From Skyscrapers to Silos (Intro, Revision #2)

Sunday June, 5 2005. New York City’s top 40 radio station Z100 blared from my surround sound stereo system within the walls of my spacious room in the town house that I had appropriately and most affectionately dubbed the “Brooklyn Blue Stone Estate” in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. There were clothes everywhere; I was trying to construct a cohesive Vogue worthy ensemble, which was absolutely necessary since I would be ushered through the velvet ropes of one of Manhattan’s hottest celeb hangouts: Marquee. In preparation, I danced around my room (dancing in stilettos is an art that must be practiced) sipping on a glass on Veuve Clicquot, periodically chemically bolstering my enthusiasm (i.e. confidence), excited that tonight I would be in the company of who’s who in New York’s entertainment scene. Seven miscalculated years in New York and, finally, I had it all: a high paying job at a club US Weekly Magazine had just named young Hollywood’s hottest new hangout, an amazing, over-priced place to live, a glammed up wardrobe, and a social network entitling me with VIP access and treatment at it clubs. I partied like a rock star surrounded by rock stars, unbeknownst to me that after reaching the pinnacle of that dreamlike existence I would stubbornly shake slumber mid afternoon on June 6th to reluctantly greet a cruel new world, with a champagne hangover Keith Richards would be proud of.

I woke up groggy and seriously dehydrated, with half of my two hour make up production, permanently transferred to my pillow; still fully dressed with one strappy stiletto on, my cell phone voice mail was maxed out with messages from my mother. The impact those messages would have on the course of my life was equivalent to the Mets’ left fielder, Endy Chavez, robbing Scott Rolen of a homerun, then completing the double play by throwing Jim Edmands out at first base in the sixth inning of game seven at Shea Stadium (the winner of this game would advance to the World Series). It was the intense, uneasy emotion in my mother’s sob-stricken voice as she informed me that something was wrong with Dad that kept my attention, clenched my diaphragm, restricting new breaths. Apparently, he had collapsed opening the doors to the hospital where he was to get his Monday morning dialysis treatment. His status was unclear. Still somewhat drunk and now both light-headed and jittery, my nervous system responded, fully alarmed; it countered with profuse alcohol-laden sweat and delirium, I thought…I thought I was dreaming. Why was my mother using a phrase like “status unclear”? My mind was combative, confused. MY dad…unresponsive? MY daddy…died, resuscitated, and in a coma? WHAT? After seven years of diligent faith in the unknown, I suddenly chastised my own indefinite beliefs. Up until this very specific moment, everything had been falling into place for me--this happening, did not seem possible. Quietly, ghostly apparitions began to frantically grasp at my phantomlike world as it began to dissipate.

Pacing, well, more like limping since my right foot had three and a half extra inches, I tried to comprehend what the fuck was going on. With each message I listened to, the more frantic I grew. Hysterics set in and with an expedited exhale, I collapsed right there on my beautiful hardwood floor: a true diva in distress. They don’t permit you to keep your cell phone active within the confines of the hospital’s intensive care unit, so I had absolutely no new contact with my mother outside of the voice mails, no confirmation (or explanations), nothing to contradict the gruesome scenarios playing repeatedly in my head.

When I boarded the plane out of JFK a few hours later, I had no idea if my father was dead or alive. And no amount of in flight vodka sodas could calm or at least stabilize my frenzied thoughts.

For the past seven years, I had been the sole focus of my life. My father was never a day to day necessity in my life, had not even occupied a passing thought in my day to day life. It sounds awful. But it’s true. It’s not that I didn’t love him, because I did. I idolized him (surreptitiously, of course). He was more like my secret weapon, always ready to intercept a late night phone call, redirect and reassure me, feed me his old school wisdoms. With this laid back, slightly cavalier presence, he skillfully educated me. I have been able to recite his (our) favorite poem, “Invictus” for as long as I can remember. According to my father, within each verse of this poem lay the answer to any and all of my life’s puzzles. But without him to repeatedly dissect it with me, would the words lose meaning? All of this time, I had him in my wings, at my disposal, and I was more concerned with whether to accessorize with a vintage clutch or a trendy boho bag.

An emotional wreck on the plane, selfishly whining “This is not fair”, I was consumed with guilt, tortuously playing the “what if I-coulda, shoulda mind fuck” roulette with no promise of producing a winner.

When you’ve learned to discard an upbringing in a neighborhood full of unlocked doors and have finally mastered the rubric’s cube-like puzzle of existing in a city of eight million people anonymously, you start to question the motives of anyone who looks you square in the eye. On that plane, for the first time, I truly embraced the fact that I was surrounded by strangers who didn’t want to know why I was a complete walking basket case, who avoided even looking in my immediate direction. If I had been allowed as much as tweezers on that flight, I might have been tempted to gouge out the eyes of each and every one of those carbon-copy cheery flight attendants (except when they were serving me). Welcoming my anonymity, I was almost annoyed when the lady sitting next to me took an interest and began to query. When I tried to order another drink, she ordered me milk and cookies (seriously). She had white-blonde hair full of curls that are only achieved after sitting hours in those bright pink foamy curlers. She asked the flight attendant for tissues (something this bitch neglected to offer me as I steadily and continuously cried and snotted, leaving the debris behind on my favorite stuffed animal, a puppy named Bunny). Through all of my emotional turmoil, this lovely old lady next to me continued to comfort me, even holding my hand at times. This random stranger, looking like she stepped off the set of “Golden Girls”, pried and pried and pried, not easily allowing me to brush her off as callously as the born and bred city residents had done me. Clutching Bunny, I slowly began to regain some composure, sipping what would be my last vodka on that flight (per grandma), wiping various limbs, now dripping faucets of snot. This old lady seated next to me, deprived of the most single detail of the nature of my flight that night said to me, “Now is not the time to be placing blame on yourself.”

Recently widowed, she explained, life is about moments like these. I was puffy and swollen, buzzed from the cocktails served at a high altitude, and yet, here was this angelic woman telling me that I was facing a moment that would ultimately define me and my character. There was no reason why this woman should have consoled me. She could have sat in her window seat, gazing out at night-time New York, pretending not to hear me crying, pretending not to see me slowly rocking back and forth in my seat, hunched over a soggy stuffed animal, sucking down cocktails. But she didn’t, she got involved and she redirected my fears and worries from me to my mother. She said (and I’m paraphrasing) you’re young and independent here in New York. Remember when you de-board this plane that your mother will need your support. Imagine what the past twelve hours have been like for her. This little old Miami bound lady was right. And when we landed in Burlington, Vermont, I hugged her and thanked her for reminding me about the importance of family and my place within that sacred circle. I thanked her for re-establishing a sense of clarity for me. She wished me well and said (and I quote) “Remember Sugar, clarity doesn’t mean clear liquor”.

I think back on that nosey granny and I smile; she restored my faith in happenstance on that flight. I was ready to give up; give in, relinquish my fidelity to fate, but I was seated next to her and not one of those hardened, citified people who would have gazed out of the window the entire flight.

Years later, my father is dead and I still look for the clarity in clear liquors, but as I search for personal meanings, asking questions, I hear my father’s voice. He’s still relentless in educating me; still my secret weapon, he armed me with an arsenal of information throughout my life. I venture forth still needing clarity, but I no longer ask “Why me?” because I know my father would lean back in his big blue recliner, adjust his glasses and reply, “Excuses don’t matter, results do”.