The Vortex, A Play in One Scene

Cue: De Grieg’s “Morning”
Lights fade in slowly to reveal silhouette of woman standing on a bare stage.

Woman: Oh…

Lights continue to brighten until the audience is illuminated.

Woman: Oh! Hello. Was I…have you been here a while? I feel like I’ve been away for a very long time. Let’s see, I remember the Fourth of July, and then… it’s all a bit fuzzy. And now, it’s – I’m sorry, what’s the date?

The audience remains silent.

Woman: Oh, dear. It’s been ages since I was last here, isn’t that right? You must be quite annoyed with me. After all, I asked all of you here, and then – whoop! I vanish. But it seems I’m back. If that’s any consolation to you. Thank you for being here still! No, really, I do truly appreciate your patience.

It seems I entered the wedding vortex. Have you heard about it? I hadn’t. Well, not really. There are rumors, you know. There are always rumors. But there I was one day, preparing for my wedding, things moving along as they do – and then, Poof! I could feel a flurry of wedding preparation pick up speed, and I tried to shift into a higher gear to better tackle the approaching tasks, but there was a gravitational pull that was stronger than I was. And then, yes, it’s all coming back to me now, I woke up one morning to a whooshing sound and then suddenly I was getting sucked into the vortex. It’s all a blur when I speak of it now, but I am certain that’s where I was. Quite certain…

And – oh, yes! This I remember quite clearly! There was an earthquake! Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing? An earthquake in New York City! It seems so implausible, doesn’t it? But there I was in my office on the 31st floor when the walls started wobbling. My brain didn’t know what to make of it, so it suggested perhaps I was underwater. I’m embarrassed to say, I didn’t rule out that option nearly as quickly as one might expect. When the vase began to teeter on its pedestal, I swear, it was something right out of a movie!

I know it was nothing at all compared to what others have experienced. But I was an earthquake novice, you see. I’m not accustomed to my ceiling buckling. When the announcement came over the P.A. system to evacuate, I did not hesitate, not even long enough to grab my purse and phone. That was very silly of me. I would like to think I’d be much more clear-headed in an emergency situation, but to walk away from my money and means of contact? I’d have to give myself a failing grade on that one, don’t you agree?

An with each floor I descended, one of the thousands of employees working our way down the stairwell, I thought of more things to concern me. I didn’t know how bad the earthquake was on a city-wide scale, so my fear got the worst of me. O was scheduled to be on the subway; had his train derailed? Was he all right? My sister would learn of the earthquake and try to reach me; I envisioned my phone ringing incessantly on my desk.

And before I realized it, I was having some odd, pseudo-flashback experience to September 11, 2001.

I say ‘pseudo’ because I wasn’t downtown on September 11. Yes, it’s true that I work across the street from where the towers fell, and when I say that aloud, I realize it brings a level of sustained awareness of vulnerability to my everyday. But I didn’t think it affected me. Go ahead and laugh, I don’t mind, I know it sounds absurd. But I mean it! I don’t have a personal connection with the geography of my office building. And the crowds of tourists lend themselves to the feeling of being in the middle of a giant attraction, and that’s how I feel in Times Square, too.

Mind you, the looming ten year anniversary has brought with it a renewed level of attention to That Day. And yes, the articles recollecting personal experiences from back then have revived some of the emotions. But I digress. The point I’m trying to make is that my own response to a little itty-bitty earthquake surprised me.

Once they let us back in the building, I tried to go back to work, but my boss told me he’d never seen me so pale and to go home and have a drink. I walked home for fear of being on a subway should an aftershock come. I canceled plans to see a play lest an aftershock bring the roof down of the old theatre building.

… and now here I am. When you think about it, there’s nothing quite like a natural disaster (or fear of one) to shake off a wedding vortex, that’s for sure!

A stage assistant runs on stage.

Oh - pardon me -

Whispers in Woman’s ear and runs off.

Well, if this doesn’t take the cake!

Woman begins to laugh.

A hurricane! A real, live, honest to goodness hurricane! (Laughs) I mean, now, really! An earthquake AND a hurricane in one week? Who on earth has ever heard of such a thing?! (Continues to laugh) What’s next? Locusts? No, flying pigs! (Collects herself) Whew. I needed that laugh. Oh, dear. You must all be quite ready to go home.

The audience begins to leave.

Stock up on candles and batteries! See you again soon, I hope! Thank you for coming!

Woman exits stage, muttering “A hurricane! Of all things...It’s practically farcical... Where’s my umbrella?”

The Stand Beside

As of tonight, there are forty-five days left until H and O wed. As maid of honor (or best woman, or – as a colleague called me today – The Stand Beside), I’ve been working on my toast. Most of my brainstorming takes place as I drive up and down the slopes of Haleakala on my way to and from home. I envision myself standing before a crowd of family and friends, H and O beside me, and as I imagine what I'll say first, I inevitably begin to cry. That’s as far as I’ve come. Clearly, I have my work cut out for me.

There is not one particular reason for my tears. I suppose the most obvious explanation is that I feel I’ll be standing in, so to speak, for both of my parents. There’s no getting around that one. But also, it is a rite of passage, and rites of passage by definition mark milestones and reveal what is valued in a culture and to a people. As I envision H's and O’s celebration, I can almost see the silhouettes of those people, our people, who have come before them to this particular rite; they gather around H & O, smiling, nodding encouraging, welcoming them. And in 0 to 60...my tears.

Three years ago on the Ides of March, H and I, on our separate islands, each went out with friends. That evening, I met my young, sweet man as I ordered a Cosmo in my little surf town by the sea. H. ventured out into the chilly night to a bar on the Lower East Side of Manhattan for a friend’s birthday; O was there with his own friends. When H and I called each other the next morning for weekend updates, we shared our news.

H and I had lived together for three years as single women in our early and mid-thirties, respectively. Life was good back then. Many a night, we'd meet after work at one of our neighborhood haunts, order the endive salad and pumpkin ravioli..and a couple of dirty martinis, to boot... and revel in the comfort of it all. We also understood that at some point we'd have to break out of that comfort zone. We joked that if we weren’t careful, we'd find ourselves in our eighties, shorter, wrinkled and still clambering up on the same old bar stools.

Some new moon evenings, we’d wander down West End Avenue to a beautiful church on the Upper West Side. As people strolled their dogs past us, and as the food delivery guys squealed by on their bikes, we'd stand by the curb, sheltered by trees or scaffolding depending on the season, and whisper our dreams for work, creativity and love just loud enough for the other to hear and support. And then we'd walk home arm in arm envisioning those futures, the city's apartment lights and lives surrounding us.

This past July 27^th marked the one-year anniversary of the first Heffalump post. At that time, I was living on the volcano’s slopes with that same young man. Though we lived together and loved each other, our lives were slowly but steadily growing ever more separate. Back in New York, O. had just proposed to H.

One year later, I am living on my own with Petey the dog, a stone’s throw from a stunning, wild, rugged beach. I have just begun to dip my toe back into the world of dating. One year later, H is about be married. One year later, or many years later - depending on when you start counting- life is good. It’s different, but it’s good.

There isn't anything I'd rather be doing in forty-five days than be standing beside H and welcoming in O.