from my head and took off up into the tree again.
"Shit!" I shouted with a nervous laugh.
The bird perched itself once again on the branch and screeched, readying itself for another attack. It flew up and out of the leaves and came down towards me like a heavy stone, this time turning away higher up and landing once again on the roof.
I must've really looked like a fool out there in the middle of the garden, standing in the sunlight like a contortionist with turret's. I realized that I probably did look like a fool by the reaction to the group of hot firemen standing infront of the fire house on Arch Street, looking back in my direction and smiling. I took one last look up towards the roof and noticed that the bird was gone. Wary of another attack, I grabbed my plastic bag (and what little pride I had left) and headed to work.
***
(last night)...
After a couple hours of speaking to my friend, Rob, on-line, I headed downstairs to watch a special call "Ghost Adventures" or some such crap. It was a 2 hour special on the Sci-Fi channel and turned out to be pretty cheesy. Although there were a couple of clips that kinda got my blood crawling. It also happened to be at this point that Rob decides to call me on my cell.
I was lying on the sofa, shirtless, the phone resting on my stomach, set on vibrate. Glued to the television, I watched in awe as the makers of the documentary had caught, on film, bricks and boards in the basement of this supposed haunted hotel in New Mexico flying off of the floor and into a wall. The cameramen were so startled that they went off screaming down the corridor, their cameras capturing nothing more than out of control light and shadow.
My heart raced...
My breathing shallowed...
My vibrating phone comes to life on my stomach...
I scream...
After answering the phone and telling Rob what just happened, we chatted alittle bit about phone problems and he said he was going to bed and watch a DVD. It dawned on me that I still had 3 DVDs from Netflix that I've been holding onto for a couple of weeks, but I couldn't remember what they were. With him still on the phone, I opened each envelope and read the titles.
And I burst out laughing.
The last envelope held the most appropriate movie title, considering my ordeal on the grounds of the Quaker Meeting House.
The only thing better would've been Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.
But this is a close second....
To Kill a Mockingbird.
Tourists flock to this part of the city for the nation's history, found anywhere from Independence Hall and the Betsy Ross house to the new Liberty Bell Pavilion and the great fortresslike structure that is the National Constitution Center. Restaurants are packed, most days from open to close as visitors wait anxiously for their turn on the Duck Boats or the London double decker tour busses. The clip clop of a countless array of horse drawn carriages can barely be heard above the scripted tourguides telling riders the significance of The Real World House.
Walking the streets is much better than trying to navigate your way around siteseeing traffic, unless of course, you happen to be late for work or on your lunchbreak on a beautiful summer afternoon and suddenly find yourself on the tail end of a tourgroup of 30 to 50 people all stopping to snap pictures of a church steeple or a park bench that just so happens to have proof (read off of a bronzed plaque) that some founding father once sat there to clean the mud off his shoes.
I enjoy my casual morning strolls from the bus stop to work. Oftentimes, when the morning air isn't too thick with the building humidity of the day, I will walk from home, taking a different route each time and discovering things I have never seen before even after more than ten years living in Center City. It was upon one of these walks that I found myself suddenly attacked, without provocation. No, it wasn't a mugger. No, it wasn't a gang of misfit teens.
But I can honestly say that I now feel what it must've been like to be Tippy Hedren all alone in that little rowboat...
The other day, I was doing my usual walk from the bus stop, up 4th street to Arch, and decided to cut through the grounds of the Quaker Meeting House, a large 2-story brick building that takes up nearly an entire city block. Within the confines of the 8 foot bricked wall surrounding the grounds there are nice little garden areas with benches scattered about where you can sit and have lunch or escape from the noise of traffic passing down Arch Street.
That morning, however, I was doomed to cross the angry path of an overprotective mockingbird keeping a watchful eye on her nest.
Little did I know that mockingbirds build their nest low to the ground, under or in closely packed shrubs. I sort of found this out the hard way when I passed through the iron gates from 4th street and headed up the brick pathway that would lead me out through a matching set of gates directly across from work. I wasn't ten feet inside the walled garden when, above me and to my right, I hear a loud and obnoxious screech. There, ontop of a lightpost, is a mockingbird, it's head bobbing feverishly in my direction. It screeched again and took up toward the roof of the meetinghouse.
I ignored it and continued on my way, the tiny sound of the plastic grocery bag brushing against my leg is the only sound reaching my ears on an exceptionally quiet morning. As I rounded the corner, I suddenly got a chill up my back. It may have happened before the actual incident or it may have been simultanious. I couldn't be sure. All I know was that there was a soundless rush of air that passed by my left ear and I quickly spun around to catch the tail of the mockingbird disappearing up into the tree over me. I stopped and stared up, thinking that this bird did not just try to fly into me.
But there it was, out on a branch staring down at me, screeching and pointing with his head and....well...mocking me. I decided that I don't care how little that thing was, there was no way I was running. I stood there for a minute staring back up into the tree, watching the bird bounce from limb to limb until...and I can't tell if it was my imagination, but...it zeroed in on me. I stared in amazement as the bird spread his wings and took flight. Then, when its path was clear, it close its wings tight against the side of its body and, with a screech that I can only imagine sounding like the last sound to escape the mouth of a Kamikaze pilot, this demonbird came at me like a heat seeking missile.
With barely a second to react, I arched my back to try and get out of its path and swung my plastic bag up infront of me at the same time. The bird, as if pulled by a wire, suddenly did a sharp right turn just inches from my head and took off up into the tree again.
"Shit!" I shouted with a nervous laugh.
The bird perched itself once again on the branch and screeched, readying itself for another attack. It flew up and out of the leaves and came down towards me like a heavy stone, this time turning away higher up and landing once again on the roof.
I must've really looked like a fool out there in the middle of the garden, standing in the sunlight like a contortionist with turret's. I realized that I probably did look like a fool by the reaction to the group of hot firemen standing infront of the fire house on Arch Street, looking back in my direction and smiling. I took one last look up towards the roof and noticed that the bird was gone. Wary of another attack, I grabbed my plastic bag (and what little pride I had left) and headed to work.
***
(last night)...
After a couple hours of speaking to my friend, Rob, on-line, I headed downstairs to watch a special call "Ghost Adventures" or some such crap. It was a 2 hour special on the Sci-Fi channel and turned out to be pretty cheesy. Although there were a couple of clips that kinda got my blood crawling. It also happened to be at this point that Rob decides to call me on my cell.
I was lying on the sofa, shirtless, the phone resting on my stomach, set on vibrate. Glued to the television, I watched in awe as the makers of the documentary had caught, on film, bricks and boards in the basement of this supposed haunted hotel in New Mexico flying off of the floor and into a wall. The cameramen were so startled that they went off screaming down the corridor, their cameras capturing nothing more than out of control light and shadow.
My heart raced...
My breathing shallowed...
My vibrating phone comes to life on my stomach...
I scream...
After answering the phone and telling Rob what just happened, we chatted alittle bit about phone problems and he said he was going to bed and watch a DVD. It dawned on me that I still had 3 DVDs from Netflix that I've been holding onto for a couple of weeks, but I couldn't remember what they were. With him still on the phone, I opened each envelope and read the titles.
And I burst out laughing.
The last envelope held the most appropriate movie title, considering my ordeal on the grounds of the Quaker Meeting House.
The only thing better would've been Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.
But this is a close second....
To Kill a Mockingbird.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Three Dates Are Now Set ...
Life in a Nuthouse is a thing of the past, both figuratively and literally. The original name of this blog was to establish the ups and downs, comings and goings and ins and outs behind the walls that was The Post Bar. But the bar is all but completely gone. It is officially under new ownership and, although no one knows exactly when, it will close, be remodeled and re-open sometime in the future. It won't be the same and who knows if the old crowd will return or whether it will have the same sorted drunken drama as it did over the last several years, but it is no longer a "nuthouse" as my blog title once stated.
I have also removed the sub-heading of this blog because I think it's about time that I, along with the Post, need improvements, changes and a fresh start. No longer will my heading read bitter and middle aged. I'm 40 years old and it's time I reevaluate my life and my attitude. I have tried to rid myself of my bitter attitude in the past, but I have jokingly been labeled that for more than five years now and it's time for it to end. I don't like being told that my bitterness is why people like me or people I just meet already know me as bitter before even getting to KNOW me. It's going to be hard and it'll probably take a long time, but the last thing I would want to be remembered for was the fact that I spent my entire adult life seemingly resentful of all those around me.
I figured the best way to start down this new path was to make three changes in my life; three large changes that will ultimately improve my life and make the transition alittle easier...eventually. I have the dates set up and recorded on my calendar and there's no erasing them.
I will not announce these dates to anyone. They will be my own personal goals and start times. My self-esteem is low and always has been. The last thing I would want is to announce my dates to my friends (or in this case the entire cyberworld) and then either a: fail, or b: not start at all. I will be hard enough on myself if failure should occur and really do not need those around me to remind me that I have failed, or to show disappointment in my failure. I will say this though: 2 of the 3 goals are right around the corner.
So now the actual goals:
* First: Quit smoking
* Second: Get back to the gym on a regular basis (after re-joining). Included in goal number 2 will be to re-evaluate my eating habits as well. Something I've never looked at.
* Third: Get entirely out of debt.
This part, although there are thousands of people who are worse off than myself, seems to be the toughest hurdle. I've always had a roommate or housemate up until about 3 or 4 years ago. And at that time, when I started living by myself, I was at one of the lowest points of my life and I really didn't give a rat's ass about anything, myself included. Truly, the only reason I'm alive today and writing is that I have seen what suicide had done to my family in the past and I didn't want that to happen again. So, instead, I planted a fake smile on my face and perservered. It's not that I'm thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars in debt. In fact, I'm far from it. It just seems that, just when I think I'm gaining the upper hand, something falls apart. So, with each paycheck, more and more money winds up being spread thinner and thinner. Now, at work, sales are way down across the board (but it seems like there's an upsurge once again). However, due to my pay structure, it looks like it will be a couple to several more months before I'm ahead of the game again.
So there you have it; my three life altering goals. Wish me luck. I'm gonna need it...along with your support (my friends), maybe some guidance or suggestions when needed and, most importantly, understanding. There may be times when I will not be joining in in any of the reindeer games simply because the funds aren't there. Just understand and accept.
And by the way, there are some people out there (y'all know who you are) who have been an ear to talk to and I have gone after it like a hungry pitbull at times. I thank you and appreciate your allowing my rants.
Speaking of rants...
About this blog. As a sidebar sort of a goal, I am going to try to get back on this thing and keep it up to date. It may be rantings. It may be updates on the progress with my goals. It may be nothing more than talking about what mundane things I did that day or week.
I guess that's it for now. I'll be in touch!
Thanks!
Chris
I have also removed the sub-heading of this blog because I think it's about time that I, along with the Post, need improvements, changes and a fresh start. No longer will my heading read bitter and middle aged. I'm 40 years old and it's time I reevaluate my life and my attitude. I have tried to rid myself of my bitter attitude in the past, but I have jokingly been labeled that for more than five years now and it's time for it to end. I don't like being told that my bitterness is why people like me or people I just meet already know me as bitter before even getting to KNOW me. It's going to be hard and it'll probably take a long time, but the last thing I would want to be remembered for was the fact that I spent my entire adult life seemingly resentful of all those around me.
I figured the best way to start down this new path was to make three changes in my life; three large changes that will ultimately improve my life and make the transition alittle easier...eventually. I have the dates set up and recorded on my calendar and there's no erasing them.
I will not announce these dates to anyone. They will be my own personal goals and start times. My self-esteem is low and always has been. The last thing I would want is to announce my dates to my friends (or in this case the entire cyberworld) and then either a: fail, or b: not start at all. I will be hard enough on myself if failure should occur and really do not need those around me to remind me that I have failed, or to show disappointment in my failure. I will say this though: 2 of the 3 goals are right around the corner.
So now the actual goals:
* First: Quit smoking
* Second: Get back to the gym on a regular basis (after re-joining). Included in goal number 2 will be to re-evaluate my eating habits as well. Something I've never looked at.
* Third: Get entirely out of debt.
This part, although there are thousands of people who are worse off than myself, seems to be the toughest hurdle. I've always had a roommate or housemate up until about 3 or 4 years ago. And at that time, when I started living by myself, I was at one of the lowest points of my life and I really didn't give a rat's ass about anything, myself included. Truly, the only reason I'm alive today and writing is that I have seen what suicide had done to my family in the past and I didn't want that to happen again. So, instead, I planted a fake smile on my face and perservered. It's not that I'm thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars in debt. In fact, I'm far from it. It just seems that, just when I think I'm gaining the upper hand, something falls apart. So, with each paycheck, more and more money winds up being spread thinner and thinner. Now, at work, sales are way down across the board (but it seems like there's an upsurge once again). However, due to my pay structure, it looks like it will be a couple to several more months before I'm ahead of the game again.
So there you have it; my three life altering goals. Wish me luck. I'm gonna need it...along with your support (my friends), maybe some guidance or suggestions when needed and, most importantly, understanding. There may be times when I will not be joining in in any of the reindeer games simply because the funds aren't there. Just understand and accept.
And by the way, there are some people out there (y'all know who you are) who have been an ear to talk to and I have gone after it like a hungry pitbull at times. I thank you and appreciate your allowing my rants.
Speaking of rants...
About this blog. As a sidebar sort of a goal, I am going to try to get back on this thing and keep it up to date. It may be rantings. It may be updates on the progress with my goals. It may be nothing more than talking about what mundane things I did that day or week.
I guess that's it for now. I'll be in touch!
Thanks!
Chris
Monday, July 09, 2007
This is the first time in quite awhile that I'm actually writing anything and I realize that some of my friends may be shocked, But something happened to me last night and, although it happened four years ago, I've never written about it. I figured what better time than now, when it's fresh in my mind again.
Also, for some reason, I'm not able to title this (what is going to wind up being) drawn out story, so forgive me ahead of time.
I met my friend out for a couple of drinks at Uncles last night. We had both agreed ahead of time that it was going to be a quick night for the two of us; nothing more and a few beers (and the ritualistic shot). I arrived a few minutes before him and settled down with an ice cold bottle of beer (monkey piss to some who shall remain nameless). All in all it started out as a enjoyable, yet uneventful night. We shared some talk, laughs, shots. I received a nice box of fudge brought back from the shore (but stuffed into a Wawa bag--I haven't quite figured that one out yet).
One brief topic that came up was how a former housemate of mine entered my house unexpectedly (he had moved out a few months before) at 3 in the morning. It freaked me out so much so that I nearly crashed a lamp over his head as I heard him moving upstairs towards my bedroom. Considering what had happened to me a few months before (that story is what I'm now leading up to) it was a terrible thing for him to do to me at such an early hour.
I mentioned this to my friend last night and he wanted me to save this story and go into detail later. I happily agreed and he soon moved across to the other end of the bar to speak to another friend of his who had entered some time earlier.
I ordered another beer and made some brief conversation with the off-duty bartender who was sitting next to me. At one point, I took a swig from my bottle and looked across the bar to the cash register. I realized it was past midnight when the digital display read 7-9-7. I stared at the numbers for a few more seconds wondering the significance. Suddenly a chain reaction started to take place in my head:
* Who's birthday is it?...
* No ones
* Yes it is...
* No...
* It's something...
* Friend's, family's?...
* Crap! Anniversary...
* Mom & Dad...
* Remember to call or mom'll be pissed...
* She worries about you when you don't call...
* She'll think something happened...
* Like that other time...
* When that guy...
I suddenly felt my heart begin to pound harder as my eyes locked in on that digital readout before me. My mind raced back over the years. Images began to form in my head. Then came the voice, whispering once again in my ear. Deep, rough, angry:
"Don't scream. I don't want to hurt you..."
I suddenly didn't want to leave the bar. I knew it was in my head, but my body wouldn't move for a moment. I looked around the bar at the faces. People were laughing and joking. The music was blaring. Everything started to blend together as the mirrored walls closed in around me.
I closed my eyes and pushed it away. When I opened them again, things were back to normal. I figured it was now or never. I took one last swig of beer and got up to leave. My friend was at the bar near the exit and I told him I freaked myself out and was leaving. We have plans today and he said he was leaving in a couple minutes himself. I walked out the door and headed home.
One half of me kept telling me to grab a taxi, but I needed the air to try and clear my head, so I walked the 8 or 9 blocks to my house, all the while that night replayed itself over and over in my mind, not letting go. What freaked me out even more was that, outside of the bar I had just left, everything was identical to that night...including the date.
Four years ago, I had left another bar after deciding that I wasn't going to drink too much. Just a beer or two. I needed to get up the next morning for a job interview. It was a hot, muggy night and, as I made my way down the quiet Center City streets, I kept thinking about the coolness of my bedroom. After about ten minutes, I turned the corner onto my quiet tree-lined street. I reached my house and pulled my keys out and unlocked the security gate. I unlocked the inside door and stepped into my vestibule. I turned around, keys in hand, to close and lock the gate when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted movement to my left.
"Are you Michelle?" A voice asked. (I don't actually remember the name he used, but it was a girl's name.
"What?" I replied to the figure drawing nearer. My hand was on the gate and I was swinging it closed, key in hand and ready to lock.
"Are you Michelle?" He repeated. He was now at the foot of my stoop.
"No." I answered. My key was just touching the lock on the gate.
The above dialogue lasted less than 5 seconds. There was no alarm in my head. I was going through my normal procedure of locking the gate. But that brief exchange was all he needed to make a move.
He grabbed the gate and pulled. My hand was still gripping and, as I tried to pull it shut again, my mind could not grasp what was going on.
Who is this guy?
Do I know him?
Doesn't he know I don't look like a Michelle?
The alarm started to ring loudly in my head as we struggled with the gate, but at the same time I couldn't understand what was actually happening. Everything was happening so quickly. Only about ten seconds had now passed since this guy first spoke, but everything was happening in slow motion. He pulled hard on the gate and I felt it being torn out of my grip.
"Get in!" He shouted, stepping into the doorway.
I screamed for help as I reached my hands out infront of me to try and push him back outside. I still remember the oversized 53 on his chest; white numbers on a back blue football jersey.
He pushed me further into the house and kicked the door closed with his foot, all the while holding onto the neck of my t-shirt and pulling me closer to him. I yelled again, hoping someone was walking by my open window...but when I looked towards the window, I saw the fan on the floor and the blinds closed. It had rained earlier that day and I had shut the window. I mentally kicked myself.
It's amazing what goes through your head...
He through me down onto the floor and I felt his full weight ontop of me. I struggled to break free and I tried to scream again. I was lying face down on my livingroom floor and I felt his thick fingers begin to wrap around my neck. I tried to scream again, but when I took in a lungfull of air, his fingers tightened.
"Don't scream. I don't want to hurt you." His words were harsh in my ears. His breath was hot.
I didn't listen. I tried to scream again, but as his fingers tightened around my throat even further, all that escaped my lips was a throaty gurgle. I felt my eyes begin to water and white spots soon replaced my vision of the television stand a few feet infront of me.
"Shut up!" he barked through clenched teeth. "I told you, I don't want to hurt you."
His fingers relaxed, but as one hand completely released itself from my neck, the other held their position, threatening me.
I pleaded, both to him and to God. My words were soft and caught between sobs. The weight of this guy (who was actually about 190 or so pounds) felt like a car ontop of me. I felt his free hand searching my pockets, pulling my wallet out.
I suddenly remembered my grandfather's high school ring, a gift the previous Christmas from my mother. It had never been off of my finger and it suddenly dawned on me that, although small and of little value except to me, it was in plain view of my attacker. I struggled to pull my hand inside and under my chest.
I didn't have any money on me which, on one hand, was a good thing. He wasn't going to take anything, but my pride, dignity and feeling of security within my own home. It wasn't until he flipped me over that I realized he may take something else.
I was now on my back. My attacker was straddled across my chest. Both of us were breathing heavy. He reached into one of his pockets of his baggy black pants and said to me: "Let's see what you got upstairs."
It was then that I saw the knife he had slipped out of his pocket...
Also, for some reason, I'm not able to title this (what is going to wind up being) drawn out story, so forgive me ahead of time.
I met my friend out for a couple of drinks at Uncles last night. We had both agreed ahead of time that it was going to be a quick night for the two of us; nothing more and a few beers (and the ritualistic shot). I arrived a few minutes before him and settled down with an ice cold bottle of beer (monkey piss to some who shall remain nameless). All in all it started out as a enjoyable, yet uneventful night. We shared some talk, laughs, shots. I received a nice box of fudge brought back from the shore (but stuffed into a Wawa bag--I haven't quite figured that one out yet).
One brief topic that came up was how a former housemate of mine entered my house unexpectedly (he had moved out a few months before) at 3 in the morning. It freaked me out so much so that I nearly crashed a lamp over his head as I heard him moving upstairs towards my bedroom. Considering what had happened to me a few months before (that story is what I'm now leading up to) it was a terrible thing for him to do to me at such an early hour.
I mentioned this to my friend last night and he wanted me to save this story and go into detail later. I happily agreed and he soon moved across to the other end of the bar to speak to another friend of his who had entered some time earlier.
I ordered another beer and made some brief conversation with the off-duty bartender who was sitting next to me. At one point, I took a swig from my bottle and looked across the bar to the cash register. I realized it was past midnight when the digital display read 7-9-7. I stared at the numbers for a few more seconds wondering the significance. Suddenly a chain reaction started to take place in my head:
* Who's birthday is it?...
* No ones
* Yes it is...
* No...
* It's something...
* Friend's, family's?...
* Crap! Anniversary...
* Mom & Dad...
* Remember to call or mom'll be pissed...
* She worries about you when you don't call...
* She'll think something happened...
* Like that other time...
* When that guy...
I suddenly felt my heart begin to pound harder as my eyes locked in on that digital readout before me. My mind raced back over the years. Images began to form in my head. Then came the voice, whispering once again in my ear. Deep, rough, angry:
"Don't scream. I don't want to hurt you..."
I suddenly didn't want to leave the bar. I knew it was in my head, but my body wouldn't move for a moment. I looked around the bar at the faces. People were laughing and joking. The music was blaring. Everything started to blend together as the mirrored walls closed in around me.
I closed my eyes and pushed it away. When I opened them again, things were back to normal. I figured it was now or never. I took one last swig of beer and got up to leave. My friend was at the bar near the exit and I told him I freaked myself out and was leaving. We have plans today and he said he was leaving in a couple minutes himself. I walked out the door and headed home.
One half of me kept telling me to grab a taxi, but I needed the air to try and clear my head, so I walked the 8 or 9 blocks to my house, all the while that night replayed itself over and over in my mind, not letting go. What freaked me out even more was that, outside of the bar I had just left, everything was identical to that night...including the date.
Four years ago, I had left another bar after deciding that I wasn't going to drink too much. Just a beer or two. I needed to get up the next morning for a job interview. It was a hot, muggy night and, as I made my way down the quiet Center City streets, I kept thinking about the coolness of my bedroom. After about ten minutes, I turned the corner onto my quiet tree-lined street. I reached my house and pulled my keys out and unlocked the security gate. I unlocked the inside door and stepped into my vestibule. I turned around, keys in hand, to close and lock the gate when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted movement to my left.
"Are you Michelle?" A voice asked. (I don't actually remember the name he used, but it was a girl's name.
"What?" I replied to the figure drawing nearer. My hand was on the gate and I was swinging it closed, key in hand and ready to lock.
"Are you Michelle?" He repeated. He was now at the foot of my stoop.
"No." I answered. My key was just touching the lock on the gate.
The above dialogue lasted less than 5 seconds. There was no alarm in my head. I was going through my normal procedure of locking the gate. But that brief exchange was all he needed to make a move.
He grabbed the gate and pulled. My hand was still gripping and, as I tried to pull it shut again, my mind could not grasp what was going on.
Who is this guy?
Do I know him?
Doesn't he know I don't look like a Michelle?
The alarm started to ring loudly in my head as we struggled with the gate, but at the same time I couldn't understand what was actually happening. Everything was happening so quickly. Only about ten seconds had now passed since this guy first spoke, but everything was happening in slow motion. He pulled hard on the gate and I felt it being torn out of my grip.
"Get in!" He shouted, stepping into the doorway.
I screamed for help as I reached my hands out infront of me to try and push him back outside. I still remember the oversized 53 on his chest; white numbers on a back blue football jersey.
He pushed me further into the house and kicked the door closed with his foot, all the while holding onto the neck of my t-shirt and pulling me closer to him. I yelled again, hoping someone was walking by my open window...but when I looked towards the window, I saw the fan on the floor and the blinds closed. It had rained earlier that day and I had shut the window. I mentally kicked myself.
It's amazing what goes through your head...
He through me down onto the floor and I felt his full weight ontop of me. I struggled to break free and I tried to scream again. I was lying face down on my livingroom floor and I felt his thick fingers begin to wrap around my neck. I tried to scream again, but when I took in a lungfull of air, his fingers tightened.
"Don't scream. I don't want to hurt you." His words were harsh in my ears. His breath was hot.
I didn't listen. I tried to scream again, but as his fingers tightened around my throat even further, all that escaped my lips was a throaty gurgle. I felt my eyes begin to water and white spots soon replaced my vision of the television stand a few feet infront of me.
"Shut up!" he barked through clenched teeth. "I told you, I don't want to hurt you."
His fingers relaxed, but as one hand completely released itself from my neck, the other held their position, threatening me.
I pleaded, both to him and to God. My words were soft and caught between sobs. The weight of this guy (who was actually about 190 or so pounds) felt like a car ontop of me. I felt his free hand searching my pockets, pulling my wallet out.
I suddenly remembered my grandfather's high school ring, a gift the previous Christmas from my mother. It had never been off of my finger and it suddenly dawned on me that, although small and of little value except to me, it was in plain view of my attacker. I struggled to pull my hand inside and under my chest.
I didn't have any money on me which, on one hand, was a good thing. He wasn't going to take anything, but my pride, dignity and feeling of security within my own home. It wasn't until he flipped me over that I realized he may take something else.
I was now on my back. My attacker was straddled across my chest. Both of us were breathing heavy. He reached into one of his pockets of his baggy black pants and said to me: "Let's see what you got upstairs."
It was then that I saw the knife he had slipped out of his pocket...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)