Curtain Down

The day I arrived back in New York City, the angels were singing. Petey arrived from United Cargo in one piece, a friend greeted us with hugs and a hand made lei, and the baggage control lady let me get my bags from the “hold” without the necessary ID. Meanwhile,  H was already at my new apartment stocking it with essentials: toilet paper, gluten-free cookies, sparkling water, flowers, wine, and a wine opener. That night, I dined on an Upper West Side rooftop with friends and family. The evening was warm with humidity at a comfortable low. All was good.

On the second day, New York kicked my ass. Actually, it was Brooklyn doing the proverbial kicking. H graciously accompanied me on my quest to Ikea to furnish my new apartment, but we didn’t get on the ferry heading to Red Hook until after 5 p.m. We should have known better. In fact, we do know better. Still, the lull of the ferry, the breeze, and the views of downtown Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty soothed us, and I was convinced we’d be in and out in two hours. Then, the ferry hit a wave (who knew we had waves) just as I was taking a picture and my new Oakley sunglasses flew into the East River. "Yup, they're in the water!" yelled a helpful passenger. I sighed. That was the beginning of the end. Flash forward to losing focus somewhere in Ikea's living room department, a painstakingly long check-out line followed by an even more painstakingly long line for Home Delivery… I couldn’t exactly lug the new headboard home by hand.

By the time we gasped for fresh air outside Ikea's exit doors, we’d missed every ferry back to Manhattan save the last one, the 9 pm. We were tired and hungry enough that H made the executive decision to abort the ferry and grab a car service. Four minutes later we were in stand still traffic, still in Brooklyn, due to Obama’s arrival into the city. Again, we aborted plans and GPSed our way to a local restaurant. Where there were no tables available. And a wait list.  Our eyes were weary. Our throats dry. Our stomachs empty. The hostess was in no hurry to seat us. I decided New York was testing me. 

When we finally placed our orders sometime around 10 pm, we proceeded to entertain ourselves with a hangman game, the phrases reflecting our roller coaster moods and ranging from 'Welcome Back' and 'Best Sister Ever' to 'I Don’t Like You' and 'Smart Ass'. Once food had arrived and the color had returned to our faces, H pondered how we had ended up trapped in Brooklyn at 11pm on a Wednesday night. In the end, H decided we should not have stepped foot on that ferry so late in the day. “We overreached,” she determined. “That’s it. We overreached.” Post dinner, we dug deep and hoofed it to the nearest subway station to take the train home. Or three trains to be exact.

But here’s the thing about New York that many non-New Yorkers don’t know. There is aloha here. It may have a gruff exterior and it may swear a blue streak at you and it may snag you in traffic, but there’s love nonetheless.

As I ran toward my second train on the commute lugging the Ikea bag full of sheets and 500 votive candles, the doors on the train cars were open. I suddenly forgot if this was the train I needed. “Does this stop at Columbus Circle?” I yelled to a young man standing the door. “Don’t know,” he muttered back as the doors started to close. But someone in the car yelled out that it did. This young guy, leaning against the wall playing with his smart phone nonchalantly, stuck out his foot, propped open the car doors and kindly called me inside with a smile.

That, in New York, is aloha.

And so, here I am, back again. It’s true that I’ve been here before. And yet, I haven’t. Some things are the same, of course. The other night, I sat on the floor of my mostly unfurnished apartment drinking beer and chatting with three dear friends. And the other night, as H and I optimistically headed downtown on that 1 train on our supposedly quick shopping trip, we sat side by side reading a New Yorker article together. That is what I’ve missed. That, and really good Indian. Delivered. And yet, of course, I've never been Here before. Who has?

Back in June, I walked into that party in Maui and...well, let's just flashback. He was the first person I saw in the small gathering.  I introduced myself. Offered my hand. He told me his name. Took my hand.  And then, we fell in love, an easy, kind love full of laughter and ease. A love now titled My Very Very Long Distance Relationship. 

Life. Funny, isn't it? 

As H mentioned in her last post, Heffalumps’ original guiding question was “How did we get here?” So, here we both are. Looking forward and asking, “Where are we going now? And, what then?” With that, On Heffalumps And Other Detours takes a final bow.

As they say in Hawaii, a hui hou. Until we meet again.

Foldin' Time

One summer, many years ago, my sister and I worked together at a seaside motel. I trust the term has evolved into something more gender-neutral, but at the time, the position posted in our town paper’s classified section was that of “chambermaid.” It paid more per hour than our previous summer jobs, and we were seeking a short term means of earning as much cash as possible for our ultimate goal: two weeks in Europe.

We had planned the trip with friends, and we were leaving in the middle of the summer. We reasoned that we could work up to the day of our departure with absolutely no intention of returning to the polyester uniforms and the icky surprises that greeted us on every shift in one room or another. Imagine our shock when my father vehemently opposed the plan to quit. We would be shirking our responsibilities halfway through a busy tourist season, he argued; it would be unfair to our employer to leave her shorthanded. He insisted that we see the job through to its Labor Day conclusion, and indeed, we celebrated our traipse across London and Paris all the more for the knowledge that August would be spent cleaning rooms.

One does not abandon one’s responsibilities.

Or does one?

Perhaps, had my father lived longer, he would have had the chance to expound upon his principles of duty and accountability. Maybe we would have had the conversation where he urged me instead to recognize when it is time to leave.

This past June, I survived my company’s lay-offs. I wish I had not. In fact, the department for which I had worked the past eight years was promptly dismantled. Within days of my boss’ early retirement, I sat in a meeting with the two people deciding my fate. I was informed that I would be removed from my office. The projects with which I had been involved were to be reassigned to other departments, outsourced, or canceled altogether. When I voiced my concerns that I was being demoted, the reply was, “Well, you are.” As I sat at my new cubicle, I was mistaken for an intern. My new supervisor asked me whether my lunch break would last thirty minutes or one hour. I gave my notice the next day.

Pulling the plug on that chapter of my life has afforded me the opportunity to see the ripple effect this change has created in and around me. In more ways than one, it is time to move on.

My sister and I began this blog with the purpose of asking “How did we get here?” but this question concerns me less than it used to. The more pressing question these days seems to be “Where are we going?”

In July 2004, I returned to New York after adventuring overseas for a year. I was unemployed and without a plan. That same summer, my sister moved back to New York after her year living in Hawaii. She was going back to her old teaching job.

In a few weeks’ time, my sister will be once again moving back to New York from Hawaii to return to her old teaching job and I am once again unemployed.

We know this time around will be so, very different. And I, for one, am eager to pose in our next blog, the next big question: “And what then?”

Beginning. Again.

 

I don’t know how to begin this piece because I don’t yet know where I am in this story. The beginnings and endings have become blurred. Perhaps, I will begin here simply for the sake of starting somewhere.

May 29^th, 2007. Late evening, the lazy summer sun just beginning to set. Ali and I met for drinks and dinner in our city neighborhood. I remember where we ate. I remember where we sat. I remember that I was seriously contemplating moving back to Maui to give that life a try. The details of our lingering conversation remain fuzzy, but I do know that by the time we said goodbye on the corner of 104^th, Ali heading into her building on the north side of the street and me into mine on the south, the night was deep and I had decided to move off my urban island. The next morning, she dropped off an 8 ½ by 11 piece of paper on which she had typed a quote by Goethe. I came across it the other day in an old journal.

Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (& creation) there is one elementary truth – the ignorance of which kills countless ideas of splendid plans - that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves, too…

Yesterday morning, a young, Hawaiian woman ground a bag of coffee for me at a local coffee shop. She had a tattoo, big, bold, swooping across and around her neck. I couldn’t quite make it out as it wrapped around. Couldn’t see the beginning or the ending – both were hidden, veiled by her long, thick, deep hair. So I asked. She told me it was the name of a wind that blows on the Big Island carrying the scent of a certain flower.

Today I live in a land of many winds.

All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance which no man could have dreamed would come his way…

In the dawn hours of a Wednesday morning this April, I awoke to an email offering me a job back in New York City. I would spend the year with 7 and 8 year olds, exploring the Hudson River. We would build and play and investigate and question and learn and grow. Again, I would mentor new teachers. Again, I would create. I would be near H and O and friends and afternoons spent wandering through my favorite narrow West Village streets or a new exhibit at Moma. My decision was clear. I was ready to go. I called the movers for quotes. I booked a ticket back to the city to apartment hunt. I found a realtor; she started sending me listings. The New Yorker arrived in my mailbox and there, on the cover, was a drawing of a dog, a spitting image of Petey, chilling on his city stoop. It’s a sign, I thought.

Meanwhile, the island became brighter somehow. Every rainbow, every cane field sweeping yellows and greens, every grey cloud afternoon, and the ocean shifting from slate to deep green to the clearest of pale blues. I wanted to be here now so I could be there soon.  For years, I had been asking for clarity and here it was. This is what it felt like.

The school year came to an end on June first. There were hugs, leis, good wishes and then I drove down the mountain. Ready. On second night of June, I went to a new friend’s home for a small get together. Dessert. Wine. He was the first person I saw in the small gathering.  I introduced myself. Offered my hand. He told me his name. Took my hand.

If someone else were telling me this part of the story, I’d be hesitant. Skeptical. Perhaps even write it off. Even I am tempted to do so.

Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin. Boldness has genius, power, and magic

in it. Begin it now…

For Steph.

With love, Ali.

In the fitful, sleepless early morning hours of May 30, 2007.

Two movies play in my head. Two versions of my life that co-exist in parallel times. In one, I am walking up the stone sidewalk along Riverside Park towards school, fall leaves twisting and twirling down to the hard ground below my feet, coffee thermos in hand. Music streams from a window. The yeasty, warm smell of bagels draws me across Broadway. I breathe and my breath is visible, a cool cloud.

In the other, the setting is less clear. The cast is changing. Auditions are still underway. Perhaps the path below my feet is paved. Perhaps it is sandy. Perhaps there is a honeysweet breeze flitting past. Perhaps it is another detour. Perhaps not.

“Hallo!” said Piglet, ‘what are you doing?’

“Hunting,” said Pooh.

“Hunting what?”

“Tracking something,” said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously.

“Tracking what?’ said Piglet coming closer.

“That’s just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?”

“What do you think you’ll answer?”

“I shall have to wait until I catch up with it.”

Fred

O and I went out for dinner last night. I wanted to do something special to mark the occasion that I was not unemployed.

In April, a company-wide email announced a “reduction in workforce” that would be completed before the end of the fiscal year, June 30. Dozens of qualifying employees were offered early retirement packages. My boss was one of them; he took it.

Nine years ago, I was temping at an office that didn’t need me. I sat for hours a day minding the desk of a woman never in town, whose phone rarely rang. After several days of being paid to appreciate the close-up view of the Chrysler building across the street from where I sat, I called my agency and told them I would go stir crazy if I held this gig much longer. Soon enough, I was walking into an interview with the best boss I’ve ever had.

His office was filled from floor to ceiling with memorabilia of his life in music. Framed photos lined every shelf and all the walls. As I sat down in front of him, he said without looking up from my resume, “It’s between you and one other person, and I’m leaning towards you.” He asked me where I’d grown up. When I mentioned Rome, his eyes lit up. When was I there, he asked. As it happened, while I had been going to pre-school in my pint-sized burgundy blazer and gray skirt uniform, he had been hosting a radio show from the station he owned a few miles away. In 1976, he had been the host of the July 4th bicentennial celebration for ex-pats at the American School of Rome. My family had been there. I sat before this man whose life’s path had intersected with mine almost thirty years earlier. And here we were, again.

I got the job.

It was supposed to be a temporary assignment but three months later, I accepted a permanent position. I told myself it was for the salary, the health insurance. Just until my acting career got off the ground, I said. My boss wanted to promote me. I resisted, for fear of additional responsibility. We argued about it. At one point, he yelled, “let me give you more money!!!” to which I yelled back, “I don’t want it!!!” I got the promotion and the raise that came with it. I quit acting. He put me through a Professional Skills Certification course. I got married. Despite his having had heart surgery five days prior, his was the first face I saw as we approached the venue. He was waiting at the entrance, his camera ready.

The man who became a father figure, my mentor and a friend was now leaving, and suddenly the job I never meant to have was now the job I needed.

I found out on June 28 that my name was not on the list for the chopping block.
The next day, I walked with my boss as he headed out of the office. Bereft of the company ID no longer affixed to his shirt pocket, he stepped into the elevator, rolling his suitcase filled with the last personal contents of his desk drawers.

Our paths have crossed twice already. If it happens once more, I’ll be the luckier for it.

Daddy: A Memory

It was summer. I was seventeen. I had managed to snag my first job – the late afternoon to closing shift at a local Dunkin Donuts. I proudly donned my yellow, orange and brown donut tree dress and headed off to the neon lit rectangle on the edge of town. Our customers were primarily day-trippers leaving the Rhode Island beaches, stopping on the way out to Providence and Boston and places beyond for their ‘large, light, sweet’ and boxes full of crullers. I only remember one regular. Willy. He was a small man with greased back, wavy hair. While I managed the counter and drive-through window, he’d sit on a stool and talk with me, a naïve teenager still new to America. I didn't mind working on my own in the afternoons, but when the last steaks of sunset retreated into the  empty night, the space was too quiet. After closing, I'd lock the doors, croon along to Journey, and close down the shop. My last job was to throw out the uneaten doughnuts, dragging the garbage bags out and heaving them into the dumpster at the back of the parking lot.

My father didn’t like it. I called the manager and asked to be  put on the late shift with a co-worker. But no, if I wanted the job it was me and me alone. So I stayed. From then on, every night that I worked that shift, my father would show up just as I was closing. My tall, strong father, most comfortable in a shirt and tie, or slacks and polo – not once in my life did I see him wear a pair of jeans – my father, the spy, who made phone calls from train stations in northern Europe, my father who would leave for work in his trench coat and hat, briefcase in grip, my father the ultimate host, poised behind his bar, telling stories, pouring drinks, his thick fingers dipping into the orange, plastic bowl of salty peanuts, his deep, explosive laugh bouncing off the walls. We worked in silence, side by side. As I mopped the floors, he wiped dried icing off the display case shelves with a damp towel.  And then he’d help me haul the day’s unsold donuts out back.

With the store shut and locked, we headed home together, my car following his. Or perhaps, his car followed mine. Perhaps we drove side by side down the four-lane Route 1 through Westerly, passing JC Penny,  McDonald’s, the movie theatre, the Chinese restaurant and down towards the river, turning onto quiet, tree lined Elm Street. Number 9. Home.

(Below, After Westerly, written in 2006. Dedicated to my father.)

After Westerly

Elm Street, number 9.

The door, a new family green.

Someone else's car

parked in the drive.

The memory of my mother

perches inside on a kitchen stool,

Peter Jennings talking news,

a cocktail on the counter,

dinner on the stove.

My sister and I bounce

down carpeted stairs

to set the table,

light the candles,

pour the milk.

Upstairs, my father

pecks at the typewriter,

a green mug full of coffee cold

standing guard.

At dinner, he builds boats

out of orange rinds and toothpicks,

and sails them across the table.

Most evenings, he walks Riley,

their respite

from a house full of women.

He wears the navy blue trench coat

that I now wear,

so boxy

I can barely reach the bottom of the pockets.

After Westerly;

I think that maybe if I stand outside,

he’ll do so again, passing by

the thirty-four year old me

he’s never seen.

In the city, a photo hangs on my fridge

of my parents laughing at the end of a party,

their arms flung high,

my mother shoeless

in black stocking feet.

On Skin, and the More and Less of it.

Today was my routine six month appointment with my dermatologist. Thanks to my remarkably thorough Northern European heritage on both sides, and a hardy dose of melanoma in my family history, neither I nor my dermatologist take these meetings lightly. I cannot leave a dermatology office without a divot of skin removed. Consequently, my body now looks like the landscape of a golf course practice tee.
It started at an age when I was too young to appreciate that the mole removed from somewhere in the vicinity of my undeveloped breasts would, as my pediatrician phrased it, “not distract from the bikini” I would one day wear. These inspections continued through college, when I would come home over school break and submit to the smattering of mole removals from foot, finger, lower back. Once I became an adult with my own insurance, I approached the task of finding the right skin remover with due diligence: the office was close to mine. I could squeeze in a visit over my lunch hour.
One should not underestimate the emotional duress of undergoing a full-body scrutiny for the first time. Where there is skin, there could be skin cancer. In short, lots of nakedness is involved, and I’m the only one playing this game. The day came when I donned my birthday suit in front of Dr. Kim. We upheld all statutes of professional decorum, enduring the breast-lifting to look beneath, and the – yes, I’ll say it – cheek-spreading, to, ahem, cover all bases.
Then I moved away for a while.
When I returned to New York, by pure coincidence, my new job was in the same neighborhood and offered the same insurance. I scheduled a follow-up. In the exam room, I sat with nothing on but a flimsy paper dress tied shut with a plastic string serving as a meager nod towards dignity. I comforted myself that at least he’d seen it all before. In walked Dr. Kim.
Only.
It wasn’t the Dr. Kim who had seen my most private nooks and crannies a year earlier. It was, by sheer dumb luck, a different Dr. Kim who just happened to succeed the other Dr. Kim.
What’re the odds, I ask?
The amusement factor got me through the new once-over (so unfair), and then that asshole got married and moved to New Jersey. Next! His successor sang the praises of cosmetic enhancements. Her successor is who I saw today.
I’ve gotten over the whole naked thing. It could be that this is my fifth doctor. It could be that I’m getting too old for modesty. These days I show up, I strip to my skivvies, and she sees more of me than I do.
My laissez-faire attitude does not extend to my age. Today, I asked her about my skin care options for my aging forehead, stressing that I was going to be 39 this year. My doctor, who is as white as I am – and I make this point because there are some ethnicities for whom aging seems magically elusive – chuckled, and said, “I’m sorry to laugh, but I’m 62.”
This woman doesn’t look a day over 45. The secret of her success?
“Sunscreen.”
I understand that the Evil Rays will age me before my time. I already am that freak who will spend a day at the beach wearing a sun hat and SPF 50 while sitting under an umbrella. But this woman either has the best sunscreen known to man, or there’s a painting getting older in an attic somewhere. Regardless, my faith in all things Shade has been renewed.
I may be dragged to 39 kicking and screaming, but I’ll get there pale as a ghost and with one less wrinkle on my face. And one more divot on my body.

Taking Off.

Ten years ago this summer, I landed on Maui for the very first time. It was late and dark and I couldn't see a thing, but the air was gentle, warm, sweet.

My dear friend, Katie, and I rented the ubiquitous tourist Sebring, and drove off into the inky night, convertible top down. I had no sense of the island or lay of the land; I didn't know we were driving across the flat of Central Maui, or that our route to Lahaina was carved into the hills of the West Maui mountains. All I knew was that the sky was saturated with bright stars, the salty ocean was nearby, and it felt heavenly. I woke early the next morning from a jet-lag heavy sleep and stepped out onto the beach. Behind me, bright, green mountains stretched toward the blue sky, a light morning drizzle lending to their sparkle. In front of me, volcanic islands rose from the sea.

Yesterday, I came across a photo of that very first morning. I’m in a yellow bikini, arms raised exuberantly at the wonder surrounding me. I remember thinking that I'd had no idea this beauty existed. And, I thought, I need to be here.

So I moved here. Twice.

The first time I moved was for ten months, a delicious break from what hurt. During those delirious, free-spirited months, I steeped myself in life on a tropical island. And I lived in three different places. My first six months were spent in a clean, simple vacation rental in the lush countryside of Haiku. My view reminded me of the picture on the back of the old Cornflakes box; vast meadows, golden sun, birds in the sky. I then moved down the coast into the small neighborhood of Kuau, makai side. I lived in a tiny pale, yellow cottage where the kitchen sink doubled as the bathroom sink, and the mildew-speckled refrigerator stood outside. A black and white coral beach was a stone's throw away. When the owner decided to move back into the space, I found yet another temporary home. My final stop was a light and breeze-filled apartment atop a garage, a short, plumeria scented, bike-ride to a mile-long sandy beach. And to get to my Volleyball 101 class, I biked along the airport’s runways.

Without realizing it, with each new home, I had moved closer and closer to the airport. Six weeks later I was back in Manhattan.

This time, I’ve lived in Maui for five years. Again I’ve had three different homes. This last one, my lovely studio in Spreklesville, happens to have again landed me right beside the airport. And soon I will be taking off for New York City, a one-way ticket in hand.

People have asked me why I'd leave the beauty of this island, the perfect weather, the warm year-round sun for the grit of the city, the unpleasant smells, the horrible summer humidity. Fair questions. I wonder about those things, as well. I am not tired of the beauty, the sun, the sea, the full moon over Haleakala, the jungles full of ginger and waterfalls. No, I am not.  I can list the reasons for my move if pushed to do so. I can appeal to my, and perhaps your, logical side. But in the end, there is just a knowing that it is time to go back… for now.

From the beach by my house, I see the planes as they take off. And from the path where I run, I can see them land. I often stop and wait for the plane to touch down. I watch it take the traditional landing route, heading away from me as it crosses the island to make a giant u-turn over the south side. It glides back towards me into the head winds, easing its way down gradually until it touches the ground, roaring its arrival.

Each time, I wonder if there is someone on the plane landing for the first time. Looking out the window. Excited. Wondering what it will be like. And each time, I whisper a welcome and I wonder if - no, hope - they will experience even a little of the magic that I have.