It rained a lot while I was there and I was recently broken-hearted. The two go together well, like $10 Pinot Noir and episodes of 11 P.M. Law & Order. Edinburgh, for all its beauty, stomped on my already beaten-up heart and sent me home lonelier than I'd ever felt. Sadly, I like to think that I am my plays, and if they get praise, I get praise, and if they get hammered, well . . . (I am getting better at this.) Oh, and I didn't get laid either, which I thought was sort of a given circumstance of a summer in Europe. Nope, not for this Sad American Girl.
I get back to New York with a couple heavy bags, a few souvenirs, and a crumpled, useless costume which still hangs in my New York apartment. (I don't know. Sentimentality?) My friend Janelle had offered a space in her apartment to me. She had a roommate who stayed entirely with her boyfriend, so there was an extra room and, I think, Janelle was a little lonely. And, it was free! She said "don't worry about it," knowing that I'd be broke upon return. Janelle and I worked at the same gym, though in separate areas. I was a personal trainer and Janelle was in sales. It's not reaching too far to say that Janelle was a pimp, and I was . . . well, you get the metaphor. Needless to say, I did not have the privilege of choosing my own clients; they were chosen for me by well-meaning but money-driven sales reps. I did not always love my clients. I did not ever love them. Like a hooker (I imagine) there were some clients that were a welcome diversion from the more common dregs of humanity and hour of ickiness that I withstood primarily because I had no choice, but also because of the money. Whore, Personal Trainer, Personal Trainer, Whore.
The journey to Janelle's apartment was tedious to say the least. Jet-lag is a bitch, notwithstanding the two Ambien pills that a client slipped to me at the gym in a sealed white envelope. (I didn't have health insurance; it's a perk, okay? What?!?) Transit in NYC is not simple. From any given airport, you can count on a tram, a train, a subway and a bus to get you where you are going. Unless, of course, you have money, and then you can just take a cab. I show up bedraggled and beaten in every which way but cake batter. I had just turned 30, so I didn't even have naivety to lean on; I was just Sheer. Beat. Up.
It was 11 A.M. Janelle was on the couch. So, this was strange, because 11 A.M. was a great hour for her to be fielding calls from desperate rich people in need of some exercise and pairing them with beaten-down-yet-financially-dependent individuals who are considered very physical. . . ly fit.
I had been looking forward to Janelle. I thought living with another single chick in New York City would be fun and maybe just what my broken heart needed. She liked to go out, she had lots of friends, and mostly, I really liked Janelle. Also, I needed a friend. I was so discouraged. I imagined walking in and dropping onto the couch, cheerful at first and commenting only on the positives of travel abroad:
"they have such great accents!" "I learned so much." "Look at this great mug I bought!" And, then, eventually giving way to my truer emotions, maybe even crying. Janelle would be good for that, I told myself. For the first time in months I would let myself be vulnerable. I would let Janelle comfort me. She's just the person I need.
A bottle of Chardonnay stood unapologetically on the coffee table before her. Not the expensive kind. And not the standard 750 ml. No, this was the Big Bottle. The Big Cheap Bottle. The Big Cheap Bottle that one buys when she knows that she is going to start drinking it at 11 A.M. Her hand shook as she reached for the glass, but she got it in her grasp. She'd practiced that action, I do believe, to the point that her right hand could close around that wine glass even if it was severed from her body.
My bags plopped to the floor. I don't think we're going to be talking about me. Or my vulnerability. I think we're going to be talking about-
"So I've checked myself into rehab."
Oh.
"Yeah, maybe you already knew, but I definitely have a drinking problem." (Tremor, tremor.)
Oh. Um, no, no, I didn't.
"Well I do. And it's gotten worse, so I'm going to rehab."
That's great, Janelle. That's very brave. Good for you.
"But my parents are visiting in a week and I can't deal with it until after they go, so until then I'm 'onna drink my face off."
And then
she did.
Now, you know I like my wine. But, fortunately for me, I guess, I do not like it on the heels of cereal and milk. And I do not like tremors. (To her credit, she did go to rehab and from what I hear, she got much better.) But before that . . .
Janelle had pretty much stopped going to work. She was asleep a lot when I would get home in the afternoon and was out at night when I would go to bed. More than once she entered my room at night when she got in, disoriented and unclear as to which bedroom was hers. Meanwhile, I am waking up at 4:45 A.M. to get to the gym by 5:30 to train some poor soul who only had that one hour to spare (allow me to repeat, I did not choose my clients, nor the schedule I kept.) Two weeks into this Chardonnay Circus, my aunt MJ came to visit New York. She likes to visit once in a while and when she does, generously treats me to Broadway plays and excellent dining. She had put herself up at The Casablanca, just off Times Square, a small but nice hotel which boasted a daily complimentary Happy Hour of wine and cheese between 5 and 7. For registered guests. (How would they know though, really? No one ever asked for a room key. It's on 47th Street if anyone wants to try with me sometime...)
By the time MJ had arrived, I'd already secured another apartment, but I couldn't move in for a few more days. So MJ, ever to my rescue, suggested I just bring my bags to The Casablanca and stay with her until the new place was ready. (Ya don't have to ask me twice. Especially with Shaky Chardonnay entering my bedroom on a regular basis.) MJ got a cab and we loaded up my stuff. The staff at The Casablanca looked more intrigued than perturbed as we toted my bags (and microwave) through their lobby and up to the fifth floor. On her last day in New York, MJ had to depart at some ungodly hour. She, however, could afford a cab to the airport, lucky her. She encouraged me to sleep in and take advantage of the noon check-out. It was Saturday, and therefor, I was determined to sleep past the hour when whores walk home and P.T.s walk to work. Whore, Personal Trainer, Personal Trainer, Whore...
I left The Casablanca 11:59. I called a cab - out of sheer necessity and with the money I'd saved since MJ, the Patron Saint of the Pathetic, bought all my meals that week-end. I was dropped off at my new apartment, an incredible sublet situation that would last for two years and not a second longer. Seriously, it was so good, I was going to be Cinderella for two years, despite the pumpkin it would then become, and me, the seed. The location was top-notch. A studio like this one in NYC at the time would go for $1600 a month, and I was going to pay about $800. It was a ten-minute walk from my early-morning job! I turned the key to apartment 4A on 34 West 86th Street . . .
(Stay tuned for Dwell & Tell Part Two)
Readers: I am living in Lexington, KY for two months. I am teaching a playwriting course and performing in the incredibly charming play ALMOST, MAINE. I am living with my dear friend Sully White and enjoying myself immensely already. My first vino in Lexington was enjoyed at a place called Ramsey's Diner. They have a great little outdoor patio that I must hurry to take advantage of and these really great pie specials (oatmeal chocolate chip! as a pie! c'mon!) And people, you just don't see $5 glasses of wine that full in other parts of this country. Ramsey's, I love you for that. And for your incredible selection of hot veggies. I will be back. Get used to me.
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