Waking up on a holiday weekend in NYC one can't help but feel filled with potential. There's the potential that the trains won't be running, there will only be one employee working at Bakeway, or, if you're lucky, your street will be filled with vendor carts selling scarves, phone cases, and fried dough. Mother's Day is no exception to the NYC holiday vortex however having my mom in from Florida felt like a risk worth taking.
Allowing us to avoid the Mother's Day brunch bonanza, we were invited up to Washington Heights for a home cooked meal with my closest friends. My mom and I woke up, made a berry bowl, and dressed in our best casual yet thoughtful Gap outfits and began the commute over the river and through the woods to the Heights. Somehow preoccupied I manage to get us on a D train instead of an A train and we end up going express to the Bronx- an amateur move that is quickly corrected by boarding a downtown train. My mother and I get seats on the fairly crowded car and settle in for the long ride back to where we started. Suddenly there is a gravelly loud voiced woman asking for money and sharing her sotry at the back of the train car. Now I know what you are thinking- duh. This is a common occurrence on any train, going anywhere, any time in our fair city.
I had never encountered this woman before, nor had I encountered the crater on her forehead revealing muscles and bone beneath. Her story involved losing 300 lbs, having cancer, and a sundry of other issues she wanted to share in an attempt to gain our sympathy and financial support.
As she approached I felt quite certain my yellow head band, purple dress, and the saran wrapped bowl of fresh berries on my lap would make me a prime target. But I am no map carrying, picture taking, teva wearing tourist. I was ready. Or so I thought...
Biggest Loser Panhandler Lady: Excuse me, do you have any money?
Me:(attempting to avoid eye and crater contact) No, sorry.
BLPH: You're a cunt. You're going to get hurt. You deserve it. Someone is going to hurt you.
Really?? A cunt?? I am having a hard time even typing that word. And yet, this total stranger felt in a position to call me one? The C word doesn't even occur in movies or reality television. Other than a classic, "I cunt hear you" British theatre joke, I am not sure I had ever heard the word aloud before.
My mom did what any sensible mother would do...acted like she didn't know me and avoided eye contact with both the sailor mouthed panhandler and her only daughter. When the woman completed her prophecy of my inevitable and deserved demise she wandered toward the doors of the train car while being verbally assaulted by another passenger. Once the homeless woman took her leave, the victorious passenger wished everyone "A Happy Mother Fuckin Mother's Day!", received a round of applause, and was content with her good deed for the remainder of the ride.
Feeling safe and sound on our downtown D train, my mother finally looked at me with a smile on her face and said, "Better you than me." I couldn't help but agree and think to myself, there's nothing that warms the heart like watching a mad woman call your daughter a cunt on Mother's Day.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Fievel goes to the Heights
I am a vegetarian who buys leather bags and eats jello. I don’t really care about animals. Like, either way. I am allergic to cats and indifferent to dogs. I am not opposed to a good bug smashing but frown upon animals being put in microwaves.
Its hard enough to deal with humans. Why on earth would I take in an animal that needs me to feed, clothe, bathe, and attend to it? Wouldn’t online dating be more productive and possibly less expensive? I don’t see Buster or Fido picking up the check at any take out establishment, I have never witnessed Fifi or FrooFroo handing out back massages, or fixing things around the house. For me, an animal relationship only has one column in a pro/con list.
Mind you, I have never had a man do any of these things either- but legend has it that they can. That its possible. Physically. They have arms and legs and a nervous system or whatever. And with the exception of the Redwall series, I have never been led to believe an animal to be as productive as a mate. Loyal? Yes. Cuddly? Of course. But I am talking pure productivity. What can you do for me that I cant do for myself?
Sure…there was Daniel Radcliffe and the dear Lorenzo Pisoni in Equus and Samantha Mathis in that movie that was not Black Beauty, but it doesn’t seem practical to keep a horse in my one bedroom apartment. “Candle on the Water” was the best thing to come out of Pete’s Dragon and there is no way Falkor is still alive.
The problem is that as soon as I start coming around to some sort of animal it does something unpredictable and weird. Like try to give me a hickey or eat my toast. The only advantage to having a dog or cat would be to eliminate mice. Because mice are THE WORST animals on the entire planet. I would rather my apartment be infested with Great White Sharks, Rattlesnakes, and Yellowjackets than EVER lay eyes on a mouse again.
Growing up in Florida you have the opportunity to experience a variety of wildlife in your home and yard- lizards, beetles, lady bugs, mosquitos, etc. One does not often have the need to obtain, kill, or harm these animals. A simple afternoon leaving the screen porch door ajar allows them to scurry back to their natural habitat and everyone wins. My issue with rodents is that they have like tiny brains. They know that they are tormenting me and do it any way. It’s a choice.
Flashback to the fall of 2005- I am subletting an apartment on 181 and Cabrini at the tender age of 21 all by my lonesome. My roommate had just booked the Non-Eq Oklahoma tour and I was left to my own devices with the first four seasons of Sex and the City and unlimited Ben and Jerrys options at Jin’s Superette. On my day off I woke up, crawled onto the couch, popped in a disk and was ready to watch my future of whacky Manhattan adventures flash before my eyes. And then. It happened. A mouse darted out from the second bedroom, stopped in front of the television, and stared at me. RIGHT at me. He looked into my eyes. And he saw fear.
I immediately jumped on the couch and began doing cardio step aerobic moves in order to distract both the mouse and myself from the current events. I was SCREAMING at the top of my lungs when another mouse came out to join what he obviously believed was a party. Well this was just too much. I was desperate for my phone. But it was about two feet away on the bookshelf. Two feet that might as well have been an entire ocean. Two feet of wood floor, barefoot, running the risk of a mouse parade traversing over my foot.
I needed to call animal services. Or 911. Or my mom. Really anyone who would listen and get on a plane and carry me off of the couch into safety. In a death defying act of bravery I lept onto the bookshelf, grabbed my cell, and richocheted back onto the couch before the bookshelf even had time to think about plummeting on top of me.
My mom suggested I calm down, call the super, and make sure the apartment was clean of all food and trash and anything a mouse could be attracted to. Looking around, it seemed clean enough…with the exception of an entire bedrooms worth of clothing and bedding shoved haphazardly into that space behind the couch and the wall referred to as “storage”, a half eaten pizza from two days prior, a plate of stale saltines accompanied by an open jar of peanut butter- It was practically spotless.
The un-amused Super brought me seven glue traps, wished me luck, and slammed the door in my forlorn face. All right, its gonna be ok, I thought. I will just put these glue traps on the floor and the mice will find them and die and evaporate and then I will pick up the empty glue traps and move out of this apartment in two weeks and live in a sealed bomb shelter for the rest of my life where no rodents can get in. Problem. Solved.
Alone in my room I begin to hear a noise, like fingernails on a chalkboard, coming from the kitchen and am horrified to turn on the light and discover 5 mice with their torsos stuck on the glue trap, scooting it across the tile floor with their flailing hind legs. With my legs shaking underneath me I head back to bed and try sleep with one eye open as the mice make their final attempts to scoot themselves to freedom.
Traumatized by the evening events I begin packing my belongings to head to a hotel for my last week in the big city. As I hop into the shower I feel something scurry across my foot. Screaming, I jump out of the tub turn the water on as hot as it will go and stand there. Naked. And Cackling. Channeling Diana Morales I peered over the tub at the floating mouse corpse and I felt…nothing.
Its hard enough to deal with humans. Why on earth would I take in an animal that needs me to feed, clothe, bathe, and attend to it? Wouldn’t online dating be more productive and possibly less expensive? I don’t see Buster or Fido picking up the check at any take out establishment, I have never witnessed Fifi or FrooFroo handing out back massages, or fixing things around the house. For me, an animal relationship only has one column in a pro/con list.
Mind you, I have never had a man do any of these things either- but legend has it that they can. That its possible. Physically. They have arms and legs and a nervous system or whatever. And with the exception of the Redwall series, I have never been led to believe an animal to be as productive as a mate. Loyal? Yes. Cuddly? Of course. But I am talking pure productivity. What can you do for me that I cant do for myself?
Sure…there was Daniel Radcliffe and the dear Lorenzo Pisoni in Equus and Samantha Mathis in that movie that was not Black Beauty, but it doesn’t seem practical to keep a horse in my one bedroom apartment. “Candle on the Water” was the best thing to come out of Pete’s Dragon and there is no way Falkor is still alive.
The problem is that as soon as I start coming around to some sort of animal it does something unpredictable and weird. Like try to give me a hickey or eat my toast. The only advantage to having a dog or cat would be to eliminate mice. Because mice are THE WORST animals on the entire planet. I would rather my apartment be infested with Great White Sharks, Rattlesnakes, and Yellowjackets than EVER lay eyes on a mouse again.
Growing up in Florida you have the opportunity to experience a variety of wildlife in your home and yard- lizards, beetles, lady bugs, mosquitos, etc. One does not often have the need to obtain, kill, or harm these animals. A simple afternoon leaving the screen porch door ajar allows them to scurry back to their natural habitat and everyone wins. My issue with rodents is that they have like tiny brains. They know that they are tormenting me and do it any way. It’s a choice.
Flashback to the fall of 2005- I am subletting an apartment on 181 and Cabrini at the tender age of 21 all by my lonesome. My roommate had just booked the Non-Eq Oklahoma tour and I was left to my own devices with the first four seasons of Sex and the City and unlimited Ben and Jerrys options at Jin’s Superette. On my day off I woke up, crawled onto the couch, popped in a disk and was ready to watch my future of whacky Manhattan adventures flash before my eyes. And then. It happened. A mouse darted out from the second bedroom, stopped in front of the television, and stared at me. RIGHT at me. He looked into my eyes. And he saw fear.
I immediately jumped on the couch and began doing cardio step aerobic moves in order to distract both the mouse and myself from the current events. I was SCREAMING at the top of my lungs when another mouse came out to join what he obviously believed was a party. Well this was just too much. I was desperate for my phone. But it was about two feet away on the bookshelf. Two feet that might as well have been an entire ocean. Two feet of wood floor, barefoot, running the risk of a mouse parade traversing over my foot.
I needed to call animal services. Or 911. Or my mom. Really anyone who would listen and get on a plane and carry me off of the couch into safety. In a death defying act of bravery I lept onto the bookshelf, grabbed my cell, and richocheted back onto the couch before the bookshelf even had time to think about plummeting on top of me.
My mom suggested I calm down, call the super, and make sure the apartment was clean of all food and trash and anything a mouse could be attracted to. Looking around, it seemed clean enough…with the exception of an entire bedrooms worth of clothing and bedding shoved haphazardly into that space behind the couch and the wall referred to as “storage”, a half eaten pizza from two days prior, a plate of stale saltines accompanied by an open jar of peanut butter- It was practically spotless.
The un-amused Super brought me seven glue traps, wished me luck, and slammed the door in my forlorn face. All right, its gonna be ok, I thought. I will just put these glue traps on the floor and the mice will find them and die and evaporate and then I will pick up the empty glue traps and move out of this apartment in two weeks and live in a sealed bomb shelter for the rest of my life where no rodents can get in. Problem. Solved.
Alone in my room I begin to hear a noise, like fingernails on a chalkboard, coming from the kitchen and am horrified to turn on the light and discover 5 mice with their torsos stuck on the glue trap, scooting it across the tile floor with their flailing hind legs. With my legs shaking underneath me I head back to bed and try sleep with one eye open as the mice make their final attempts to scoot themselves to freedom.
Traumatized by the evening events I begin packing my belongings to head to a hotel for my last week in the big city. As I hop into the shower I feel something scurry across my foot. Screaming, I jump out of the tub turn the water on as hot as it will go and stand there. Naked. And Cackling. Channeling Diana Morales I peered over the tub at the floating mouse corpse and I felt…nothing.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
One Girl, One Cup
Some say, you officially become a New Yorker when you have lived here for ten years. And when I say “Some Say” I mean…that’s what the fictional female characters on Sex and The City determined. There are other ways to measure one’s inherent “New Yorkness” such as residence in NYC during 9/11, having a “dry cleaner guy”, and insisting on arguing with a anyone who will dare challenge you to the “best slice of pizza/cup of coffee/pedicure” contest.
As a female- I would say that you officially become a New Yorker when you have a confrontational yet educated response to sexual harassment ready to roll trippingly off the tongue. A monologue, if you will, highlighting the fact that you do indeed have a personal space bubble and the violation of such bubble has not gone unnoticed. Now, bear in mind- this speech should be short and to the point, accusatory without screaming “Rape”, and illicit a response not only from the perpetrator but from those around you who might aid in your protection, should you need it.
Now, don’t get me wrong- I am not one of these girls who wants to write a blog about all of the men that yell “hey baby” as we walk to the deli, or even the theatrically inclined midtown dudes who shout “Hey SJP” or “You look like a young Bernadette Peters!” In those situations I just remind myself that men still live on the playground, in a world where the childhood rhyme, “Sticks and Stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me”, took on a literal meaning to them and they believe they have done nothing wrong. In these situations, the speech would be uncalled for. It could even confuse the men into thinking you actually want to speak to them- or create an open forum for them to call you a stuck up bitch, prude, or some other terrible name for having the gall to stand up for yourself. They were just playing baby….smile…a pretty girl like you shouldn’t get so mad…You get my drift…
I am talking about the men, strangers to be more specific, who make the bold move to actually touch a woman they don’t know. In public. This has now happened to me on two separate occasions, and due to the repeat performance I have been sitting at home on this rainy day refining the speech that I hope to never use.
When you live here for several years, there are certain things you pick up on other than the best deli’s/coffee shops/nail salons. I am talking about survival skills- such as, avoiding Times Square at all costs, subway pre-walking, and the mastery of the cute yet extremely warm winter coat. All of that being said, all of those lessons learned, I somehow found myself on 42nd St and 8th Ave at 6:00pm on St. Patrick’s Day. It was a mistake. An error in judgment. I wasn’t heading to the Irish Rogue or anything, so I wasn’t a complete fool on a fools errand- but I did have my guard up. As I crossed the overly crowded intersection from Port Authority up to Duane Reade a man in a blazer was heading my way. He looked me right in the eye, and bopped me one in my lady part. Yup. You read that correctly. He cupped my vagina. Fully. My first good old fashioned cupping experience occurred accidentally when my best gay friend became overly enthusiastic while doing some improv-ography at our So You Think You Can Dance Party Aught 6. As jarring as that may have been for myself, and those who witnessed it, I must say I would rather re-live that once a day than this “St. Patty’s Pat” as it is now referred to.
It wasn’t until I arrived at Kodama about 2 and a half minutes later with my mouth agape and the color drained from my face that I was able to fully process what had just happened. I explained to my girlfriends why I was so shaken up and we all did our best to regain both our appetites and some sense of normalcy for the rest of the meal. The more I thought about it the more agitated I became. My inner Gloria Steinam began to take hold and I realized that the most upsetting aspect of this event was not a strange man’s hand on my privates, though that was extremely disturbing, it was the fact that if I had been walking with a man- it never would’ve happened. I was a victim simply because I was a lone female and daring to cross the street.
This idea was infuriating. The notion that if I were with a man, I would be safer, protected, less vulnerable- had never felt so real. The other question that kept nagging at me was why does this guy do it? How often? Has he ever been caught? Is he a banker? Or a teacher? Where was his bus headed? Home to his wife and children? His unfurnished apartment filled with pizza boxes?
And though I was in no mood to be with drunken straights in a loud bar, we headed back to Queens to try and salvage the evening. As I repeated this story to some acquaintances at the pub, the recurring theme after the initial shock and disgust, was to scold me for not doing anything. To ask why I didn’t stop him, yell out, find the police, or any number of other logical solutions. And the truth is- I just kept walking. It didn’t even cross my mind to follow him. Stop him, scream, tell someone who could do something. I suppose I was in shock. It was shocking. And what could anyone have done? This is New York City. We are just lucky to be alive. It would be my word against his. I was wearing make up and a dress, maybe it was my fault. Plus, there’s the fear. If a man can touch you sexually with absolutely no invitation whatsoever, what else might he be capable of? If I can take this and keep walking…what else can I withstand?
After a few days and several showers, the incident began to wear off. My friends found the story both appropriately horrifying and hilarious, I felt cared about and protected, at least for the immediate future, and I continued to wear my boots and dresses on 8th Ave. I started to appreciate the moments when I had a man by my side more than I care to admit, and the thought that there might be something to that feeling began to rise from my romantically stifled consciousness. Of course, seasons changed and walking alone again became my most common mode of transportation, and winter coats protected us all from the elements both natural and human.
Then last night, the warmest night in a long while, I was walking to the train- when an older man in a button down shirt took his hand to my stomach and said hello. He rubbed my stomach once and then proceeded down the street in the opposite direction. I froze. Words came into my mind but didn’t make it as far as my vocal chords. Not sentences or complete thoughts. Just words. Hey. Seriously. Hey you. Wait. Stop.
So, I guess this is progress. I stopped. I thought about defending myself. I began to work on my speech for next time. Third times a charm in the world of street molestation I hear. And I realized that in the same way that this wouldn’t have happened to me if I was walking with a man, he certainly wouldn’t have pulled that shit if he was walking with a woman.
As a female- I would say that you officially become a New Yorker when you have a confrontational yet educated response to sexual harassment ready to roll trippingly off the tongue. A monologue, if you will, highlighting the fact that you do indeed have a personal space bubble and the violation of such bubble has not gone unnoticed. Now, bear in mind- this speech should be short and to the point, accusatory without screaming “Rape”, and illicit a response not only from the perpetrator but from those around you who might aid in your protection, should you need it.
Now, don’t get me wrong- I am not one of these girls who wants to write a blog about all of the men that yell “hey baby” as we walk to the deli, or even the theatrically inclined midtown dudes who shout “Hey SJP” or “You look like a young Bernadette Peters!” In those situations I just remind myself that men still live on the playground, in a world where the childhood rhyme, “Sticks and Stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me”, took on a literal meaning to them and they believe they have done nothing wrong. In these situations, the speech would be uncalled for. It could even confuse the men into thinking you actually want to speak to them- or create an open forum for them to call you a stuck up bitch, prude, or some other terrible name for having the gall to stand up for yourself. They were just playing baby….smile…a pretty girl like you shouldn’t get so mad…You get my drift…
I am talking about the men, strangers to be more specific, who make the bold move to actually touch a woman they don’t know. In public. This has now happened to me on two separate occasions, and due to the repeat performance I have been sitting at home on this rainy day refining the speech that I hope to never use.
When you live here for several years, there are certain things you pick up on other than the best deli’s/coffee shops/nail salons. I am talking about survival skills- such as, avoiding Times Square at all costs, subway pre-walking, and the mastery of the cute yet extremely warm winter coat. All of that being said, all of those lessons learned, I somehow found myself on 42nd St and 8th Ave at 6:00pm on St. Patrick’s Day. It was a mistake. An error in judgment. I wasn’t heading to the Irish Rogue or anything, so I wasn’t a complete fool on a fools errand- but I did have my guard up. As I crossed the overly crowded intersection from Port Authority up to Duane Reade a man in a blazer was heading my way. He looked me right in the eye, and bopped me one in my lady part. Yup. You read that correctly. He cupped my vagina. Fully. My first good old fashioned cupping experience occurred accidentally when my best gay friend became overly enthusiastic while doing some improv-ography at our So You Think You Can Dance Party Aught 6. As jarring as that may have been for myself, and those who witnessed it, I must say I would rather re-live that once a day than this “St. Patty’s Pat” as it is now referred to.
It wasn’t until I arrived at Kodama about 2 and a half minutes later with my mouth agape and the color drained from my face that I was able to fully process what had just happened. I explained to my girlfriends why I was so shaken up and we all did our best to regain both our appetites and some sense of normalcy for the rest of the meal. The more I thought about it the more agitated I became. My inner Gloria Steinam began to take hold and I realized that the most upsetting aspect of this event was not a strange man’s hand on my privates, though that was extremely disturbing, it was the fact that if I had been walking with a man- it never would’ve happened. I was a victim simply because I was a lone female and daring to cross the street.
This idea was infuriating. The notion that if I were with a man, I would be safer, protected, less vulnerable- had never felt so real. The other question that kept nagging at me was why does this guy do it? How often? Has he ever been caught? Is he a banker? Or a teacher? Where was his bus headed? Home to his wife and children? His unfurnished apartment filled with pizza boxes?
And though I was in no mood to be with drunken straights in a loud bar, we headed back to Queens to try and salvage the evening. As I repeated this story to some acquaintances at the pub, the recurring theme after the initial shock and disgust, was to scold me for not doing anything. To ask why I didn’t stop him, yell out, find the police, or any number of other logical solutions. And the truth is- I just kept walking. It didn’t even cross my mind to follow him. Stop him, scream, tell someone who could do something. I suppose I was in shock. It was shocking. And what could anyone have done? This is New York City. We are just lucky to be alive. It would be my word against his. I was wearing make up and a dress, maybe it was my fault. Plus, there’s the fear. If a man can touch you sexually with absolutely no invitation whatsoever, what else might he be capable of? If I can take this and keep walking…what else can I withstand?
After a few days and several showers, the incident began to wear off. My friends found the story both appropriately horrifying and hilarious, I felt cared about and protected, at least for the immediate future, and I continued to wear my boots and dresses on 8th Ave. I started to appreciate the moments when I had a man by my side more than I care to admit, and the thought that there might be something to that feeling began to rise from my romantically stifled consciousness. Of course, seasons changed and walking alone again became my most common mode of transportation, and winter coats protected us all from the elements both natural and human.
Then last night, the warmest night in a long while, I was walking to the train- when an older man in a button down shirt took his hand to my stomach and said hello. He rubbed my stomach once and then proceeded down the street in the opposite direction. I froze. Words came into my mind but didn’t make it as far as my vocal chords. Not sentences or complete thoughts. Just words. Hey. Seriously. Hey you. Wait. Stop.
So, I guess this is progress. I stopped. I thought about defending myself. I began to work on my speech for next time. Third times a charm in the world of street molestation I hear. And I realized that in the same way that this wouldn’t have happened to me if I was walking with a man, he certainly wouldn’t have pulled that shit if he was walking with a woman.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Monday, October 25, 2010
The Kidnapping of Kyle
Sophomore year of college, I began hanging out in Christian and Santi’s room as often as possible. I was living in an on campus apartment with Lilli and these two Viking girls who would each eat their significant weight in extra large pizzas and who were thoughtful enough to build little castles out of the empty boxes. Our kitchen became a neighborhood development of maggot mansions and Lilli and I were forced to take refuge from the refuse in other people’s rooms as often as possible.
After rehearsing for some ridiculous rapier and dagger test, I entered Christian and Santi’s room and met Kyle for the first time.
He wasn’t very talkative, had a weird smell, and seemed to come out of nowhere and into our lives. In this new frontier where laundry didn’t magically disappear with mom into the laundry room, Kyle was born.
Even now, there are days spent dealing with Kyle- taking care of him, coddling him…and a lot of time and energy is spent washing him. It can be easy to get angry with Kyle, though most of what he puts us through is not his fault. If only we didn’t do so much hot yoga, have to wear a suit to work, or have a ludicrous amount of socks-perhaps our relationship with Kyle could stabilize.
There is a point to this preamble, I promise and the tale of Kyle continues to be one of my favorite college inventions- along with Sminodeos, Nookie Cookies, and our Theory of Invisibility…Don’t get overwhelmed, you will learn about those in time.
That is…until I check his twitter only a week ago and it read:
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Bitter: Party of One
In an effort to put myself out there and increase the possibility of having an actual relationship in my life in the near future, I gave my phone number to a waiter.
I was “that girl”. Not sure if anything would come of it, pretty sure nothing at all, it felt like a triumph just to have done it.
My girlfriends and I were dining at Acme on Great Jones street before seeing Derrick’s band debut at the music venue downstairs. Even saying any of this sounds foreign…we don’t generally dine before viewing bands or hang out on Great Jones street. But this is all part of expanding horizons. As much as I would love to meet a guy in Phillip and Mariands living room playing bananagrams in my pajamas…it just doesn’t seem as likely.
We continued to flirt throughout the soul food meal- and he made fun of me when I ordered the side dish platter with two orders of zucchini and one order of fries.
Gathering strength I told Mariand I was going to leave my number, and she stared at me blankly.
Mariand: Blank stare.
Me: This is not the appropriate response of a best friend when I am trying to put myself out there.
Mariand: Sorry. I just got drunk…right…now. Let’s have a do over.
Anthony: Play.Closing/holiday party. It’s cool. Nevermind. My fiancé will back tomorrow anyway.
Sometimes Lilli was there to provide me company, sometimes Adam will zip through the diner and pick up something to go. But I was a beginning to fear I would become a staple at the “Diner a la Douche”.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Law and Order: Musical Theatre Unit
This is an oldie but a goodie- from July 2005. I was fresh faced, bushy tailed, and all that good stuff.
You never know who you are going to meet an audition. Monday I met a moderately crazy girl who appeared to be friends with a seemingly normal guy, he, in turn, gave me his card for accompanying and said he would love to play for me sometime. My roommates and I had just been discussing hanging out to play and sing, so we decided to call him and all go together to see how he was.
Turns out, he has this great studio apartment on the Upper West Side and continued to appear to be a nice and normal guy. He had a BFA in Musical Theatre from the University of Michigan, was currently working as an extra in the Robert DeNiro, and even had an agent! We were lowly paupers in comparison to him. We didn't even know the names of any agents, nonetheless have Equity cards, or movie credits. We had graduated from the inferior UM which boasts such illustrious alumni as Dawnn Lewis and Lewis Cleale. Ever heard of them? Yeah...didnt think so. I felt the urge to kiss his feet. But I resisted.
The singing went fine- we decided to do 15 minutes each (see my aforementioned lowly pauper statement) for a total of about an hour.
When we are done singing I asked him what he does to make money- expecting him to say, waiting tables, working with computers, or walking dogs. You know, the normal part time jobs that consume the time and swallow the souls of out of work actors.
Instead he informed me that the movie pays well, he makes money accompanying, and he is a spy.
A SPY! S-P-Y. That is what he said.
As if that is a normal answer to my question.
Dressing up as a hotdog and handing out flyers in Times Square would have been acceptable, even watching TV and writing down when commercial breaks occur is a more believable answer than spying for a living.
The thing about it was that he answered so seriously- as if he was saying, “I am also a doctor.”
Trying not to laugh I kindly ask him to elaborate.
Lindsay: “What do you mean by spy????”
Justin: “Well, a family friend of mine has an estranged daughter living in NYC. They pay me to check in on her because they don’t know what is going on with her.”
Lindsay: “So what do you do? Make sure shes alive?”
Justin: “Well- I know where she lives and works, so sometimes I will get on the bus a few stops before her and then watch her on the bus. Or I will watch her lave her apartment to get groceries, and sometimes we go on walks through the park. “
-At this point I have no idea what to do. First he says he is a spy and then he is telling me he, and this girl who has no idea who he is, go on walks together in the park. He fails to mention that they are secret walks that she knows nothing about. I suppose spy seems tame now that he has basically admitted to being a well-compensated stalker.
Then, I ask the question that seems very obvious to me-
“Will you miss going on walks with her when they patch things up?”
He looks at me as if I just killed his cat, or have seventeen heads, or admitted that I am a professional stalker as well. He backs away. He...backs away...from ME!
“That’s a really weird question. I don't understand what you mean."
He then looks at my roommates to let them know I am completely insane- perhaps he hopes to save them from living with a mad woman. In an effort to add hero to his long list of accomplishments he wants to tip them off that they have a potential looney toon on their hands.
I would like to point out that he is the spy- he is the one who is writing down a girls schedule,knows where she works, knows when she goes to bed. But, as I stopped myself from kissing his feet, I also resist the urge to point out the hypocrisy in his reaction.
I also resist the urge to apologize- to make it better. To somehow appease this pompous low-rent stalker who was doing vocal coachings with a keyboard and not even a real piano.
We gather our belongings quickly, throw him a wad of cash, and are on our way.
None of us ever saw him again...but every now and then I will look back on the subway and get the feeling that he couldn't quite let go of my 16 bars of "Waiting for Life"...
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