See, what happens is this:
You come home from work one night; you just worked a double, your allergies have smacked you upside the face, you're running on 6 hours of sleep between two days and spent the entire day before clear across the state at a dear friend's wedding.
Your voice. Is gone.
You walk into your apartment and it is eerily quiet inside. Your roommate is cleaning the bathroom, kinda manic-like--which is additionally weird because you've never seen her clean anything--and it smells like gardenias and bleach and the tiles look impeccable. And that's amazing.
You wave (because you can't speak), and ball up like a caterpillar on your couch.
After 20 minutes of silence underscored with desperate scrubbing and seemingly tuneless humming, your roommate ambles out into the hallway, and stares at the wall.
"So. My Grandmother died today."
You croak out some version of Oh no! and make to hug her.
"No no. It's fine. She had some kind of Alzheimer's so, she's pretty much been gone for awhile." And she stares at the wall. "I'm fine. I am."
Silence. And staring.
"They're cremating her. Which she didn't want, but my Mom decided it's more practical. So they are."
You are stare at her, she continues to stare ahead.
"She was my Grandmother." ...
"My Mom told me I'm not supposed to grieve." You mouth WHAT?! "She says she was dead already, so it'd be a waste of time and energy. Life goes on and then it stops, and that's that."
You find some Post-Its on the coffee table and start writing in a flurry:
You take your time and grieve as you see fit.
"I don't know."
Do it!
"But what if she's right, my Mom, like maybe I should just accept it, get over it. Right?"
No.
"Why, though?"
She was your Grama, you're allowed to be sad, and you should.
"...Yeah..."
I totally believe that no one should compromise how they grieve or mourn for anyone. It's a need that you have to fulfill.
"Yeah. Thanks."
I'm serious.
...
"So I started cleaning. It felt good. Better."
I get it.
"Yeah?"
Yeah. I do.
"Like a distraction or something. And I needed one. So..."
...
And then she finally looks at you. "Thanks."
Of course.
I have a lot that I could say about Death.
...
And then what happens is this:
You're at work for your second double in a row; you're running on an additional five hours of sleep so you're feeling pretty buoyant and just in a generally good mood.
Your voice. Still gone. But less gone--and that's fine.
All of a sudden, two of your closest friends from your favorite MidWestern city (your grad school city) show up. They've just moved to New York, and you're giddy to have them so close so you croak Holy crap, come sit with me. You need to stay for like three hours. Or more. ...I'm getting you drunk, OK? Great.
They're there for half an hour when another friend from grad school shows up (HOORAY!!!) and settles into their booth.
Fifteen minutes later, another grad school buddy is at their table (HOORAYYYYYYYYY!!!!); he lives in Philly now, but is in town just for the day.
Within the next 20 minutes, you have six of your closest friends from grad school sitting at that table. It's busy as hell, but you don't care; simply having them there is enough, and is lifting you up in a surprising way.
Running past their table:
"Git it, Girl."
"Best server ever!"
"Be done soon! Come sit!"
"Love you, Angie!"
"Love youuuuuuuuuu!!!!"
...And you wonder what you did to deserve any of this. And you feel sappily glorious.
...
And then what happens is this:
Two hours later, you're finishing up your shift; your last two friends have cozied up to the bar and are watching the last chunk of a baseball game.
Your voice. Is tired. And so are you.
But you're biding your time--there's only an hour left, and you don't have much to do. And so, you decide to check your phone. Because you can.
And there is a text from your boyfriend.
And it tells you that a man named Gary Holcombe--your mentor from grad school--has just died. Suddenly. A few hours ago.
You run up to the bar to share your news--and then you mentally check-out.
...
I am not a girl who allows myself to cry in public.
This could not be helped.
...
Who was Gary? A lot of different men rolled up into one tall slender body. A man commonly referred to as The Silver Fox because of both his beautiful head of hair, and "knack with the ladies".
A man who grew up in podunk nowhere-Kentucky and, like so many men his age, went to fight in Vietnam. Where he was a sniper. And saw too much. And perhaps did too much. And then chose to bury all of it as deep and far away from the surface as was possible.
And then, he went to a music conservatory.
And then, he was on Broadway.
And then, he ran around on a zillion tours, and banged a zillion women, later marrying an equally-as-successful-equally-as-carnal woman.
They then chose to settle down in that MidWestern-place, where they lived and worked and thrived and inspired for over twenty years.
Gary was the man responsible for bringing me into my grad program.
I remember auditioning for him and putting on my most brave and bubbly face--feeling entirely terrified.
"Are you always this upbeat and...smiley?"
...Yes. Actually yeah. I am.
"Really?!"
I promise. ...Is that OK?
And he smiled this huge shit-eating grin from behind his table. "If you're not lying to me, and don't you dare lie to me...goddammit, we could use you."
For three years, we were as tight as tight could be. Everything he said was thoroughly bold but without threat--he made you believe in him, and made you believe in yourself.
He was the guy who would stop a song or a scene mid-rehearsal and scream, "Angela, you are fucking so much better than that! Don't you fucking cheat me, goddammit!"
And once class was over: "Goddamn, girl, your ass looks amazing in those pants. Your boyfriend better appreciate that."
He does.
"Well, I do."
GARY!!!
"...Heartbreaker."
You dirty dirty son-of-a-bitch.
"Hell yes, mama." And he'd cackle. "Love you."
Love you, too.
"And GO HOME AND WORK ON THAT SONG, goddammit!!!"
I will.
"Open this." And he'd jab towards his chest.
Yes, Sir.
"...You fucking tease."
GodDAMMIT, Gary!
He fought for us to live up to our fullest potential.
He fought for others to believe in us the way that he did.
He fought. Always.
"You're a good egg. You know you're a good egg."
"You know who that character is better than he does, don't you fucking compromise your gut instinct."
"Don't you fucking let him push you around."
"Go out there and get it. For me. You can and you will."
"You're a unique thing. Go out there and give it, give You. It's more than enough."
"I love you."
"I love you."
"I love you. ...Goddammit, if I were 30 years younger..."
Gary. See, I have this boyfriend...
"Oh, right. ...He can come, too."
Perfect.
"Love you."
And you knew that he meant it. And it meant the world.
A couple of years ago, the demons from years past that he buried so deep came back to haunt him. And he fought hard to ward them off, but just couldn't anymore.
We stopped being phone buddies.
He started going in and out of hospitals.
We started knowing less and less of his status and whereabouts.
...And now, he's just gone. And there's this huge part of my heart that has just been broken apart.
I am thankful. I am thankful to have had such an important and lovely influence at such an important and selfish time in my life. I wish that I could have said more. I wish that I could have done more. And I wish that I could have held onto him longer--but that's just not the way the world works.
The world can set you up for Loss. The world will never keep Loss from you.
...
This Irina loves her Chebutykin.
This Blondie loves her Silver Fox.
This Angela misses her Gary. Tremendously. Now and always. And thanks him for the world.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Starving Artist is Watching You.
Not so surprising fact about me: I am a chronic people watcher.
I do it all the goddamn time. Partially for acting/character-fodder, partially just because I'm generally fascinated by pretty much everyone.
Once upon a time, I kept an actual people-watching journal in which I recorded fascinating accounts of absolute strangers--what they were doing at that particular moment, what they looked like, what name I supposed they had, their entire presumed backstory...(...I fondly recall "David", the "virginal 45 year-old Styx-loving Trekkie" who came into my old coffee shop with his "virginal 25 year-old mail-order bride" whose name I couldn't determine but was giggling wildly and "was about to get drunk for the first time, a shameless ploy for David to finally get her effing pants off"...and "Linda", the "Price Chopper cashier with an apartment full of cats and cat paraphernalia" who smelled like pee, "only ate slurpy things" and "didn't smile or smirk or laugh or really speak as a general rule"..."Kirsten", the "compulsive liar/pyromaniac/nymphomaniac" who was "thinking about studying cosmetology"..."Lance", the sweaty and "drunk business man who lost his job 5 months ago but still wears the same suit everyday, unironed" who camped out in the bathroom for 15 minutes "thanks to 5 Red Bulls and too much Taco Bell drive-thru"...)...
...Truthfully, I should dust that journal off and start toting it around again. What a damn good idea that was.
I'm pretty stupid good at it, this people watching-thing, I'll toot my own horn, it's fine.
Do I wish I were a bit less obvious about my people watchingness, think it would behoove me to put on a more subtle face?
...Yeah. I mean, that might be a good thing to consider.
But I think it's safe to assume that if I'm out in public--unless I am out on some kind of date, I'm feeling like balls and have my eyes focused on the sidewalk, or I'm sprinting like a jackhole from one destination to another--I am probably people watching. Or will be at some point on my venture.
It's not as if there's ever any particular kind of person that I'm looking for. Not really. I think I just kind of always have my ears perked up and my eyes darting around for other lives less ordinary.
Even beyond that: seemingly ordinary happenings and the little things that make them (the situations themselves and the people within them) absolutely fascinating.
Obviously--OBVIOUSLY--I see a lot.
At the gym, right, there's these women, these insanely hugely pregnant women doing cardio. Manically. These otherwise supremely slender women with overblown basketballs protruding straight from where their once small and delightfully concave belly button was, pedaling away on ellipticals as if their lives depended on it. This crazy exhaustion on their faces, this crazy focus in their eyes. Who are these women?!...What are their names? Where are they from? Where does she live now? What does she do/Who did she marry/What does he say to her before they go to bed each night? At the dinner table?...Why is she doing this?
At the bar the other night--our favorite bar across the street with the 50million beers on tap and the hap-hap-happiest jukebox in the world--there's this couple, right, sitting at the table behind us. She's vampiring the shit out of his neck, going to town, having a blast for like 10 minutes--he doesn't move. Doesn't even flinch. The entire time, the guy is just staring at the wall in front of him. Blankly. He's too entranced by the world's most mundane looking bottle of whiskey or something to notice the thing that is begging for attention from him, pretty much crawling in his lap and sucking on his throat as if her life depended on it. Who are THESE guys?! What's THEIR deal? Did they just meet? Are they a steady couple/Is he pissed at her/Is he cheating? Is he gay?...Why is she doing this? Why is HE?
The happy Hipster-couple on the train a few months back: Who are they?
The adorable but thoroughly scatterbrained casting assistant who unintentionally pushed back everyone's audition appointments by two hours (TWO! HOURS!): Who is she?
The disgruntled-looking sap standing next to his lady who is perched in a make-up chair at Sephora: Who is he?
The guy in the wheelchair offering his lap up as a taxi service, the woman screaming to the cashier at the bookstore that she doesn't "trust their bags", the 8 year-old kid who cusses his mother out in the middle of the restaurant for no good reason...and then draws a picture of a little boy with a gun on his chest all over our paper tablecloths.
Who are these people? What are they about? The possibilities are endless, and that thrills me.
And then, I have to wonder: I can't possibly be alone in this.
Someone. Someone is doing this exact same thing. To me.
I think about this as I'm getting ready to walk into the gym this morning, the kind of "Me" that I let walk out of the house and onto the train and into a world that could very well be waiting to analyze and assess what I've shown up with that day.
I am:
--A funny looking white girl in bright shorts, intense running shoes, and a sad hoodie...& huge hair.
--Blaring MIA and Tribe Called Quest at an obscene decibel on my iPod (because I don't believe in listening to music at any less of a volume...if the music sounds at all "whispery", you can't really hear it, so you might as well turn that shit all the way up to 11).
--Doing a crossword puzzle with the world's most furrowed and unmake-upped brow. Like I'm 70.
--Showcasing the mysterious and horribly nasty-looking bruise that has appeared on my shin.
--Underdressed, and freezing cold...and turning slightly bluish white.
It occurs to me that I am just as much of a "case" as anyone else. The potential subject of someone else's glimpse at a life less ordinary.
...
...Perspective. You funny, tricky bitch.
On the train later today, this man comes on two stops after I do, screaming like I've never heard a grown man scream before, at no one in particular, and weaving a tapestry of obscenities along the way.
It's hard to tell if he has Tourette's, if he's wasted, or both...or what. But the entire car's intrigued.
"What the fuckIDON'TGIVE A FUUUU-UCK!!! FUCK!!!"
(Ooh.)
He goes back and forth from screaming things like this to mumbling unintelligible something-or-others for the next four stops. Quieting down to such a point that you think he's done, that he's over whatever it was that was eating him up when: "This shit is BULLshit! FUCK all y'all!!! Your life gon end, too!!!" (Wait. What?) "FUCK!"
And I feel like I've missed something. Or there's at least a something else, something else to this guy that he wants to get across but is too messed up to express. I'm enthralled. (Who are you, Sir?)
The train pauses at the next stop and this MTA-guy walks onto car and just stares the guy down. Doesn't say a goddamn word, doesn't even go near him, but stares him down from the opposite end of the car. As if he thinks that'll teach him--or whatever. He points at him, "You're done yelling, friend," walks out, and then we're moving again.
"Fuckin stupid ass cop thinks he gon change me. Naw! SHIT, he gettin me a beer. SHIT!" (And now you're getting cocky.) "Shit." (What's your deal, friend?) "Bitch, YOU get me a beer!" (Oh, fuck.)
And this crazy lady attempts to talk back to him, throwing around a slew of "How dare you"s and "Shut the hell up"s, but he's oblivious, stumbling around the center of the car and he props himself up on a pole.
"WILL SOMEBODY LISTEN TO ME?!?!"
...
...And there is complete silence. And we're all hanging on it, every single last one of us in the car waiting to hear what this guy's got to say, who he is, what his deal is--what his message is for all of us.
...
"Suckmydicksuckmydicksuckmydick." (Perfect.) "Just. ...". And pretty much as he sighs, the doors of the train open and it's my stop. And he's done, and I have to go.
And my curiosity is running around all wild and crazy for the rest of the day.
I am so totally bizarrely intrigued by this man, I have so many questions, and I have absolutely no answers.
And I won't.
...And maybe, in the end, that's what makes it great.
I do it all the goddamn time. Partially for acting/character-fodder, partially just because I'm generally fascinated by pretty much everyone.
Once upon a time, I kept an actual people-watching journal in which I recorded fascinating accounts of absolute strangers--what they were doing at that particular moment, what they looked like, what name I supposed they had, their entire presumed backstory...(...I fondly recall "David", the "virginal 45 year-old Styx-loving Trekkie" who came into my old coffee shop with his "virginal 25 year-old mail-order bride" whose name I couldn't determine but was giggling wildly and "was about to get drunk for the first time, a shameless ploy for David to finally get her effing pants off"...and "Linda", the "Price Chopper cashier with an apartment full of cats and cat paraphernalia" who smelled like pee, "only ate slurpy things" and "didn't smile or smirk or laugh or really speak as a general rule"..."Kirsten", the "compulsive liar/pyromaniac/nymphomaniac" who was "thinking about studying cosmetology"..."Lance", the sweaty and "drunk business man who lost his job 5 months ago but still wears the same suit everyday, unironed" who camped out in the bathroom for 15 minutes "thanks to 5 Red Bulls and too much Taco Bell drive-thru"...)...
...Truthfully, I should dust that journal off and start toting it around again. What a damn good idea that was.
I'm pretty stupid good at it, this people watching-thing, I'll toot my own horn, it's fine.
Do I wish I were a bit less obvious about my people watchingness, think it would behoove me to put on a more subtle face?
...Yeah. I mean, that might be a good thing to consider.
But I think it's safe to assume that if I'm out in public--unless I am out on some kind of date, I'm feeling like balls and have my eyes focused on the sidewalk, or I'm sprinting like a jackhole from one destination to another--I am probably people watching. Or will be at some point on my venture.
It's not as if there's ever any particular kind of person that I'm looking for. Not really. I think I just kind of always have my ears perked up and my eyes darting around for other lives less ordinary.
Even beyond that: seemingly ordinary happenings and the little things that make them (the situations themselves and the people within them) absolutely fascinating.
Obviously--OBVIOUSLY--I see a lot.
At the gym, right, there's these women, these insanely hugely pregnant women doing cardio. Manically. These otherwise supremely slender women with overblown basketballs protruding straight from where their once small and delightfully concave belly button was, pedaling away on ellipticals as if their lives depended on it. This crazy exhaustion on their faces, this crazy focus in their eyes. Who are these women?!...What are their names? Where are they from? Where does she live now? What does she do/Who did she marry/What does he say to her before they go to bed each night? At the dinner table?...Why is she doing this?
At the bar the other night--our favorite bar across the street with the 50million beers on tap and the hap-hap-happiest jukebox in the world--there's this couple, right, sitting at the table behind us. She's vampiring the shit out of his neck, going to town, having a blast for like 10 minutes--he doesn't move. Doesn't even flinch. The entire time, the guy is just staring at the wall in front of him. Blankly. He's too entranced by the world's most mundane looking bottle of whiskey or something to notice the thing that is begging for attention from him, pretty much crawling in his lap and sucking on his throat as if her life depended on it. Who are THESE guys?! What's THEIR deal? Did they just meet? Are they a steady couple/Is he pissed at her/Is he cheating? Is he gay?...Why is she doing this? Why is HE?
The happy Hipster-couple on the train a few months back: Who are they?
The adorable but thoroughly scatterbrained casting assistant who unintentionally pushed back everyone's audition appointments by two hours (TWO! HOURS!): Who is she?
The disgruntled-looking sap standing next to his lady who is perched in a make-up chair at Sephora: Who is he?
The guy in the wheelchair offering his lap up as a taxi service, the woman screaming to the cashier at the bookstore that she doesn't "trust their bags", the 8 year-old kid who cusses his mother out in the middle of the restaurant for no good reason...and then draws a picture of a little boy with a gun on his chest all over our paper tablecloths.
Who are these people? What are they about? The possibilities are endless, and that thrills me.
And then, I have to wonder: I can't possibly be alone in this.
Someone. Someone is doing this exact same thing. To me.
I think about this as I'm getting ready to walk into the gym this morning, the kind of "Me" that I let walk out of the house and onto the train and into a world that could very well be waiting to analyze and assess what I've shown up with that day.
I am:
--A funny looking white girl in bright shorts, intense running shoes, and a sad hoodie...& huge hair.
--Blaring MIA and Tribe Called Quest at an obscene decibel on my iPod (because I don't believe in listening to music at any less of a volume...if the music sounds at all "whispery", you can't really hear it, so you might as well turn that shit all the way up to 11).
--Doing a crossword puzzle with the world's most furrowed and unmake-upped brow. Like I'm 70.
--Showcasing the mysterious and horribly nasty-looking bruise that has appeared on my shin.
--Underdressed, and freezing cold...and turning slightly bluish white.
It occurs to me that I am just as much of a "case" as anyone else. The potential subject of someone else's glimpse at a life less ordinary.
...
...Perspective. You funny, tricky bitch.
On the train later today, this man comes on two stops after I do, screaming like I've never heard a grown man scream before, at no one in particular, and weaving a tapestry of obscenities along the way.
It's hard to tell if he has Tourette's, if he's wasted, or both...or what. But the entire car's intrigued.
"What the fuckIDON'TGIVE A FUUUU-UCK!!! FUCK!!!"
(Ooh.)
He goes back and forth from screaming things like this to mumbling unintelligible something-or-others for the next four stops. Quieting down to such a point that you think he's done, that he's over whatever it was that was eating him up when: "This shit is BULLshit! FUCK all y'all!!! Your life gon end, too!!!" (Wait. What?) "FUCK!"
And I feel like I've missed something. Or there's at least a something else, something else to this guy that he wants to get across but is too messed up to express. I'm enthralled. (Who are you, Sir?)
The train pauses at the next stop and this MTA-guy walks onto car and just stares the guy down. Doesn't say a goddamn word, doesn't even go near him, but stares him down from the opposite end of the car. As if he thinks that'll teach him--or whatever. He points at him, "You're done yelling, friend," walks out, and then we're moving again.
"Fuckin stupid ass cop thinks he gon change me. Naw! SHIT, he gettin me a beer. SHIT!" (And now you're getting cocky.) "Shit." (What's your deal, friend?) "Bitch, YOU get me a beer!" (Oh, fuck.)
And this crazy lady attempts to talk back to him, throwing around a slew of "How dare you"s and "Shut the hell up"s, but he's oblivious, stumbling around the center of the car and he props himself up on a pole.
"WILL SOMEBODY LISTEN TO ME?!?!"
...
...And there is complete silence. And we're all hanging on it, every single last one of us in the car waiting to hear what this guy's got to say, who he is, what his deal is--what his message is for all of us.
...
"Suckmydicksuckmydicksuckmydick." (Perfect.) "Just. ...". And pretty much as he sighs, the doors of the train open and it's my stop. And he's done, and I have to go.
And my curiosity is running around all wild and crazy for the rest of the day.
I am so totally bizarrely intrigued by this man, I have so many questions, and I have absolutely no answers.
And I won't.
...And maybe, in the end, that's what makes it great.
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