1. Native New Yorker
We could say that all births are miracles. Everyone who is born of man and woman is a miracle. But some births are more peculiar than others. Normally, when a woman becomes pregnant her hymen is breached. But my mother's hymen appeared intact when she was carrying me. She tried to explain this to a doctor examining her who received the information calmly enough, but then went running to get assistance when he discovered she was not exaggerating. She never thought she would get pregnant. Well, surprise, here I am.
I was born in New York City. My father, a psychiatrist, and my mother, a painter, came to New York from Puerto Rico. I'm told Spanish was the first language I ever spoke, though sadly I am not bilingual. The story behind that is that one day I came home from school saying, "Stupid, stupid," and my mother realized the kids were calling me stupid because I didn't know English. So my parents decided to speak to me in English so I would learn it faster. And I did. I learned English and forgot a lot of Spanish. It was kind of weird because they would speak to each other in Spanish and speak to me in English. I didn't know what they were saying half the time.
For almost half a century, we lived in The Pavilion, the most beautiful Manhattan luxury apartment building I have ever seen. The lobby seems more like a palace than an apartment complex. The building is enormous, occupying an entire city block. Divided into three sections, a tower, east wing, and west wing, it has twelve elevators with amenities that include a deli, salon, dry cleaners, exercise room, two sun roofs, kids' playing area, package room, storage room, three laundry rooms, garage, ATM, and a shuttle bus to the subway. Located on 77th and York Avenue, in the heart of Yorkville, The Pavilion is footsteps away from parks, restaurants, schools, grocery stores, and the East River. I miss it dearly and daily.
I was two years old when we moved into apartment 1539 in the East Wing. Down the hall from us, our neighbors David Rapaport and his wife June, were raising two young boys; Eric, my age, and Michael, perhaps three years younger. Eric and I were best friends for a time, before they moved across the street. For some reason, moving across the street was almost like moving to another country because we weren't old enough to cross the street by ourselves. No more dashing down the hall to his apartment or my apartment. Of our adventures, I recall playing with Fisher Price like a couple of normal, well-behaved kids. My mother recalls two little rascals making a mess in the living room with the ink ribbon they pulled from a toy typewriter. I also remember one time we were in my room with our backs against my door, trying to keep little brother Mikey out. Another time, I thought Mikey had broken one of my toys and I grabbed his arm and bit him like a rabbid animal. A regrettable maneuver, not only for its brutality, but for the fact that little Mikey is now famous actor Michael Rapaport. Who knew.
I can't count how many times I have seen Mikey on television, whether appearing in a film by Woody Allen, or Spike Lee, or an episode of Friends. And he is not the only person from my childhood who has achieved a laudable measure of fame. There have been others. Enough that I sometimes feel like the real Forrest Gump, always surprised to find another familiar face when I turn on the television or read the newspaper. But more on that later.
I was born in New York City. My father, a psychiatrist, and my mother, a painter, came to New York from Puerto Rico. I'm told Spanish was the first language I ever spoke, though sadly I am not bilingual. The story behind that is that one day I came home from school saying, "Stupid, stupid," and my mother realized the kids were calling me stupid because I didn't know English. So my parents decided to speak to me in English so I would learn it faster. And I did. I learned English and forgot a lot of Spanish. It was kind of weird because they would speak to each other in Spanish and speak to me in English. I didn't know what they were saying half the time.
For almost half a century, we lived in The Pavilion, the most beautiful Manhattan luxury apartment building I have ever seen. The lobby seems more like a palace than an apartment complex. The building is enormous, occupying an entire city block. Divided into three sections, a tower, east wing, and west wing, it has twelve elevators with amenities that include a deli, salon, dry cleaners, exercise room, two sun roofs, kids' playing area, package room, storage room, three laundry rooms, garage, ATM, and a shuttle bus to the subway. Located on 77th and York Avenue, in the heart of Yorkville, The Pavilion is footsteps away from parks, restaurants, schools, grocery stores, and the East River. I miss it dearly and daily.
I was two years old when we moved into apartment 1539 in the East Wing. Down the hall from us, our neighbors David Rapaport and his wife June, were raising two young boys; Eric, my age, and Michael, perhaps three years younger. Eric and I were best friends for a time, before they moved across the street. For some reason, moving across the street was almost like moving to another country because we weren't old enough to cross the street by ourselves. No more dashing down the hall to his apartment or my apartment. Of our adventures, I recall playing with Fisher Price like a couple of normal, well-behaved kids. My mother recalls two little rascals making a mess in the living room with the ink ribbon they pulled from a toy typewriter. I also remember one time we were in my room with our backs against my door, trying to keep little brother Mikey out. Another time, I thought Mikey had broken one of my toys and I grabbed his arm and bit him like a rabbid animal. A regrettable maneuver, not only for its brutality, but for the fact that little Mikey is now famous actor Michael Rapaport. Who knew.
I can't count how many times I have seen Mikey on television, whether appearing in a film by Woody Allen, or Spike Lee, or an episode of Friends. And he is not the only person from my childhood who has achieved a laudable measure of fame. There have been others. Enough that I sometimes feel like the real Forrest Gump, always surprised to find another familiar face when I turn on the television or read the newspaper. But more on that later.
2. Life in Yorkville
One day in the lobby, I ran into Chris, a classmate from Kindergarten. "You live here?" he said. "We're moving in." And for nearly two decades we were inseparable. I lived in the East Wing, he lived in the Tower. It's like we had two apartments. The weekend would come and I was at his house or he was at mine. We played with Lego, Star Wars figures, Atari, collected comic books, watched movies, we did everything for years and years, through Kindergarten, grammar school, high school, and college. I didn't have a large number of friends as a child, just a few close friends. Many were lost in the shuffle, but I always had Chris.
Also in the building, in the West Wing, were the Evans brothers, Bobby and Johnny. I met them through Chris because his mother and their mother were friends. The four of us had many adventures in John Jay Park and beyond. These two also introduced us to Lego. Chris and I loved Lego. It was one of our favorite things. For years we amassed large quantities of it, always expanding our empires with more technologically advanced military bases and space ships.
My early childhood was quite idyllic. I had two great parents, I lived in a beautiful apartment building with three close friends, I had lots of toys, a TV in my room, and a nice walk in closet. Montessori Kindergarten was a wonderful experience. I liked my teachers and classmates. I liked show and tell and painting and nap time and birthday parties. Everything was so simple in Kindergarten. There was no pressure. You just showed up and played with stuff for a few hours. Regarding my progress there, a teacher wrote that I was very poised with adults and enjoyed giving titles to things I wrote.
After Montessori Kindrgarten, I started first grade at St. Monica's Catholic School, conveniently located three blocks away from home. Grammar school was a real culture shock for me with all the assignments and tests. I believe first grade is when I had my first taste of depression, but only a taste. I remember disliking the tests we had to take. I remember dreading school and thinking how terrible it was that I had to go to school for several years and then get a job and support myself. Even at six years old I was already afraid of the future and lacking confidence in my ability to take care of myself. Despite this feeling of inadequacy regarding my future income, I was actually quite confident in many other areas. Sometimes too confident. I had no trouble writing book reports and getting up in front of the class with any kind of presentation. I was also a bit of a clown, but this comedic nature would manifest more profoundly, and successfully, in later years, most notably at the New York Comedy Club where I performed regularly with an improv group. But more on that later.
Getting back to first grade, I had a very nice, and comely, home room teacher, Ms. Huffnagel, who would soon get married and become Mrs. Erico. She would be my teacher for grades one, two, and three. Aside from the assignments and tests that I didn't care for, I also did not enjoy the bullies. For some reason grades one, two, and three all had the same home room teacher, Mrs Erico. That meant the smaller younger kids were mixed with the larger older kids, and some of those older kids were bullies. I was tall, skinny, pale, with long red hair, in short, a bully magnet. I stood out in a crowd, attracting unwanted attention from every ill-tempered malcontent who ever went to school. And they weren't all big. Some were small and eager to best a taller opponent in hand to hand combat as proof of their fighting prowess. No matter that the taller one was completely docile, with no inclination to answer their blows, no fighting instinct to call upon in his defense. Thankfully, I was never really beaten up in school, just punched a few times and threatened. The worst punches came from Brian W. He punched me so hard in the stomach once, I couldn't breathe and started crying. Then he felt bad. At least in that moment. My tears did nothing to deter future assaults. But that was grammar school. No such bullying ever crossed my path in high school. After years of intimidation and threats, I was determined that no one on earth would ever bully me again. I didn't care how big or how strong anyone was. If they messed with me they were going to have a problem. Fortunately, I didn't meet a lot of bullies in high school, but I did find myself in a bit of a scrape once, trading blows with an irate upperclassman, also named Brian. No tears this time, but a sprinkle of blood that stained my hands and shirt. I should perhaps thank the first Brian in grammer school for toughening me up. Without his ferocity, I might not have been able to stand my ground against anyone. Truthfully, no one seemed half as tough.
Leaping back to grammar school, after first grade, the staff and students of St. Monica's Catholic School on 80th street moved to St. Joseph's Catholic School on 87th street. It was a much bigger school with a bigger lunch room and larger play area; the street was closed to traffic at lunch time, creating a play space that spanned from York to First Avenue. But while the barricades afforded suitable protection against vehicular homicide, they did little to protect children from other seemingly innocuous hazards like the popular game Red Rover. I believe it was second grade when I discovered, with viceral impact, the inherent flaw of this much loved past time. Two teams face each other with everyone holding hands. One team calls a name, and the one summoned runs at full speed with the intention of breaking through the opposing team's line. My name is called. "Red Rover calls Robert right over." At once I receive counsel from several enthused teammates, all urging me to run as fast as I can, right through Mrs. Erico's arm. Eager to please, I take their advice. I run as fast as I am able, straight toward Mrs. Erico. Seconds later, my advance is halted as, failing to breach the opposing line, I am hurled back, swept off my feet, and knocked unconscious as my head meets the road. I don't recall the impact. I just remember opening my eyes and crying because my head hurt. Also remember Mrs. Erico looking very pleased to find me alive. No surprise there. A slaughtered youth could really give a resume a black eye.
In third grade I met another close friend, Scott. One day we passed each other in the hall and I asked him if he watched Elektra Woman and Dyna Girl, a TV show for kids. He said he liked Dyna Girl and I said I liked Elektra Woman, and thus our debate, and friendship, began. Scott was interesting. I found him rather precocious, at least at that time. He lived on 82nd and York, five blocks from me. His father was a police detective and his mother was a wonderful woman who often invited me to stay for dinner and who also made the best Ice Tea I have ever tasted. He had two older brothers, Eddie, the oldest, and Robert, a martial arts enthusiast. Honestly, I don't know if Robert ever wore more than black pants and black karate slippers. He was always shirtless, looking like the Bruce Lee poster in his room. He liked to practice his karate moves on Scott who received his punches and kicks with ill humor. I remember one time, as Scott opened the door to his apartment, I caught a glimpse of Robert's eyes through the hinge, and a second later Scott was unbalanced by a kick. These assaults were usually brief, a few punches and a kick, but one time it lasted longer. Robert was relentless. Scott, red-faced and desperate, called on his mother for aid. She responded with a rolling pin, threatening bodily harm with the item if Robert's hostilities persisted. The two faced off, Robert smiling as he traded combative gestures in a mock melee with mom. If I were a psychiatrist, like my father, I might say this episode offered a glimpse into the dynamic that exists between mother and son. I might say that Robert, the older son, resented the attention awarded the younger son since his birth, and sought ways to reclaim that attention, hence the acts of aggression. But, sans a medical degree, my opinion carries no scientific authority. It's just an opinion.
Scott had a significant influence on me. He took me to the comic book store, East Side Comics, on 82nd street, two blocks from his building. He indoctrinated me in the art of comic collecting. Before his instruction, I didn't know about back issues or current issues. If I got a comic book I would read it with no clue where or when to get the next issue. I remember he was a big fan of Spider-man. I started collecting The Fantastic Four. I also ended up collecting Captain America, but only because the store had so many back issues available. Some others, like The Avengers, were missing a lot of issues, no doubt because they were more popular than Captain America at that time. I wanted to collect a series that was in good supply at the store, not a series that required more hunting. Scott taught me to save my comics in plastic bags. Normally, you had to buy these bags, but Vinny, the comic book dealer, gave us a free bag for each current issue we bought.
I remember the ritual. Scott and I would come out of St. Joseph's on 87th street and walk down York Avenue, headed south to our East Side homes. We reached his building at 82nd street and he would say, "You coming up?" And I would reply, "Yeah." Then he changed out of his parochial attire and we went to Second Avenue to get comics. Back at his place, he would read the comics, and then we would play with action figures. He was very good with the figures, inventing all kinds of engaging scenarios. This is why I found him precocious. He had a gift for improvising. We didn't just mimick storylines we had seen at the movies, these were orginal, creative ventures that developed organically, very much like the kind of performance you expect from an improv group.
Scott also introduced me to Dungeons & Dragons, a popular role playing game, which I credit with instilling in me a desire to write heroic literature. I remember being fascinated by The Monster Manual with it's mythical creatures and descriptive prose. Then later I was equally impressed by Deities and Demigods, another manual with more heroic beings. It was in the pages of Deities and Demigods that I discovered two of the greatest fantasy writers, Fritz Leiber and Michael Moorcock. First I read Leiber's Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser series, then Moorcock's Elric series. I credit Elric of Melnibone with showing me what a writer can do with words. It showed me that you can create absolutely anything with words. No lights or cameras or film crew. Just words. Absolutely anything. Years later, I sent Michael Moorcock the first draft of my fantasy novel, and he said it showed considerable promise. He also added that he broke his rule against reading unsolicited manuscripts to look at my book. I was thrilled. But more on that ... later.
Through Scott I met Dana, a nice girl who lived in the neighborhood. I think they met in Carl Schurz Park. I remember Scott used to say, "Two's company, three's better." But sometimes that was not the case. Sometimes, when Dana was coming over, Scott would ask me to leave. Apparently, this happened enough times that Dana started to notice. One day at Scott's place, she asked me, "Robert, do you like me?" I said, "Yes, I like you. Why do you ask?" She said, "Because every time I come over you leave." I turned to Scott and asked if I could tell her why I do that. Scott nodded, obviously having no idea what I was about to say, and I told her, "When you come over Scott tells me to leave." Scott gave me a look of surprise. I said, "You told me I could tell her." He nodded agreably. Suddenly roused, her voice louder, Dana said, "Why do you tell him to leave?" Scott replied, "I figured you two don't get along." She answered, "How can we get along if you tell him to leave." I felt so wanted.
Years later, I would see Dana again. In movies and TV shows. Most notably, she played Chevy Chase's daughter in the first Vacation movie. She also starred in the high school comedy Heaven Help Us, and has appeared in Beverly Hills 90210 and Babylon Five.
Also in the building, in the West Wing, were the Evans brothers, Bobby and Johnny. I met them through Chris because his mother and their mother were friends. The four of us had many adventures in John Jay Park and beyond. These two also introduced us to Lego. Chris and I loved Lego. It was one of our favorite things. For years we amassed large quantities of it, always expanding our empires with more technologically advanced military bases and space ships.
My early childhood was quite idyllic. I had two great parents, I lived in a beautiful apartment building with three close friends, I had lots of toys, a TV in my room, and a nice walk in closet. Montessori Kindergarten was a wonderful experience. I liked my teachers and classmates. I liked show and tell and painting and nap time and birthday parties. Everything was so simple in Kindergarten. There was no pressure. You just showed up and played with stuff for a few hours. Regarding my progress there, a teacher wrote that I was very poised with adults and enjoyed giving titles to things I wrote.
After Montessori Kindrgarten, I started first grade at St. Monica's Catholic School, conveniently located three blocks away from home. Grammar school was a real culture shock for me with all the assignments and tests. I believe first grade is when I had my first taste of depression, but only a taste. I remember disliking the tests we had to take. I remember dreading school and thinking how terrible it was that I had to go to school for several years and then get a job and support myself. Even at six years old I was already afraid of the future and lacking confidence in my ability to take care of myself. Despite this feeling of inadequacy regarding my future income, I was actually quite confident in many other areas. Sometimes too confident. I had no trouble writing book reports and getting up in front of the class with any kind of presentation. I was also a bit of a clown, but this comedic nature would manifest more profoundly, and successfully, in later years, most notably at the New York Comedy Club where I performed regularly with an improv group. But more on that later.
Getting back to first grade, I had a very nice, and comely, home room teacher, Ms. Huffnagel, who would soon get married and become Mrs. Erico. She would be my teacher for grades one, two, and three. Aside from the assignments and tests that I didn't care for, I also did not enjoy the bullies. For some reason grades one, two, and three all had the same home room teacher, Mrs Erico. That meant the smaller younger kids were mixed with the larger older kids, and some of those older kids were bullies. I was tall, skinny, pale, with long red hair, in short, a bully magnet. I stood out in a crowd, attracting unwanted attention from every ill-tempered malcontent who ever went to school. And they weren't all big. Some were small and eager to best a taller opponent in hand to hand combat as proof of their fighting prowess. No matter that the taller one was completely docile, with no inclination to answer their blows, no fighting instinct to call upon in his defense. Thankfully, I was never really beaten up in school, just punched a few times and threatened. The worst punches came from Brian W. He punched me so hard in the stomach once, I couldn't breathe and started crying. Then he felt bad. At least in that moment. My tears did nothing to deter future assaults. But that was grammar school. No such bullying ever crossed my path in high school. After years of intimidation and threats, I was determined that no one on earth would ever bully me again. I didn't care how big or how strong anyone was. If they messed with me they were going to have a problem. Fortunately, I didn't meet a lot of bullies in high school, but I did find myself in a bit of a scrape once, trading blows with an irate upperclassman, also named Brian. No tears this time, but a sprinkle of blood that stained my hands and shirt. I should perhaps thank the first Brian in grammer school for toughening me up. Without his ferocity, I might not have been able to stand my ground against anyone. Truthfully, no one seemed half as tough.
Leaping back to grammar school, after first grade, the staff and students of St. Monica's Catholic School on 80th street moved to St. Joseph's Catholic School on 87th street. It was a much bigger school with a bigger lunch room and larger play area; the street was closed to traffic at lunch time, creating a play space that spanned from York to First Avenue. But while the barricades afforded suitable protection against vehicular homicide, they did little to protect children from other seemingly innocuous hazards like the popular game Red Rover. I believe it was second grade when I discovered, with viceral impact, the inherent flaw of this much loved past time. Two teams face each other with everyone holding hands. One team calls a name, and the one summoned runs at full speed with the intention of breaking through the opposing team's line. My name is called. "Red Rover calls Robert right over." At once I receive counsel from several enthused teammates, all urging me to run as fast as I can, right through Mrs. Erico's arm. Eager to please, I take their advice. I run as fast as I am able, straight toward Mrs. Erico. Seconds later, my advance is halted as, failing to breach the opposing line, I am hurled back, swept off my feet, and knocked unconscious as my head meets the road. I don't recall the impact. I just remember opening my eyes and crying because my head hurt. Also remember Mrs. Erico looking very pleased to find me alive. No surprise there. A slaughtered youth could really give a resume a black eye.
In third grade I met another close friend, Scott. One day we passed each other in the hall and I asked him if he watched Elektra Woman and Dyna Girl, a TV show for kids. He said he liked Dyna Girl and I said I liked Elektra Woman, and thus our debate, and friendship, began. Scott was interesting. I found him rather precocious, at least at that time. He lived on 82nd and York, five blocks from me. His father was a police detective and his mother was a wonderful woman who often invited me to stay for dinner and who also made the best Ice Tea I have ever tasted. He had two older brothers, Eddie, the oldest, and Robert, a martial arts enthusiast. Honestly, I don't know if Robert ever wore more than black pants and black karate slippers. He was always shirtless, looking like the Bruce Lee poster in his room. He liked to practice his karate moves on Scott who received his punches and kicks with ill humor. I remember one time, as Scott opened the door to his apartment, I caught a glimpse of Robert's eyes through the hinge, and a second later Scott was unbalanced by a kick. These assaults were usually brief, a few punches and a kick, but one time it lasted longer. Robert was relentless. Scott, red-faced and desperate, called on his mother for aid. She responded with a rolling pin, threatening bodily harm with the item if Robert's hostilities persisted. The two faced off, Robert smiling as he traded combative gestures in a mock melee with mom. If I were a psychiatrist, like my father, I might say this episode offered a glimpse into the dynamic that exists between mother and son. I might say that Robert, the older son, resented the attention awarded the younger son since his birth, and sought ways to reclaim that attention, hence the acts of aggression. But, sans a medical degree, my opinion carries no scientific authority. It's just an opinion.
Scott had a significant influence on me. He took me to the comic book store, East Side Comics, on 82nd street, two blocks from his building. He indoctrinated me in the art of comic collecting. Before his instruction, I didn't know about back issues or current issues. If I got a comic book I would read it with no clue where or when to get the next issue. I remember he was a big fan of Spider-man. I started collecting The Fantastic Four. I also ended up collecting Captain America, but only because the store had so many back issues available. Some others, like The Avengers, were missing a lot of issues, no doubt because they were more popular than Captain America at that time. I wanted to collect a series that was in good supply at the store, not a series that required more hunting. Scott taught me to save my comics in plastic bags. Normally, you had to buy these bags, but Vinny, the comic book dealer, gave us a free bag for each current issue we bought.
I remember the ritual. Scott and I would come out of St. Joseph's on 87th street and walk down York Avenue, headed south to our East Side homes. We reached his building at 82nd street and he would say, "You coming up?" And I would reply, "Yeah." Then he changed out of his parochial attire and we went to Second Avenue to get comics. Back at his place, he would read the comics, and then we would play with action figures. He was very good with the figures, inventing all kinds of engaging scenarios. This is why I found him precocious. He had a gift for improvising. We didn't just mimick storylines we had seen at the movies, these were orginal, creative ventures that developed organically, very much like the kind of performance you expect from an improv group.
Scott also introduced me to Dungeons & Dragons, a popular role playing game, which I credit with instilling in me a desire to write heroic literature. I remember being fascinated by The Monster Manual with it's mythical creatures and descriptive prose. Then later I was equally impressed by Deities and Demigods, another manual with more heroic beings. It was in the pages of Deities and Demigods that I discovered two of the greatest fantasy writers, Fritz Leiber and Michael Moorcock. First I read Leiber's Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser series, then Moorcock's Elric series. I credit Elric of Melnibone with showing me what a writer can do with words. It showed me that you can create absolutely anything with words. No lights or cameras or film crew. Just words. Absolutely anything. Years later, I sent Michael Moorcock the first draft of my fantasy novel, and he said it showed considerable promise. He also added that he broke his rule against reading unsolicited manuscripts to look at my book. I was thrilled. But more on that ... later.
Through Scott I met Dana, a nice girl who lived in the neighborhood. I think they met in Carl Schurz Park. I remember Scott used to say, "Two's company, three's better." But sometimes that was not the case. Sometimes, when Dana was coming over, Scott would ask me to leave. Apparently, this happened enough times that Dana started to notice. One day at Scott's place, she asked me, "Robert, do you like me?" I said, "Yes, I like you. Why do you ask?" She said, "Because every time I come over you leave." I turned to Scott and asked if I could tell her why I do that. Scott nodded, obviously having no idea what I was about to say, and I told her, "When you come over Scott tells me to leave." Scott gave me a look of surprise. I said, "You told me I could tell her." He nodded agreably. Suddenly roused, her voice louder, Dana said, "Why do you tell him to leave?" Scott replied, "I figured you two don't get along." She answered, "How can we get along if you tell him to leave." I felt so wanted.
Years later, I would see Dana again. In movies and TV shows. Most notably, she played Chevy Chase's daughter in the first Vacation movie. She also starred in the high school comedy Heaven Help Us, and has appeared in Beverly Hills 90210 and Babylon Five.
3. Lousy People
Author's Note: I've been looking at my autobiography and decided I'm going to leap ahead to something that happened in '97. It was really unbelievable and I feel the need to share it.
Another significant event occurred in '97. Not sure if it contributed to my OCD, but it certainly shook my world. I had started that year very depressed about a failed relationship. This girl would never call me back. Then, looking at a film magazine, I read an interview between Kevin Smith (the interviewer) and Ed Burns, a former film student at Hunter College. Ed had appeared at the Hunter College film festival about two years before. Reading this interview about a film student who became an independent filmmaker, I got inspired and decided I would make an independent film. So I wrote Lousy People. Remember, I was still upset about a failed relationship. The story basically is about two guys talking on a park bench. One of them is very depressed and the other tries to improve his very negative perspective. Later, a gun falls out of the depressed guy's jacket and he reveals that he had considered suicide.
Once the script was finished, I began rehearsals with my friend Craig, a classmate from Hunter College. We got together at my place, rehearsed, ordered a pizza, dreamt of stardom, etc. We were going to start shooting the film on Saturday, April 5, 1997. I remember that morning, before dawn, I was putting flyers in the mail room downstairs, asking anyone with a fake gun to contact me because I didn't have a fake gun yet. I also remember going to the grocery store to buy a whole bunch of D batteries for the sound equipment. Back home, Craig called me and said he would come a little later than he had planned. Some time later, I sat in the park with two of my parents' friends, my film crew, and we waited and waited for Craig to arrive. But he never did. I said if he wasn't abducted by aliens I would be very upset. Well, he had an even better reason. Monday I was returning the film equipment at Hunter College and I told the technical director that my actor never showed up. He said, "Oh, yeah, Craig. Do you know what happened to him?" I shook my head. "No." Then he said, "He was shot and killed." He knew this because someone from the Daily News had called to get information about the murder-suicide that occurred on Saturday. Later I learned that Craig had been friends with someone and that friendship had apparently dissolved when Craig discovered how disturbed this friend was. I also learned that Craig's family described that person as a mentor who worked at Hunter College. He had gone to Craig's house that morning and his mother didn't recognize who it was and let him in. He then shot and killed Craig in his basement room and then shot himself.
I was stunned. Craig was on his way to meet me in the park where we were going to shoot a film about a suicidal person and he didn't make it to the park because his suicidal friend and mentor from Hunter College shot and killed him and himself. I wrote Lousy People because I was upset about a failed relationship. Craig's friend and mentor was also plainly disturbed. And the two events, the film and the shooting, collided on April 5, 1997.
Also that year, I think it was just before I started writing Lousy People, I started frequenting a restaurant on 80th and 3rd Avenue. I had been there a few months earlier in October '96 for my ten year high school reunion. I remember seeing a pretty bartender who at one point seemed to be staring at me. So about five months later, looking to heal an emotional wound, I returned to that restaurant and found my soon-to-be favorite bartender standing there. I remember it was a Tuesday in March. She was at the bar with her back to me. She turns and finds me standing there. "Hi," she says. And the healing begins.
D'laine is her name. She looks and sounds like Demi Moore with long dark hair. I return every Friday for several weeks. My second time, I wear my Writer's Digest shirt. I only wear it when I want to start a conversation with a comely female. "Are you a writer," she asks as I'm leaving. "Oh, the shirt. Yeah, I wrote a novel, it's not published yet." She says, "So, you still qualify. See you later."
I don't drink, but once or twice I asked her for a Roman Coke. Most of the time I asked for a Sprite. Then I sat there, reading pages I had written, trying to look busy, while she stood or sat nearby. Her presence did more for my broken heart than any therapy or medication could hope to achieve.
And then one day I'm watching Entertainment Tonight and I see a pretty model who looks like my favorite bartender talking about hair coloring. The reason she looks so much like the bartender is because she is the bartender. Her name appeared on the screen.
Next time I went to the bar she wasn't there. Another woman told me she is a model. I said I saw her on TV. After a few weeks of not finding her there I stopped going.
I ended up shooting the film with an actor who had appeared on Broadway, Ken, but I messed up the sound recording. I couldn't think of a way to save the film. With the sound out of sync it would look like one of those kung fu movies that were dubbed in English.
So I decided to make another, much shorter film. A film designed specifically to win an award at the Hunter College Film Festival. I had entered several films in the festival since '94, but never won anything for my comedic efforts. In '96 I did a film about a guy, me, who tries to pick up women in an elevator. He brings a record player into an elevator and plays disco music when a woman enters the elevator. He offers her a drink from his minibar and she quickly escapes. After getting beat up by an irate neighbor, played by Craig, about a year before his demise, the guy walks alone by the East River, then later calls an elevator that opens to reveal a woman beneath a disco ball as music plays.
The audience loved it. At the awards ceremony, after not receiving any award again, a girl who I didn't know very well, the daughter of the technical director, said, "Robert, I loved your film. I don't know what happened. Everybody was laughing." Before that comment, my mother told me later that she had overheard that girl saying, "They never give him anything."
So in '97 I tried something different. I had noticed that many of the films that had won awards in the short category were very artsy films that I didn't really understand. I decided I would make an artsy film and enter it in the festival to see if it wins something. This time, I didn't even shoot any new material. I just grabbed some outtakes from two very short films I made at The New York Film Academy, spliced them together, slapped on some sound effects, and tossed my one minute opus into the festival. A few days later, I'm rising out of my chair at the Hunter College Film Festival, on my way to receive the Bill Sherwood Award For Most Promising Filmmaker, the only award that came with a check for one hundred dollars. None of the other awards had any money attached to them. I was stunned. My experiment had yielded results. Later, one of the judges appoached me and said, "I noticed how perplexed you looked when you received the award. I was one of the judges and I want you to know that your film is the only one we watched twice. It had something, it had movement." He also added, "I'd like to see it when it's finished." It was finished. All sixty seconds of it. I think my sound effects are the main reason I won. This taught me that sometimes you get results not by working hard, but by working smart.
Another significant event occurred in '97. Not sure if it contributed to my OCD, but it certainly shook my world. I had started that year very depressed about a failed relationship. This girl would never call me back. Then, looking at a film magazine, I read an interview between Kevin Smith (the interviewer) and Ed Burns, a former film student at Hunter College. Ed had appeared at the Hunter College film festival about two years before. Reading this interview about a film student who became an independent filmmaker, I got inspired and decided I would make an independent film. So I wrote Lousy People. Remember, I was still upset about a failed relationship. The story basically is about two guys talking on a park bench. One of them is very depressed and the other tries to improve his very negative perspective. Later, a gun falls out of the depressed guy's jacket and he reveals that he had considered suicide.
Once the script was finished, I began rehearsals with my friend Craig, a classmate from Hunter College. We got together at my place, rehearsed, ordered a pizza, dreamt of stardom, etc. We were going to start shooting the film on Saturday, April 5, 1997. I remember that morning, before dawn, I was putting flyers in the mail room downstairs, asking anyone with a fake gun to contact me because I didn't have a fake gun yet. I also remember going to the grocery store to buy a whole bunch of D batteries for the sound equipment. Back home, Craig called me and said he would come a little later than he had planned. Some time later, I sat in the park with two of my parents' friends, my film crew, and we waited and waited for Craig to arrive. But he never did. I said if he wasn't abducted by aliens I would be very upset. Well, he had an even better reason. Monday I was returning the film equipment at Hunter College and I told the technical director that my actor never showed up. He said, "Oh, yeah, Craig. Do you know what happened to him?" I shook my head. "No." Then he said, "He was shot and killed." He knew this because someone from the Daily News had called to get information about the murder-suicide that occurred on Saturday. Later I learned that Craig had been friends with someone and that friendship had apparently dissolved when Craig discovered how disturbed this friend was. I also learned that Craig's family described that person as a mentor who worked at Hunter College. He had gone to Craig's house that morning and his mother didn't recognize who it was and let him in. He then shot and killed Craig in his basement room and then shot himself.
I was stunned. Craig was on his way to meet me in the park where we were going to shoot a film about a suicidal person and he didn't make it to the park because his suicidal friend and mentor from Hunter College shot and killed him and himself. I wrote Lousy People because I was upset about a failed relationship. Craig's friend and mentor was also plainly disturbed. And the two events, the film and the shooting, collided on April 5, 1997.
Also that year, I think it was just before I started writing Lousy People, I started frequenting a restaurant on 80th and 3rd Avenue. I had been there a few months earlier in October '96 for my ten year high school reunion. I remember seeing a pretty bartender who at one point seemed to be staring at me. So about five months later, looking to heal an emotional wound, I returned to that restaurant and found my soon-to-be favorite bartender standing there. I remember it was a Tuesday in March. She was at the bar with her back to me. She turns and finds me standing there. "Hi," she says. And the healing begins.
D'laine is her name. She looks and sounds like Demi Moore with long dark hair. I return every Friday for several weeks. My second time, I wear my Writer's Digest shirt. I only wear it when I want to start a conversation with a comely female. "Are you a writer," she asks as I'm leaving. "Oh, the shirt. Yeah, I wrote a novel, it's not published yet." She says, "So, you still qualify. See you later."
I don't drink, but once or twice I asked her for a Roman Coke. Most of the time I asked for a Sprite. Then I sat there, reading pages I had written, trying to look busy, while she stood or sat nearby. Her presence did more for my broken heart than any therapy or medication could hope to achieve.
And then one day I'm watching Entertainment Tonight and I see a pretty model who looks like my favorite bartender talking about hair coloring. The reason she looks so much like the bartender is because she is the bartender. Her name appeared on the screen.
Next time I went to the bar she wasn't there. Another woman told me she is a model. I said I saw her on TV. After a few weeks of not finding her there I stopped going.
I ended up shooting the film with an actor who had appeared on Broadway, Ken, but I messed up the sound recording. I couldn't think of a way to save the film. With the sound out of sync it would look like one of those kung fu movies that were dubbed in English.
So I decided to make another, much shorter film. A film designed specifically to win an award at the Hunter College Film Festival. I had entered several films in the festival since '94, but never won anything for my comedic efforts. In '96 I did a film about a guy, me, who tries to pick up women in an elevator. He brings a record player into an elevator and plays disco music when a woman enters the elevator. He offers her a drink from his minibar and she quickly escapes. After getting beat up by an irate neighbor, played by Craig, about a year before his demise, the guy walks alone by the East River, then later calls an elevator that opens to reveal a woman beneath a disco ball as music plays.
The audience loved it. At the awards ceremony, after not receiving any award again, a girl who I didn't know very well, the daughter of the technical director, said, "Robert, I loved your film. I don't know what happened. Everybody was laughing." Before that comment, my mother told me later that she had overheard that girl saying, "They never give him anything."
So in '97 I tried something different. I had noticed that many of the films that had won awards in the short category were very artsy films that I didn't really understand. I decided I would make an artsy film and enter it in the festival to see if it wins something. This time, I didn't even shoot any new material. I just grabbed some outtakes from two very short films I made at The New York Film Academy, spliced them together, slapped on some sound effects, and tossed my one minute opus into the festival. A few days later, I'm rising out of my chair at the Hunter College Film Festival, on my way to receive the Bill Sherwood Award For Most Promising Filmmaker, the only award that came with a check for one hundred dollars. None of the other awards had any money attached to them. I was stunned. My experiment had yielded results. Later, one of the judges appoached me and said, "I noticed how perplexed you looked when you received the award. I was one of the judges and I want you to know that your film is the only one we watched twice. It had something, it had movement." He also added, "I'd like to see it when it's finished." It was finished. All sixty seconds of it. I think my sound effects are the main reason I won. This taught me that sometimes you get results not by working hard, but by working smart.
4. First Big Crush and Summer '82
Scott and I were close friends for several years, but there were times when he wasn't so friendly. For no reason at all he would start insulting me. This would go on for a while, and then he would be friendly again. I guess he was my first conflicted friend. I can't claim that I never acted badly with my friends. Remember, I bit Mikey's arm. And there were other times I acted shamefully. But, for whatever reason, I eventually stopped hanging around with Scott. The real friction between us started in 8th grade. He invited me to play Dungeons & Dragons with three of his friends. I happily accepted the offer, eager to expand my circle of friends. I think it was a day in February. I took my seat at the table, ready to go adventuring with my three characters, and minutes later found all three of them dead. Slain by my new friends. Nice.
But that didn't end our friendship. Not yet. After the senseless imaginary slaughter, Scott invited me to play with them again. I declined the offer, but he persisted. For several days he tried to convince me that they would not kill my characters again. I thought it was likely that they had been so excited about their conspiracy, their secret agenda, that the game without me was now somewhat boring by comparison. I think they were no longer satisfied with killing imaginary monsters. They wanted someone tangible, someone who could fully receive and validate their doings. Still persisting, Scott said, "I give you my word." When this didn't satisfy me, he gave me a stern look and said, "You doubt my word?" Soon after that, on the street at lunch time, he approached me with Neil, one of the imaginary conspirators, and smiled as Neil very lightly kicked me, saying, "Why don't you take his word?" A few seconds later, Neil turned to Scott and said, "This is stupid." And walked away. That was when I stopped hanging with Scott.
But I still kept playing Dungeons & Dragons. I played with Chris, Bob, and John, my three friends in the Pavilion. We actually didn't play that much, but we certainly spent a lot of time planning on playing, making maps and character profiles. And then one day Chris took me to a special store, a gamer's paradise called The Compleat Strategist. No, that is not a spelling error, it's not the word you're thinking of. Compleat is a word that means skillful. Located on 33rd street between Madison and Fifth Avenue, the store was more than two miles away from our builiding, but we often walked there and back. It was very small, but densely packed with all kinds of things. There were racks filled with figures. Not action figures. These were like little statues of heroes and mythical creatures. Chris and I had so many figures. We painted some of them. I found them inspiring. Looking at them brought all kinds of fantastic stories to mind. I remember the first time Chris took me there. At the time I liked unicorns and he found a set with a unicorn and a Pegasus. I painted the Pegasus and one of my friends actually wanted to buy it from me for twenty dollars. I didn't sell it though. Also remember that Bob was there that first time, looking for a druid for his brother John. The three of us took the bus home. Later Chris and I would often walk there and back.
My last year of grammar school, eighth grade, I had my first big crush on a girl who lived in the neighborood. She used to walk her dog, a German Shepard named Javelin, in the dog park next to our building. One day I was with Chris as he walked his Collie, Lassie, and two other dogs who belonged to a nice woman, Ms. Love, who lived in the building. Also with us was her young son, Ian, who brought a soccer ball. We started playing kick ball and Jill sat on a bench to watch. I had seen her before, but never really took an interest. This time I noticed her. She was pretty. I really liked that she was watching us play. I enjoyed the attention. She reminded me of another Jill from grammar school, something about her face and long dark hair. When she left I was thinking about her. Each day I would go to the park hoping to find her, but I didn't see her for several days. I believe this was my first taste of obsession. Looking back now, it seems to me that obsession starts with a question. In my case the question was when will I see her again. If I had seen her in the park regularly I might not have become obsessed. But not finding her there made me anxious to see her again. Finally, one day, it happened. I was waiting for Chris and Ian to arrive in the park with the dogs and the ball. I saw them coming, and seconds later, she appeared with Javelin. We played kick ball again. She sat and watched again. It was another dream come true.
Jill wasn't the only one giving me some attention. Another girl in the neighborhood, Tina, took an interest. It started one night in John Jay Park. Chris and I were on the swings with Tina and her friend sitting nearby. I swung up high and jumped off the swing, one of the stunts we did all the time. Impressed by the jump, Tina said, "Sexy babe." Soon after that, she and her friends would chase me down the street whenever they saw me, screaming, "Sexy babe!" I remember one rainy day, walking down first avenue with Chris toward 77th street. A girl came in front of us with her arms spread wide, saying something we couldn't hear. I thought she was someone Chris knew and he thought I knew her. An instant later, we were running for our lives, pursued by a mob of screaming girls. It happened again when my friend Andrew came to visit. I told him about the girls and we soon found ourselves running. It was so weird. Even weirder, one day I was in the dog park with Chris walking his dog. A guy came up to me. "Did you go out with Tina last night?" he asked. "Who is Tina?" I asked. "A pretty blonde girl," he answered. "I wish I went out with a pretty blonde girl last night," I replied. "Good. I'd kick your ass if you did go out with her." "Oh, really?" I asked. "Yeah," he said walking away.
That summer of '82, the summer before high school, I spent a good deal of time looking for Jill in the park. Chris was at camp again and I was acting as his replacement for Ms. Love's dog walker. She had two, a Collie and a Cocker Spaniel, but the Collie passed, so now I just walked one dog, Chester. I walked him every day in the dog park, but never saw Jill. I thought about her for a while, but gradually the obsession waned. Once high school started I turned my thoughts to other things. Other people too. There were so many girls in high school. It was distracting. But more on that later.
But that didn't end our friendship. Not yet. After the senseless imaginary slaughter, Scott invited me to play with them again. I declined the offer, but he persisted. For several days he tried to convince me that they would not kill my characters again. I thought it was likely that they had been so excited about their conspiracy, their secret agenda, that the game without me was now somewhat boring by comparison. I think they were no longer satisfied with killing imaginary monsters. They wanted someone tangible, someone who could fully receive and validate their doings. Still persisting, Scott said, "I give you my word." When this didn't satisfy me, he gave me a stern look and said, "You doubt my word?" Soon after that, on the street at lunch time, he approached me with Neil, one of the imaginary conspirators, and smiled as Neil very lightly kicked me, saying, "Why don't you take his word?" A few seconds later, Neil turned to Scott and said, "This is stupid." And walked away. That was when I stopped hanging with Scott.
But I still kept playing Dungeons & Dragons. I played with Chris, Bob, and John, my three friends in the Pavilion. We actually didn't play that much, but we certainly spent a lot of time planning on playing, making maps and character profiles. And then one day Chris took me to a special store, a gamer's paradise called The Compleat Strategist. No, that is not a spelling error, it's not the word you're thinking of. Compleat is a word that means skillful. Located on 33rd street between Madison and Fifth Avenue, the store was more than two miles away from our builiding, but we often walked there and back. It was very small, but densely packed with all kinds of things. There were racks filled with figures. Not action figures. These were like little statues of heroes and mythical creatures. Chris and I had so many figures. We painted some of them. I found them inspiring. Looking at them brought all kinds of fantastic stories to mind. I remember the first time Chris took me there. At the time I liked unicorns and he found a set with a unicorn and a Pegasus. I painted the Pegasus and one of my friends actually wanted to buy it from me for twenty dollars. I didn't sell it though. Also remember that Bob was there that first time, looking for a druid for his brother John. The three of us took the bus home. Later Chris and I would often walk there and back.
My last year of grammar school, eighth grade, I had my first big crush on a girl who lived in the neighborood. She used to walk her dog, a German Shepard named Javelin, in the dog park next to our building. One day I was with Chris as he walked his Collie, Lassie, and two other dogs who belonged to a nice woman, Ms. Love, who lived in the building. Also with us was her young son, Ian, who brought a soccer ball. We started playing kick ball and Jill sat on a bench to watch. I had seen her before, but never really took an interest. This time I noticed her. She was pretty. I really liked that she was watching us play. I enjoyed the attention. She reminded me of another Jill from grammar school, something about her face and long dark hair. When she left I was thinking about her. Each day I would go to the park hoping to find her, but I didn't see her for several days. I believe this was my first taste of obsession. Looking back now, it seems to me that obsession starts with a question. In my case the question was when will I see her again. If I had seen her in the park regularly I might not have become obsessed. But not finding her there made me anxious to see her again. Finally, one day, it happened. I was waiting for Chris and Ian to arrive in the park with the dogs and the ball. I saw them coming, and seconds later, she appeared with Javelin. We played kick ball again. She sat and watched again. It was another dream come true.
Jill wasn't the only one giving me some attention. Another girl in the neighborhood, Tina, took an interest. It started one night in John Jay Park. Chris and I were on the swings with Tina and her friend sitting nearby. I swung up high and jumped off the swing, one of the stunts we did all the time. Impressed by the jump, Tina said, "Sexy babe." Soon after that, she and her friends would chase me down the street whenever they saw me, screaming, "Sexy babe!" I remember one rainy day, walking down first avenue with Chris toward 77th street. A girl came in front of us with her arms spread wide, saying something we couldn't hear. I thought she was someone Chris knew and he thought I knew her. An instant later, we were running for our lives, pursued by a mob of screaming girls. It happened again when my friend Andrew came to visit. I told him about the girls and we soon found ourselves running. It was so weird. Even weirder, one day I was in the dog park with Chris walking his dog. A guy came up to me. "Did you go out with Tina last night?" he asked. "Who is Tina?" I asked. "A pretty blonde girl," he answered. "I wish I went out with a pretty blonde girl last night," I replied. "Good. I'd kick your ass if you did go out with her." "Oh, really?" I asked. "Yeah," he said walking away.
That summer of '82, the summer before high school, I spent a good deal of time looking for Jill in the park. Chris was at camp again and I was acting as his replacement for Ms. Love's dog walker. She had two, a Collie and a Cocker Spaniel, but the Collie passed, so now I just walked one dog, Chester. I walked him every day in the dog park, but never saw Jill. I thought about her for a while, but gradually the obsession waned. Once high school started I turned my thoughts to other things. Other people too. There were so many girls in high school. It was distracting. But more on that later.
5. Ex Fide Fortis
I remember the first day of high school. I got up extra early to walk Ms. Love's dog, and then put on a tie and blazer. I remember I wore a blue shirt and red tie, but oddly I can't remember what the shoes looked like. The blazer had a patch ironed onto the left pocket. It said "Loyola" and "Ex Fide Fortis." That's where I was going. The Loyola School, a private Catholic Jesuit school on the corner of 83rd street and Park Avenue. I'm lucky that my grades weren't better or I would have gone to Regis, an all boys Catholic Jesuit school across the street from Loyola that was free for students with exceptionally good grades. I don't think I would have enjoyed an all boys school, but I must admit that, academically at least, I probably would have been more successful without the distraction. Xavier was another option, also an all boys school. Scott and some others went there. My parents thought of Loyola and I liked what I saw when I took the entrance exam. I wanted to go to Loyola.
That first day of Freshman orientation, there were three of us from St. Joseph's. Joining me were Paul and Christian T. Since sixth grade I was quite close to Christian who I sometimes considered a Filipino version of myself. We had so much in common. We seemed to share a similar mindset, sort of like me and Chris. I remember walking toward the school on the first day. I thought I saw Christian and, as a joke, I almost gave him the finger. It's a good thing I didn't because it wasn't Christian.
With about two hundred students in the entire school, Loyola felt like a large family. Everybody knew everybody. There were forty six Freshmen when I entered. We weren't all hanging out together, but we knew all the names. Not just the names of other Freshmen, we knew everybody in the school. It felt kind of like a small town school in the middle of Metropolis. I loved it.
Once an all boys school, Loyola had gone coed some years ago. The female population was well represented and in bloom at 83rd and Park. I think Scarlett was the first girl I noticed. Then Jennifer L, and finally my attentions settled on one comely coed, my favorite femme. It's interesting to note, however, that initially I wasn't at all interested. Just like with Jill from the park, I wasn't immediately infatuated. It would take some time for her smile to work its magic on me. But it wasn't just her smile that got my attention. More on that later.
I loved Freshman year. I loved Loyola. All things considered, I would have to say that, in terms of psycho-emotional health, Freshman year was my best year. I was so happy. I loved going to lunch with a regular crew. There were often seven of us. Paul, Jim, Mike, Chris, Jessie, Frank, and me. We would take to the streets, Jim and Mike leading the pack, walking so fast. I think Jim could order three or four hamburgers. Then we would race back to school, grab a basketball, and play until the buzzer sent us running to class. I loved it. I can't think of any other time in my life when I had so many friends. Not all very close friends, but friends. Pals. Cohorts. Lunch buddies. It was a special time.
Not everyone was pleased to see me, though. Recall that I had long red hair. Really long and sometimes unruly red hair. One day as we marched past the Headmaster he met most students with a smile, but frowned when I greeted him. "Hello, Robert," he said, looking disappointed. This raises another interesting aspect of my early years. I almost always had long red hair. Until I was about 14 years old I got my haircut at FAO Schwarz toy store, where I would many years later find employment. I often asked for a trim and that's what I often got. Just a trim, not a full haircut. In my sophomore year of high school I tried another place called Salon Salon, recommeded to me by Chris. I should have asked him for the name of his barber because, unfortunately, I got someone who plainly did not know how to cut hair. Her name was Junko, an asian woman who couldn't believe it when I told her my parents are Puerto Rican. Anyway, I actually went to Junko twice and the second time was worse than the first because two of her fellow employees were actually mocking her as she cut my hair. It was just unbelievable. So I had a bad haircut until the summer of '84. But we're not there yet.
Returning to freshman year, I loved the gym. We could play in it anytime it was free and it was usually free. I remember the first time I went to Fr. Prior's office to get a ball and play in the gym. I left my ID card and took the ball. I also recall my very first time in the gym. A bunch of us from St. Joseph's came for the entrance exam. Siobhan and Jill, two of the prettiest girls, were there. I had already seen Siobhan in a TV commercial and years later in '98 I would see Jill on a travel show. I entered the gym and sat down. Siobhan said, "Hi, Rob." I turned and said, "Hi, Siobhan." It was the first and only time we ever spoke. I knew Loyola was a magic place.
At other times I took a paddle from Fr. Prior's office to play paddle tennis. I played with Christian C, (not the Christian from St. Joseph's), John J, Mike K, Nancy, and once with Jennifer L. I like paddle tennis more than regular tennis because I found it much easier to play. Years before, I used to like playing tennis in John Jay Park, but that wasn't real tennis with a net. It was just hitting the ball against a wall. Receiving a serve from a tennis racket on a real court is totally different. The real court is a much larger area to cover and the ball comes so much faster coming off the racket. I found real tennis difficult. But I loved paddle tennis. The court even had lights to play at night. I mostly played with Christian C. Many years later, I would learn that he was hooked up with Lady GaGa. I read that he was her fiance.
Freshman year is when my family ran into some unique financial issues. Apparently, Medicaid owed my father six figures worth of salary that went unpaid. My father, not knowing much about the IRS and how it conducts its affairs, thought he didn't have to pay taxes for money he did not receive. This led to years of trouble with the IRS. Trouble that my mother, dismayed by the situation, would frequently share with me, bemoaning the terrors of financial debt, instilling in me a genuine fear of all money matters. I thought if my parents, two very intelligent people, could not handle their finances, how could I do any better. From an early age, I had zero confidence when it came to managing, and especially acquiring, money. I thought I had to do something really big, that fame and fortune would take care of any financial responsibilities. I remember a period at the very beginning of freshman year when I saw Loyola as a peaceful oasis, a pause in the turmoil of the troubles at home. I heard a song by Billie Joel, "Half a Mile Away." It goes, "My other world is just a half a mile away." And that's how far Loyola was from my home, half a mile. Loyola became an escape for me, and I loved it dearly. I am still stunned when I look at my freshman report card. For the entire year I was late twice and absent twice. I must have really liked going to school that year.
Academically, my grades were up and down. Fr. Garaventa wrote a comment about my grades saying they were uneven and that it showed I could work when I want to. My grade point average was usually something like 78 sometimes 80, so I guess I was a C+ student, and sometimes a B student. Toward the end of the year I had some trouble with algebra. I got a ninety on the midterm, but failed for the year and had to go to summer school. It was also weird because in grammar school we took a standardized math test and our math teacher, a nun, said that Christian T and I had scored the highest. I always thought math should be the easiest subject, but in high school, for some reason, I had difficulty with it at the end of each year. But my first time at summer school wasn't bad. I got good grades and after school I hung out with my friend Al.
I met Jason through Christian T. They were in the same class Freshman year and I think they had been assigned a project together in history class. Jason and I became close friends. I would often go to his place on 86th street after school. He sort of introduced me to music. He had a collection of cassettes. I took an interest in Queen, though I didn't start collecting cassettes until Sophomore year. He also played guitar. And Freshman year he starred in a school play, Rainy Days and Mondays, written by Mr. Vogel, an English teacher at Loyola. I was surprised that Jason didn't make a big deal about it. I barely even heard mention of this play and, sadly, did not attend a performance. I was still impressed at his early stardom.
The first time I spoke to Al he had a Dungeons & Dragons manual. I said that I played, too. We didn't really hang out Freshman year, but we became close friends after summer school.
Freshman year is when I read my first fantasy novel, Fritz Leiber's first book of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. After that, I read Elric of Melnibone by Michael Moorcock. Just two fantasy novels for the whole year. I was never a voracious reader, but I did pick up the pace in later years.
Loyola had some traditions that I enjoyed. For Halloween the seniors would march into the gym wearing all kinds of costumes. Some were rented, others were creatively put together at home. Even the faculty got involved at the Halloween Dance, donning costumes as well.
In November, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, we had two special basketball events: the faculty vs JV game and the Varsity vs alumni game. This started the basketball season at Loyola. The games during the season were exciting. The gym was often packed with spectators, cheering and sometimes just making noise. I remember students from Fieldston would often bring a cow bell to distract members of our team when they took foul shots. I never really followed professional sports, but I always liked our high school basketball games. I think I found them more engaging because I personally knew the people who were playing. I don't personally know any professional athletes, but always liked Larry Bird.
Always liked cheerleaders, too, and ballet dancers. They all have such nice legs. Which brings me back to my favorite femme, let's call her Victoria for now. She had the nicest legs I ever saw, nicer than any cheerleader or ballet dancer. She caught my eye one day in gym class, wearing shorts. I don't know when I became a leg man, maybe it was that day in gym class, don't know. I just know that her legs were very shapely and I was immediately drawn to her. Recall that initially I was not interested, and now suddenly she gained my full attention. Weird. I remember the first time she caught me checking her out. "Hi," she said, her head turned backward, looking at me as she was walking away. She seemed quite pleased and somewhat amused by the effect of her anatomy on a male specimen. Likely she had seen it before. I had a crush. At first, it was just a normal crush, but a couple of years later it became more distracting.
In December, we picked names out of a hat and bought a gift for the person we had drawn. I didn't know what to get the girl I had picked, so I gave her a five dollar bill. So lame. If I could do that over again I would get her a nice little Swarovski crystal figure. So many things I would like to do over in high school.
Like the algebra final exam. Again, I failed algebra with a sixty eight. But it is worth noting that many other schools give D as a grade, but Loyola does not. At Loyola F comes after C, not D. In some other schools I would have passed algebra with a D.
But then I might not have become such good friends with Al. It was at Xavier summer school that we started hanging out. After class we would often go to The Forbidden Planet, a store with lots of science fiction and fantasy materials, including books, comics, and posters. Then we would go to my place. I remember the first time he saw my Lego creation. I think he liked it more than anyone.
I also started riding in the subway that year. When Chris Miller heard that I was taking a bus to get from my place at 77th and York to Xavier way dowtown he told me to take the 6 train. What a difference that made. I was often late to Xavier with the bus, but the subway got me there on time. The reason I probably took the bus is because the bus stop was much closer to my house. The train was four long avenues away on Lexington. But the train was so much faster so I walked the avenues to take it.
While I was becoming better acquainted with Al at Xavier, I also crossed paths with Scott again, who had also failed algebra. The first day of summer school I was walking down the stairs and behind me I heard, "Rob, old buddy." I turned and, quite stupidly, gave him the finger. This was not a shining moment for me. It's one of those things I would like to do over. We were good friends for years and he didn't deserve that. I think I did it because of some crank calls I had received and in one of them I recognized his voice clearly. He said, "Uh, you suck." But still, I regret my hostile response to his friendly greeting. I like to think I have more class than that.
I thought summer school would be one of the worst experiences of my life. Going to school during summer vacation. But it wasn't. At least not that first time. In fact, I enjoyed it. I got good grades on my exams, there was a pretty girl named Tiffany Lamour in the class, and I hung out at the Forbidden Planet with my friend Al. It felt more like a day camp than summer school. Probably because I never really did anything special during summer vacation. I just watched too much television. I never really wanted to travel anywhere and I didn't want to go to summer camp, like Chris, who hated it. But somehow, that summer at Xavier wasn't so bad.
I completed summer school with a ninety seven. Way better than my performance at Loyola. My teacher, Mr Slon, said, "I don't want to see you back here next year." And he didn't see me there next year. Next year summer school was at St. Agnes, and that's where I went.
That first day of Freshman orientation, there were three of us from St. Joseph's. Joining me were Paul and Christian T. Since sixth grade I was quite close to Christian who I sometimes considered a Filipino version of myself. We had so much in common. We seemed to share a similar mindset, sort of like me and Chris. I remember walking toward the school on the first day. I thought I saw Christian and, as a joke, I almost gave him the finger. It's a good thing I didn't because it wasn't Christian.
With about two hundred students in the entire school, Loyola felt like a large family. Everybody knew everybody. There were forty six Freshmen when I entered. We weren't all hanging out together, but we knew all the names. Not just the names of other Freshmen, we knew everybody in the school. It felt kind of like a small town school in the middle of Metropolis. I loved it.
Once an all boys school, Loyola had gone coed some years ago. The female population was well represented and in bloom at 83rd and Park. I think Scarlett was the first girl I noticed. Then Jennifer L, and finally my attentions settled on one comely coed, my favorite femme. It's interesting to note, however, that initially I wasn't at all interested. Just like with Jill from the park, I wasn't immediately infatuated. It would take some time for her smile to work its magic on me. But it wasn't just her smile that got my attention. More on that later.
I loved Freshman year. I loved Loyola. All things considered, I would have to say that, in terms of psycho-emotional health, Freshman year was my best year. I was so happy. I loved going to lunch with a regular crew. There were often seven of us. Paul, Jim, Mike, Chris, Jessie, Frank, and me. We would take to the streets, Jim and Mike leading the pack, walking so fast. I think Jim could order three or four hamburgers. Then we would race back to school, grab a basketball, and play until the buzzer sent us running to class. I loved it. I can't think of any other time in my life when I had so many friends. Not all very close friends, but friends. Pals. Cohorts. Lunch buddies. It was a special time.
Not everyone was pleased to see me, though. Recall that I had long red hair. Really long and sometimes unruly red hair. One day as we marched past the Headmaster he met most students with a smile, but frowned when I greeted him. "Hello, Robert," he said, looking disappointed. This raises another interesting aspect of my early years. I almost always had long red hair. Until I was about 14 years old I got my haircut at FAO Schwarz toy store, where I would many years later find employment. I often asked for a trim and that's what I often got. Just a trim, not a full haircut. In my sophomore year of high school I tried another place called Salon Salon, recommeded to me by Chris. I should have asked him for the name of his barber because, unfortunately, I got someone who plainly did not know how to cut hair. Her name was Junko, an asian woman who couldn't believe it when I told her my parents are Puerto Rican. Anyway, I actually went to Junko twice and the second time was worse than the first because two of her fellow employees were actually mocking her as she cut my hair. It was just unbelievable. So I had a bad haircut until the summer of '84. But we're not there yet.
Returning to freshman year, I loved the gym. We could play in it anytime it was free and it was usually free. I remember the first time I went to Fr. Prior's office to get a ball and play in the gym. I left my ID card and took the ball. I also recall my very first time in the gym. A bunch of us from St. Joseph's came for the entrance exam. Siobhan and Jill, two of the prettiest girls, were there. I had already seen Siobhan in a TV commercial and years later in '98 I would see Jill on a travel show. I entered the gym and sat down. Siobhan said, "Hi, Rob." I turned and said, "Hi, Siobhan." It was the first and only time we ever spoke. I knew Loyola was a magic place.
At other times I took a paddle from Fr. Prior's office to play paddle tennis. I played with Christian C, (not the Christian from St. Joseph's), John J, Mike K, Nancy, and once with Jennifer L. I like paddle tennis more than regular tennis because I found it much easier to play. Years before, I used to like playing tennis in John Jay Park, but that wasn't real tennis with a net. It was just hitting the ball against a wall. Receiving a serve from a tennis racket on a real court is totally different. The real court is a much larger area to cover and the ball comes so much faster coming off the racket. I found real tennis difficult. But I loved paddle tennis. The court even had lights to play at night. I mostly played with Christian C. Many years later, I would learn that he was hooked up with Lady GaGa. I read that he was her fiance.
Freshman year is when my family ran into some unique financial issues. Apparently, Medicaid owed my father six figures worth of salary that went unpaid. My father, not knowing much about the IRS and how it conducts its affairs, thought he didn't have to pay taxes for money he did not receive. This led to years of trouble with the IRS. Trouble that my mother, dismayed by the situation, would frequently share with me, bemoaning the terrors of financial debt, instilling in me a genuine fear of all money matters. I thought if my parents, two very intelligent people, could not handle their finances, how could I do any better. From an early age, I had zero confidence when it came to managing, and especially acquiring, money. I thought I had to do something really big, that fame and fortune would take care of any financial responsibilities. I remember a period at the very beginning of freshman year when I saw Loyola as a peaceful oasis, a pause in the turmoil of the troubles at home. I heard a song by Billie Joel, "Half a Mile Away." It goes, "My other world is just a half a mile away." And that's how far Loyola was from my home, half a mile. Loyola became an escape for me, and I loved it dearly. I am still stunned when I look at my freshman report card. For the entire year I was late twice and absent twice. I must have really liked going to school that year.
Academically, my grades were up and down. Fr. Garaventa wrote a comment about my grades saying they were uneven and that it showed I could work when I want to. My grade point average was usually something like 78 sometimes 80, so I guess I was a C+ student, and sometimes a B student. Toward the end of the year I had some trouble with algebra. I got a ninety on the midterm, but failed for the year and had to go to summer school. It was also weird because in grammar school we took a standardized math test and our math teacher, a nun, said that Christian T and I had scored the highest. I always thought math should be the easiest subject, but in high school, for some reason, I had difficulty with it at the end of each year. But my first time at summer school wasn't bad. I got good grades and after school I hung out with my friend Al.
I met Jason through Christian T. They were in the same class Freshman year and I think they had been assigned a project together in history class. Jason and I became close friends. I would often go to his place on 86th street after school. He sort of introduced me to music. He had a collection of cassettes. I took an interest in Queen, though I didn't start collecting cassettes until Sophomore year. He also played guitar. And Freshman year he starred in a school play, Rainy Days and Mondays, written by Mr. Vogel, an English teacher at Loyola. I was surprised that Jason didn't make a big deal about it. I barely even heard mention of this play and, sadly, did not attend a performance. I was still impressed at his early stardom.
The first time I spoke to Al he had a Dungeons & Dragons manual. I said that I played, too. We didn't really hang out Freshman year, but we became close friends after summer school.
Freshman year is when I read my first fantasy novel, Fritz Leiber's first book of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. After that, I read Elric of Melnibone by Michael Moorcock. Just two fantasy novels for the whole year. I was never a voracious reader, but I did pick up the pace in later years.
Loyola had some traditions that I enjoyed. For Halloween the seniors would march into the gym wearing all kinds of costumes. Some were rented, others were creatively put together at home. Even the faculty got involved at the Halloween Dance, donning costumes as well.
In November, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, we had two special basketball events: the faculty vs JV game and the Varsity vs alumni game. This started the basketball season at Loyola. The games during the season were exciting. The gym was often packed with spectators, cheering and sometimes just making noise. I remember students from Fieldston would often bring a cow bell to distract members of our team when they took foul shots. I never really followed professional sports, but I always liked our high school basketball games. I think I found them more engaging because I personally knew the people who were playing. I don't personally know any professional athletes, but always liked Larry Bird.
Always liked cheerleaders, too, and ballet dancers. They all have such nice legs. Which brings me back to my favorite femme, let's call her Victoria for now. She had the nicest legs I ever saw, nicer than any cheerleader or ballet dancer. She caught my eye one day in gym class, wearing shorts. I don't know when I became a leg man, maybe it was that day in gym class, don't know. I just know that her legs were very shapely and I was immediately drawn to her. Recall that initially I was not interested, and now suddenly she gained my full attention. Weird. I remember the first time she caught me checking her out. "Hi," she said, her head turned backward, looking at me as she was walking away. She seemed quite pleased and somewhat amused by the effect of her anatomy on a male specimen. Likely she had seen it before. I had a crush. At first, it was just a normal crush, but a couple of years later it became more distracting.
In December, we picked names out of a hat and bought a gift for the person we had drawn. I didn't know what to get the girl I had picked, so I gave her a five dollar bill. So lame. If I could do that over again I would get her a nice little Swarovski crystal figure. So many things I would like to do over in high school.
Like the algebra final exam. Again, I failed algebra with a sixty eight. But it is worth noting that many other schools give D as a grade, but Loyola does not. At Loyola F comes after C, not D. In some other schools I would have passed algebra with a D.
But then I might not have become such good friends with Al. It was at Xavier summer school that we started hanging out. After class we would often go to The Forbidden Planet, a store with lots of science fiction and fantasy materials, including books, comics, and posters. Then we would go to my place. I remember the first time he saw my Lego creation. I think he liked it more than anyone.
I also started riding in the subway that year. When Chris Miller heard that I was taking a bus to get from my place at 77th and York to Xavier way dowtown he told me to take the 6 train. What a difference that made. I was often late to Xavier with the bus, but the subway got me there on time. The reason I probably took the bus is because the bus stop was much closer to my house. The train was four long avenues away on Lexington. But the train was so much faster so I walked the avenues to take it.
While I was becoming better acquainted with Al at Xavier, I also crossed paths with Scott again, who had also failed algebra. The first day of summer school I was walking down the stairs and behind me I heard, "Rob, old buddy." I turned and, quite stupidly, gave him the finger. This was not a shining moment for me. It's one of those things I would like to do over. We were good friends for years and he didn't deserve that. I think I did it because of some crank calls I had received and in one of them I recognized his voice clearly. He said, "Uh, you suck." But still, I regret my hostile response to his friendly greeting. I like to think I have more class than that.
I thought summer school would be one of the worst experiences of my life. Going to school during summer vacation. But it wasn't. At least not that first time. In fact, I enjoyed it. I got good grades on my exams, there was a pretty girl named Tiffany Lamour in the class, and I hung out at the Forbidden Planet with my friend Al. It felt more like a day camp than summer school. Probably because I never really did anything special during summer vacation. I just watched too much television. I never really wanted to travel anywhere and I didn't want to go to summer camp, like Chris, who hated it. But somehow, that summer at Xavier wasn't so bad.
I completed summer school with a ninety seven. Way better than my performance at Loyola. My teacher, Mr Slon, said, "I don't want to see you back here next year." And he didn't see me there next year. Next year summer school was at St. Agnes, and that's where I went.
6. Why Do Boys Fight?
That summer of '83, I read my third fantasy novel, Swords Against Death, the second book of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser by Fritz Leiber. This book had a profound effect on me spiritually. It was my first taste of existential dread. In the story, the two heroes, Fafhrd and the Mouser, discover that their former loves are now both residing in the Shadow Land, the dominion of death. I found this storyline very depressing and started thinking about the afterlife, worrying about where I would go after life on earth. I worried that my sins might not be forgiven. In partiular, I was concerned about my early childhood, when I was about five years old. My mother, a painter, sometimes painted rocks and kept a bag of rocks in my room. One day I dropped a few rocks out of our window on the fifteenth floor. I wasn't trying to hit anyone and nobody was passing by when I dropped the rocks. But I still knew I shouldn't be dropping rocks out the window. Then another time when I was older I was on the roof with some friends and tossed a small rock off the roof. John, very upset, told me not to do that, and then I grabbed another one and did it again. John started crying and went to tell Vanessa's mother what I had done. Again, I knew what I did was wrong and I did it anyway. This is what I was thinking about in the summer of '83. I was very concerned about my reckless behavior.
Then sophomore year began and the dread started to wane. Very early in the year, in Theology class, Fr. Shields was talking about forgiveness. He said, "God wants to forgive you." That made me feel much better.
Sophomore year my friend Christian T went back to the Philippines. But I still had Jason and Al. And through Jason I made another friend, Evelyn, a junior. I remember one day Jason asked me to come sit with him and Evelyn in the commons. She and I started talking and then started hanging out after school. Sometimes her friends, Lisa and Rose, joined us at the pizza place or wherever. It was nice hanging out with older women.
The year began with an event that caught some attention. A fight between me and an upperclassman. It was a Friday in October. Brian, a junior, gave me a hard bump. Thinking it was intentional, I said, "Don't bump into me." He said, "What?" I walked up to him and said, "Don't bump into me." He said, "You wanna throw?" At this point I should have said, no, I don't want to fight. Instead I said, "You start." Then he gave me a shove to officially start the fight. I give him credit for that. He could have sucker punched me, but he didn't. After the shove, I grabbed his arms and said calm down. He broke free and punched me in the head with his right fist. That hurt. Grabbing his arms again, I said, "Calm down, I'll f-ing kill you." He replied, "You'll f-ing kill me?" I said, "Yes." He broke free again and punched me in the head again. Now I was concerned. I did not want to take another punch to the head. So I punched him in his forehead with my right fist. I didn't know if that would make him angrier. It didn't. His next punch was very slow and very easy to block, like he didn't really want to hit me again. Maybe he thought that would make me angrier. After blocking, I punched him in the head again. This time he responded by ducking his head low, committed to defense with no more offensive strikes. At this point I should have backed off. Instead, I yelled, "You wanna fight!" and started throwing punches left and right. Finally, an alumni who had graduated last year, Chris L, appeared to pull us apart. I stood there a moment, staring at Brian. I saw that he had two cuts, one on his cheek and another on his nose. I wondered if I was cut. I went to the rest room to look in a mirror and found I was without a scratch. But I did have blurred vision in my left eye that day. Looking back on the fight, I am very grateful for how it turned out. If he had kept up his offense, it might have ended differently. I think my ego played a major role. I really did not want to get beaten by this guy. He punched really hard, but I acted like I didn't even feel it. I think that impressed him. It's hard to fight someone who seems impervious to your attack. I believe that mental victory led to a physical triumph. I have also wondered if perhaps being knocked out in grammar school made my skull harder and my brain accustomed to such impact so that it became harder to knock me out. It's just a thought.
Sophomore year is also when I bought my first cassette. The footloose soundtrack. Then I bought Queen's Greatest Hits. One day at Jason's place he played Don't Stop Me Now by Queen and it became my favorite song of all time. I bought more Queen albums. I also bought my first Sony Walkman. My friend, and God-brother, Andrew sold me his almost brand new Walkman for $25. He had tried $60, but no takers. Then he wanted $30 and I said I'd pay $25 and after some arguing, him saying it's only five dollars more and me saying it's only five dollars less, I got the Walkman for $25. And I only had $20 on me at the time and had to owe him the other five.
Meanwhile, my academic career was taking a dive. I blame Sue for contributing to my scholastic delinquency with her frequent, enticing appeals of affection. It started on the Monday after the fight on Friday. "Why do boys fight?" she asked out loud for anyone to answer. Soon after that, she began her tireless campaign. She did most of it in Biology. I was assigned a table all the way in the back of the lab and she was right in front of me. While our Biology teacher was lecturing, she would often turn to me and say, "I love you, Rob." One time she had her legs up on the table in front of me. "Don't you want to see my legs, Rob?" I don't know how she knew. Maybe it was just a lucky guess. Anyway, I didn't hear much of what the biology teacher said at these times when she was making her engaging overtures. All I heard was, "I love you, Rob. I want to kiss you, Rob." I was so unaware of what was going on in the class, that one day, while she was making her usual comments, I did not hear anything about a test the next day. I walked into class the next day having no idea that I was about to take an exam. Sitting at my table in the lab, I saw someone passing some papers to students, thinking it was some kind of work sheet. Then I was given a paper, and when I read the top line "Name" I knew this was no work sheet. This was a Biology test, a test I was woefully unprepared for. I think I got 34 on that one. I also never handed in a lab report which I believe was due every Friday. Toward the end of the year the Biology teacher, Mr. C, pointed out this delinquency with some heated words, saying, "You give me nothing, I give you nothing." I think he was right about giving me nothing. I received absolutely not one word from him about the necessity of these lab reports until the very end of the year. Granted, a good student would have done these reports without any special coaxing, but I think a good teacher would have mentioned this sooner, and encouraged me to do something about it.
Danielle Q, a freshman, was another girl who took an interest in me. She said I looked like Oliver Twist so she called me Oliver. One day in the Library, I was sitting at a table with Jason, and Danielle appeared, saying, "I love you, Oliver." She came behind me where I was sitting and ran her hands up and down my arms. "I love you, Oliver," she repeated. I felt really weird when she did that and I stood up suddenly. But I can't say that I didn't liked it. I did like it, quite a bit actually, I just wasn't ready for it. Danielle had two close friends and the three of them would call me Oliver. In the Valentine's newsletter they placed a comment that said, "We love you, Oliver," with all their initials signing it. I loved the attention.
Geometry was another problem. Just like Algebra the year before, I started out fine, but then had some trouble. I was really worried about failing two subjects. I thought I might get kicked out of Loyola. Talking to a girl who was kicked out, she said, "It's a school where you pay to stay." That was her opinion. I told my father that and he donated two thousand dollars to the school, just in case her view was something more than rumor. I can't say for certain that the donation ensured my career at Loyola. I can say, however, that I was always met with smiles and kind words by the Headmaster whenever he saw me.
In spite of the academic hurdles, sophomore year was still quite enjoyable. I had some friends, some music, a Walkman, life was good. This is also the year I decided to be a writer. It started with a book. One day after history class, the history teacher, Mr. Johanek, brought out a box of books and told us to take any books we want. I took a book about writing. I read it and said I am going to be a writer.
That spring break of '84, I started writing my first and never finished fantasy story. It was really a wish fulfillment story, reflecting my desires at the time. It was about a youngster named Efkin and his adopted sister, a beautiful girl who, in appearance, was a twin to the comely femme at the center of my adolescent world. I wrote a few pages and then put it aside. This was not my best writing, but I enjoyed writing it. As a child I loved building things with Lego bricks, now I was building with words. But it's interesting to note that with Lego I liked to build futuristic things like space ships and other high-tech devices that you find in science fiction, but with words I wanted to write about low-tech medieval fantasy worlds where swords and magic are the primary tools. For some reason, I avoided science fiction novels, preferring the fantasy genre with all its mythical creatures and magical doings. I wanted to write the ultimate fairy tale, a quintessential, mythic epic that would have all the elements in place. A lofty goal, to be sure, but I was flaky enough to think I could do it. At sixteen I thought one day I would sit down to write the greatest fantasy story ever. Thought that I would simply ship my opus off to a publisher and then reap the rewards of fame and fortune. Ah, to be sixteen again. So young. So very young. I wouldn't attempt another fantasy story until next year, junior year.
Sophomore year also marks the first time Victoria touched me. I was standing by the entrance to the commons and she swept by in a hurry, saying, "Excuse me, sorry," touching me as she passed.
Also that year, the art teacher, Ms. F, kept giving me detention. I'm not exactly sure why this happened. I guess I smiled or laughed in class and she received that as an affront to her authority or something. I remember Neail making faces, trying to make me laugh. But she really liked my calligraphy. It was the only thing I did in class that she liked. For my final project I did a Steve Winwood song, Valerie, in calligraphy. I could have easily completed this assignment the day before it was due, but for some reason I decided I would do it early the next morning before school. When morning came and I finally got out of bed there was no time for calligraphy and I went to school with the incomplete project. I don't know why I didn't finish it the night before. I did the same thing in Spanish class, leaving the homework assignments for the morning and getting up too late to do them. I don't know why.
I failed Geometry and Biology. So did another student from Loyola. This time summer school would be at St. Agnes. No Tiffany Lamour, no hanging out at The Forbidden Planet after class, no fun whatsoever. One day I came to school and found a pool of blood on the floor. I followed a trail of blood that led up the stairs to my room where I learned that some students had been messing around and somehow one of them ended up breaking through the glass window of the door with his arm which bled profusely.
But before summer school started, I did something very unusual that summer of '84. I went on a trip to Atlanta.
Then sophomore year began and the dread started to wane. Very early in the year, in Theology class, Fr. Shields was talking about forgiveness. He said, "God wants to forgive you." That made me feel much better.
Sophomore year my friend Christian T went back to the Philippines. But I still had Jason and Al. And through Jason I made another friend, Evelyn, a junior. I remember one day Jason asked me to come sit with him and Evelyn in the commons. She and I started talking and then started hanging out after school. Sometimes her friends, Lisa and Rose, joined us at the pizza place or wherever. It was nice hanging out with older women.
The year began with an event that caught some attention. A fight between me and an upperclassman. It was a Friday in October. Brian, a junior, gave me a hard bump. Thinking it was intentional, I said, "Don't bump into me." He said, "What?" I walked up to him and said, "Don't bump into me." He said, "You wanna throw?" At this point I should have said, no, I don't want to fight. Instead I said, "You start." Then he gave me a shove to officially start the fight. I give him credit for that. He could have sucker punched me, but he didn't. After the shove, I grabbed his arms and said calm down. He broke free and punched me in the head with his right fist. That hurt. Grabbing his arms again, I said, "Calm down, I'll f-ing kill you." He replied, "You'll f-ing kill me?" I said, "Yes." He broke free again and punched me in the head again. Now I was concerned. I did not want to take another punch to the head. So I punched him in his forehead with my right fist. I didn't know if that would make him angrier. It didn't. His next punch was very slow and very easy to block, like he didn't really want to hit me again. Maybe he thought that would make me angrier. After blocking, I punched him in the head again. This time he responded by ducking his head low, committed to defense with no more offensive strikes. At this point I should have backed off. Instead, I yelled, "You wanna fight!" and started throwing punches left and right. Finally, an alumni who had graduated last year, Chris L, appeared to pull us apart. I stood there a moment, staring at Brian. I saw that he had two cuts, one on his cheek and another on his nose. I wondered if I was cut. I went to the rest room to look in a mirror and found I was without a scratch. But I did have blurred vision in my left eye that day. Looking back on the fight, I am very grateful for how it turned out. If he had kept up his offense, it might have ended differently. I think my ego played a major role. I really did not want to get beaten by this guy. He punched really hard, but I acted like I didn't even feel it. I think that impressed him. It's hard to fight someone who seems impervious to your attack. I believe that mental victory led to a physical triumph. I have also wondered if perhaps being knocked out in grammar school made my skull harder and my brain accustomed to such impact so that it became harder to knock me out. It's just a thought.
Sophomore year is also when I bought my first cassette. The footloose soundtrack. Then I bought Queen's Greatest Hits. One day at Jason's place he played Don't Stop Me Now by Queen and it became my favorite song of all time. I bought more Queen albums. I also bought my first Sony Walkman. My friend, and God-brother, Andrew sold me his almost brand new Walkman for $25. He had tried $60, but no takers. Then he wanted $30 and I said I'd pay $25 and after some arguing, him saying it's only five dollars more and me saying it's only five dollars less, I got the Walkman for $25. And I only had $20 on me at the time and had to owe him the other five.
Meanwhile, my academic career was taking a dive. I blame Sue for contributing to my scholastic delinquency with her frequent, enticing appeals of affection. It started on the Monday after the fight on Friday. "Why do boys fight?" she asked out loud for anyone to answer. Soon after that, she began her tireless campaign. She did most of it in Biology. I was assigned a table all the way in the back of the lab and she was right in front of me. While our Biology teacher was lecturing, she would often turn to me and say, "I love you, Rob." One time she had her legs up on the table in front of me. "Don't you want to see my legs, Rob?" I don't know how she knew. Maybe it was just a lucky guess. Anyway, I didn't hear much of what the biology teacher said at these times when she was making her engaging overtures. All I heard was, "I love you, Rob. I want to kiss you, Rob." I was so unaware of what was going on in the class, that one day, while she was making her usual comments, I did not hear anything about a test the next day. I walked into class the next day having no idea that I was about to take an exam. Sitting at my table in the lab, I saw someone passing some papers to students, thinking it was some kind of work sheet. Then I was given a paper, and when I read the top line "Name" I knew this was no work sheet. This was a Biology test, a test I was woefully unprepared for. I think I got 34 on that one. I also never handed in a lab report which I believe was due every Friday. Toward the end of the year the Biology teacher, Mr. C, pointed out this delinquency with some heated words, saying, "You give me nothing, I give you nothing." I think he was right about giving me nothing. I received absolutely not one word from him about the necessity of these lab reports until the very end of the year. Granted, a good student would have done these reports without any special coaxing, but I think a good teacher would have mentioned this sooner, and encouraged me to do something about it.
Danielle Q, a freshman, was another girl who took an interest in me. She said I looked like Oliver Twist so she called me Oliver. One day in the Library, I was sitting at a table with Jason, and Danielle appeared, saying, "I love you, Oliver." She came behind me where I was sitting and ran her hands up and down my arms. "I love you, Oliver," she repeated. I felt really weird when she did that and I stood up suddenly. But I can't say that I didn't liked it. I did like it, quite a bit actually, I just wasn't ready for it. Danielle had two close friends and the three of them would call me Oliver. In the Valentine's newsletter they placed a comment that said, "We love you, Oliver," with all their initials signing it. I loved the attention.
Geometry was another problem. Just like Algebra the year before, I started out fine, but then had some trouble. I was really worried about failing two subjects. I thought I might get kicked out of Loyola. Talking to a girl who was kicked out, she said, "It's a school where you pay to stay." That was her opinion. I told my father that and he donated two thousand dollars to the school, just in case her view was something more than rumor. I can't say for certain that the donation ensured my career at Loyola. I can say, however, that I was always met with smiles and kind words by the Headmaster whenever he saw me.
In spite of the academic hurdles, sophomore year was still quite enjoyable. I had some friends, some music, a Walkman, life was good. This is also the year I decided to be a writer. It started with a book. One day after history class, the history teacher, Mr. Johanek, brought out a box of books and told us to take any books we want. I took a book about writing. I read it and said I am going to be a writer.
That spring break of '84, I started writing my first and never finished fantasy story. It was really a wish fulfillment story, reflecting my desires at the time. It was about a youngster named Efkin and his adopted sister, a beautiful girl who, in appearance, was a twin to the comely femme at the center of my adolescent world. I wrote a few pages and then put it aside. This was not my best writing, but I enjoyed writing it. As a child I loved building things with Lego bricks, now I was building with words. But it's interesting to note that with Lego I liked to build futuristic things like space ships and other high-tech devices that you find in science fiction, but with words I wanted to write about low-tech medieval fantasy worlds where swords and magic are the primary tools. For some reason, I avoided science fiction novels, preferring the fantasy genre with all its mythical creatures and magical doings. I wanted to write the ultimate fairy tale, a quintessential, mythic epic that would have all the elements in place. A lofty goal, to be sure, but I was flaky enough to think I could do it. At sixteen I thought one day I would sit down to write the greatest fantasy story ever. Thought that I would simply ship my opus off to a publisher and then reap the rewards of fame and fortune. Ah, to be sixteen again. So young. So very young. I wouldn't attempt another fantasy story until next year, junior year.
Sophomore year also marks the first time Victoria touched me. I was standing by the entrance to the commons and she swept by in a hurry, saying, "Excuse me, sorry," touching me as she passed.
Also that year, the art teacher, Ms. F, kept giving me detention. I'm not exactly sure why this happened. I guess I smiled or laughed in class and she received that as an affront to her authority or something. I remember Neail making faces, trying to make me laugh. But she really liked my calligraphy. It was the only thing I did in class that she liked. For my final project I did a Steve Winwood song, Valerie, in calligraphy. I could have easily completed this assignment the day before it was due, but for some reason I decided I would do it early the next morning before school. When morning came and I finally got out of bed there was no time for calligraphy and I went to school with the incomplete project. I don't know why I didn't finish it the night before. I did the same thing in Spanish class, leaving the homework assignments for the morning and getting up too late to do them. I don't know why.
I failed Geometry and Biology. So did another student from Loyola. This time summer school would be at St. Agnes. No Tiffany Lamour, no hanging out at The Forbidden Planet after class, no fun whatsoever. One day I came to school and found a pool of blood on the floor. I followed a trail of blood that led up the stairs to my room where I learned that some students had been messing around and somehow one of them ended up breaking through the glass window of the door with his arm which bled profusely.
But before summer school started, I did something very unusual that summer of '84. I went on a trip to Atlanta.
7. Sweet Sixteen In Summer '84
My father, a psychiatrist, was working at the Federal Penetentiary in Atlanta, evaluating the Cuban refugees that Castro had sent to America. In the seventies, President Carter said the U.S. would accept any Cubans who wanted to come here. Castro responded by opening the prisons in Cuba and sending the prisoners to America. This created an immediate demand for Spanish speaking psychiatrists to evaluate the refugees and determine who were the criminals and who were the innocent, wrongfully imprisoned political prisoners. It was a great job for my father that came at a time when we really needed a financial miracle to deal with the IRS. Unlike Medicaid, the Federal Penetentiary paid my father a handsome salary. He would work there for a month or two, then get some time off and come home to Manhattan, then work there again. One day on the phone with him I said how bored I was with nothing to do and he suggested I come to Atlanta. I never traveled much, but I thought this might be a fun trip, hanging out with my father in another city. So I packed my bags and boarded a plane. This was my first time taking a plane by myself. I loved it. I had my Walkman and my entire music collection, comprised of three Queen albums and one Footloose soundtrack. I remember on the plane they played the same loop of popular songs repeatedly. I heard "Illegal Alien" by Genesis and "Desperate Times" by Olivia Newton-John, from the soundtrack of "Two of a Kind," her second movie with John Travolta. I really liked the Olivia song and couldn't find it anywhere. It would take fifteen years to find it online in '99. It was my first purchase on the Internet. It still reminds me of my trip to Atlanta.
Atlanta has a very large airport. I remember there was a shuttle train and next to it there was a moving floor. You could stand on the floor or take the swifter shuttle. I liked the moving floor. After a few minutes of marveling at the size of the airport, I spotted my father looking down from above.
In the car, driving at night, I noticed how much I liked riding around in a car. It had been many years since we had a car. I also remember very vividly a woman on roller skates beside us on the street.
Arriving at the Embarcadera apartment complex, I climbed a short stair to the second floor and entered our apartment. It was not large, but still very nice with a terrace and a great view of the tree-studded area. I remember Prince's "When Dove's Cry" was on MTV that night. Cable television was another luxury I had been missing in New York. I really liked it. They kept showing The Lords of Discipline and some other movies. I saw the Road Warrior, Streets of Fire, and Vacation, the movie that Dana was in, but I didn't recognize her yet.
The Embarcadero was a really nice place. I loved the billiard room and the outside basketball court. I spent considerable time in both. There was also a tennis court and swimming pool, but I don't swim. I would spend the days playing at the pool table by myself or shooting hoops by myself or watching cable TV by myself. Until my father came from work and then we would go to movies and eat junk food and go to malls. I loved the malls. There were two of them in Atlanta, Shannon Mall and Lenox Mall. Lenox was bigger, with several floors. Shannon was one floor, but very nice. That summer in Atlanta is when I started shopping for clothes. Before, I just wore whatever my mother got me. Now I was choosing buttoned down shirts, a style I would reject in later years, pants, and ties. I bought so many clothes, thinking I would look sharp at Loyola. So many shirts and ties. I think freshman year I only wore blue shirts, a red tie, and grey pants. Sophomore year, I wore blue, tan, and pink shirts and grey, brown, and black corduroy pants. Junior year is when I amassed an impressive wardrobe. And it all started in Atlanta.
Atlanta also had two fantastic stores for books, Oxford Books and Oxford Books II. The second one had a large supply of out of print books. I found some Elric books I had been looking for, the ones with the classic cover art by Michael Whelan. But that was two years later, when I was a senior in high school.
My father, an opera lover, also enjoyed popular music. He bought the Beverly Hills Cop Soundtrack, and for me he got Purple Rain. Now all that was needed was a stereo. I think we got it at Lenox Mall, a Sears turntable with dual cassette players. I remember the day we got it. We were putting it together in the apartment. My father was talking with my mother on the phone. She told him how sick she was and he invited her to come to Atlanta. He had invited her years before, but she had never done it. This time she came.
That summer in Atlanta was special for me because I never really traveled anywhere or did anything special for the summer. I really liked hannging out with my father and going to movies and malls and riding in a car with the radio playing and eating junk food. It wasn't a trip to Europe, but for me it was special. For years afterward, whenever I saw a plane I would think of my first flight by myself. I would think of Atlanta.
But this was just the first time I went to Atlanta, not the last. I would return after I finished summer school in New York. My father said he was going to host a French exchange student who would arrive in Atlanta in a few weeks. Laurent Pelletier was his name.
Back in New York, I started summer school at St. Agnes with a schoolmate from Loyola. We had a nice nun for Geometry and a rather interesting fellow for Biology. The first day of class he said, "My name is Mr. Opper. I have never taught Biology in my life." He said he would put notes on the board for us to memorize and those notes would be exactly what appears on the tests. I remember the same deal in 6th grade science class with Ms. Ross. It was so easy with her that I got a hundred on the report card twice in a row.
Summer '84 is also when I got my first really good haircut. My father made the appointment at Act II Haircutters on 79th and Lexington. I went there and met Robin, a pretty young woman with a punk hairdo, who changed my hair and my life. First they wet and shampoo my hair. Then she goes to work. At first I wasn't sure what she was doing with the curly front of my hair. But a few minutes later, before she was finished, I saw it. A masterpiece. I looked like a human being. I loved my new haircut. My new life. No more carrying a comb in my back pocket. No more hair covering my right eye while taking an exam. No more taunts from anyone. Robin did an excellent job. She gave me her card which I kept pinned on my dresser for years.
I remember running out of Act II, eager to show Chris my new look. We saw The Last Starfighter that day. I enjoyed it. But I would have enjoyed nearly anything in that mood. I still can't believe how long I had a bad haircut. I must have set some kind of record or something.
After summer school ended, my friend, and God-brother, Andrew, the one who sold me his Walkman for $25, came over. Maybe some of you remember him, I actually brought him to Loyola one day. He was staying with us and I asked Fr. Prior if I could bring him to school. I brought him the Friday before spring break. I remember him and Neail talking in art class. Not surprising since both are into science.
From New York, my father drove the three of us to Atlanta, where we would meet the French exchange student at the airport. New York to Atlanta by car is about twenty hours of driving. I have no idea why we didn't take a plane. Saving money, I guess. I remember the Carolinas were the longest stretch. Once out of South Carolina we were almost there. Upon reaching Atlanta, we hurried to a fast food place to eat, pressed for time with the French student arriving soon. Then we dashed to the airport where we received Laurent, a slim teen with slightly redish hair, and a penchant for listening to his Walkman at the highest volume.
We met two other French students as well, Paul Louie who was staying with my father's friend across the street from us, and Marc. One night we were all gathered at the Marriott hotel near the Embarcadero. I just remember Andrew and I laughing the night away. We took Laurent to some movies like Gremlins and Indiana Jones, and we played basketball and pool. We had a fairly good time in Atlanta, but there was something that disturbed my father. When Laurent said, "I think Ghostbusters is typical American film." My father didn't like that at all. I remember standing on the terrace with him with the glass door closed, out of hearing range, although I doubt Laurent could hear anything if his Walkman was blasting. My father said, "I want to put them on a bus and send them back home." He was just talking, of course. But he really didn't like the comment about Ghostbusters.
Heading back to New York, we took not only Laurent with us, but Marc as well. Five of us driving twenty hours to New York. I sat on the passenger side with Andrew, Laurent, and Marc in back. At one point at night, the car was veering to the right. I turned to my father and found him asleep at the wheel. I cried out, waking him. Startled, he turned the car to the left then turned it to the right and we crashed into a railing. That woke up everybody. My father drank some coffee and rested for a while. Whenever I see the movie Vacation, the scene where everyone in the car is asleep, including Chevy Chase who is driving, I think of that trip from Atlanta.
In New York Laurent liked to play skiing on the Atari. Marc wanted to see Ghostbusters so I took him to see it. When we came back, Laurent said that he fell asleep when he saw Ghostbusters and I said that he sleeps all the time anyway. I told my father that I said that and he said he heard it and seemed quite pleased.
That summer of '84 I read Orwell's 1984, a good read, but so depressing, like so many other books we had to read in school. During the school year I would read cliff notes, but during the summer I always read most of the books that were assigned. Oddly, I did not read The Once and Future King by TH White, even though it is very much like a fantasy novel with its swords and magic. Maybe because it seemed so long.
Also that summer, I read the third book of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, Swords in the Mist by Fritz Leiber, and also The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien. I remember reading the Leiber book late at night, in the early morning hours. His prose is so masterful and full of wit.
I was so happy that summer. Looking forward to another year at Loyola. In grammar school I was always upset when the summer was over and I had to go back to school. High school was very different. I loved going to Loyola. I was very excited to start a new year. I wanted to play basketball and paddle tennis and go to lunch with my crew. And maybe my favorite femme would be in my class this year. Maybe I would get her attention.
Atlanta has a very large airport. I remember there was a shuttle train and next to it there was a moving floor. You could stand on the floor or take the swifter shuttle. I liked the moving floor. After a few minutes of marveling at the size of the airport, I spotted my father looking down from above.
In the car, driving at night, I noticed how much I liked riding around in a car. It had been many years since we had a car. I also remember very vividly a woman on roller skates beside us on the street.
Arriving at the Embarcadera apartment complex, I climbed a short stair to the second floor and entered our apartment. It was not large, but still very nice with a terrace and a great view of the tree-studded area. I remember Prince's "When Dove's Cry" was on MTV that night. Cable television was another luxury I had been missing in New York. I really liked it. They kept showing The Lords of Discipline and some other movies. I saw the Road Warrior, Streets of Fire, and Vacation, the movie that Dana was in, but I didn't recognize her yet.
The Embarcadero was a really nice place. I loved the billiard room and the outside basketball court. I spent considerable time in both. There was also a tennis court and swimming pool, but I don't swim. I would spend the days playing at the pool table by myself or shooting hoops by myself or watching cable TV by myself. Until my father came from work and then we would go to movies and eat junk food and go to malls. I loved the malls. There were two of them in Atlanta, Shannon Mall and Lenox Mall. Lenox was bigger, with several floors. Shannon was one floor, but very nice. That summer in Atlanta is when I started shopping for clothes. Before, I just wore whatever my mother got me. Now I was choosing buttoned down shirts, a style I would reject in later years, pants, and ties. I bought so many clothes, thinking I would look sharp at Loyola. So many shirts and ties. I think freshman year I only wore blue shirts, a red tie, and grey pants. Sophomore year, I wore blue, tan, and pink shirts and grey, brown, and black corduroy pants. Junior year is when I amassed an impressive wardrobe. And it all started in Atlanta.
Atlanta also had two fantastic stores for books, Oxford Books and Oxford Books II. The second one had a large supply of out of print books. I found some Elric books I had been looking for, the ones with the classic cover art by Michael Whelan. But that was two years later, when I was a senior in high school.
My father, an opera lover, also enjoyed popular music. He bought the Beverly Hills Cop Soundtrack, and for me he got Purple Rain. Now all that was needed was a stereo. I think we got it at Lenox Mall, a Sears turntable with dual cassette players. I remember the day we got it. We were putting it together in the apartment. My father was talking with my mother on the phone. She told him how sick she was and he invited her to come to Atlanta. He had invited her years before, but she had never done it. This time she came.
That summer in Atlanta was special for me because I never really traveled anywhere or did anything special for the summer. I really liked hannging out with my father and going to movies and malls and riding in a car with the radio playing and eating junk food. It wasn't a trip to Europe, but for me it was special. For years afterward, whenever I saw a plane I would think of my first flight by myself. I would think of Atlanta.
But this was just the first time I went to Atlanta, not the last. I would return after I finished summer school in New York. My father said he was going to host a French exchange student who would arrive in Atlanta in a few weeks. Laurent Pelletier was his name.
Back in New York, I started summer school at St. Agnes with a schoolmate from Loyola. We had a nice nun for Geometry and a rather interesting fellow for Biology. The first day of class he said, "My name is Mr. Opper. I have never taught Biology in my life." He said he would put notes on the board for us to memorize and those notes would be exactly what appears on the tests. I remember the same deal in 6th grade science class with Ms. Ross. It was so easy with her that I got a hundred on the report card twice in a row.
Summer '84 is also when I got my first really good haircut. My father made the appointment at Act II Haircutters on 79th and Lexington. I went there and met Robin, a pretty young woman with a punk hairdo, who changed my hair and my life. First they wet and shampoo my hair. Then she goes to work. At first I wasn't sure what she was doing with the curly front of my hair. But a few minutes later, before she was finished, I saw it. A masterpiece. I looked like a human being. I loved my new haircut. My new life. No more carrying a comb in my back pocket. No more hair covering my right eye while taking an exam. No more taunts from anyone. Robin did an excellent job. She gave me her card which I kept pinned on my dresser for years.
I remember running out of Act II, eager to show Chris my new look. We saw The Last Starfighter that day. I enjoyed it. But I would have enjoyed nearly anything in that mood. I still can't believe how long I had a bad haircut. I must have set some kind of record or something.
After summer school ended, my friend, and God-brother, Andrew, the one who sold me his Walkman for $25, came over. Maybe some of you remember him, I actually brought him to Loyola one day. He was staying with us and I asked Fr. Prior if I could bring him to school. I brought him the Friday before spring break. I remember him and Neail talking in art class. Not surprising since both are into science.
From New York, my father drove the three of us to Atlanta, where we would meet the French exchange student at the airport. New York to Atlanta by car is about twenty hours of driving. I have no idea why we didn't take a plane. Saving money, I guess. I remember the Carolinas were the longest stretch. Once out of South Carolina we were almost there. Upon reaching Atlanta, we hurried to a fast food place to eat, pressed for time with the French student arriving soon. Then we dashed to the airport where we received Laurent, a slim teen with slightly redish hair, and a penchant for listening to his Walkman at the highest volume.
We met two other French students as well, Paul Louie who was staying with my father's friend across the street from us, and Marc. One night we were all gathered at the Marriott hotel near the Embarcadero. I just remember Andrew and I laughing the night away. We took Laurent to some movies like Gremlins and Indiana Jones, and we played basketball and pool. We had a fairly good time in Atlanta, but there was something that disturbed my father. When Laurent said, "I think Ghostbusters is typical American film." My father didn't like that at all. I remember standing on the terrace with him with the glass door closed, out of hearing range, although I doubt Laurent could hear anything if his Walkman was blasting. My father said, "I want to put them on a bus and send them back home." He was just talking, of course. But he really didn't like the comment about Ghostbusters.
Heading back to New York, we took not only Laurent with us, but Marc as well. Five of us driving twenty hours to New York. I sat on the passenger side with Andrew, Laurent, and Marc in back. At one point at night, the car was veering to the right. I turned to my father and found him asleep at the wheel. I cried out, waking him. Startled, he turned the car to the left then turned it to the right and we crashed into a railing. That woke up everybody. My father drank some coffee and rested for a while. Whenever I see the movie Vacation, the scene where everyone in the car is asleep, including Chevy Chase who is driving, I think of that trip from Atlanta.
In New York Laurent liked to play skiing on the Atari. Marc wanted to see Ghostbusters so I took him to see it. When we came back, Laurent said that he fell asleep when he saw Ghostbusters and I said that he sleeps all the time anyway. I told my father that I said that and he said he heard it and seemed quite pleased.
That summer of '84 I read Orwell's 1984, a good read, but so depressing, like so many other books we had to read in school. During the school year I would read cliff notes, but during the summer I always read most of the books that were assigned. Oddly, I did not read The Once and Future King by TH White, even though it is very much like a fantasy novel with its swords and magic. Maybe because it seemed so long.
Also that summer, I read the third book of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, Swords in the Mist by Fritz Leiber, and also The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien. I remember reading the Leiber book late at night, in the early morning hours. His prose is so masterful and full of wit.
I was so happy that summer. Looking forward to another year at Loyola. In grammar school I was always upset when the summer was over and I had to go back to school. High school was very different. I loved going to Loyola. I was very excited to start a new year. I wanted to play basketball and paddle tennis and go to lunch with my crew. And maybe my favorite femme would be in my class this year. Maybe I would get her attention.
8. Yes!
Near the end of summer, Jason gave me a call. We went to Little Robbin's pizza place on 78th and York. I asked him about his class schedule and he told me he wasn't coming to Loyola this year. Another friend, lost in the shuffle.
Junior year started out great. The first day of school I walked into the gym for morning assembly, greeted by a cheering throng. They cheered everyone as they came. I tripped on a wire and got a laugh. In the corner of my eye I caught a girl I liked looking at me. I didn't say anything, but in my mind I was screaming, "Yes!"
Some days later, in English class, Mr. Vogel said, "I'm going to read the best paper in the class," and then read my paper. Allyson looked around to see who wrote the essay and I gave her a grin. She probably told others. Maybe the other girls heard about it. But how do I really get their attention?
That question was answered just a few days later. In Speech class. Our assignment was to give a speech about our most embarrassing moment. I spoke about the time in fifth grade when my teacher had to walk me to the bus stop because three people wanted to beat me up. I expected a few chuckles, but not the tidal wave of laughter that swept through the entire class. It sounded like everyone on earth was laughing. Mission accomplished.
I remember when the speech was over, Mr. Lyness said, "Tough act to follow." And he was right. It was a tough act to follow, but not just for others, for me as well. I could never top that speech. I got some laughs for some other speeches, but none of my future efforts received the massive response I got that day. It was, and remains, one of the happiest days of my life. I was so happy. I don't drink, but I think I was somehow intoxicated by the attention I had gained. I went to lunch that day with Jon F, still high on my shining moment in Speech. I said I want to go to McDonalds. I think I sounded like one of the Disney World commercials. "Robert, you've just delivered the greatest speech of your life. What are you going to do now?" I'm going to McDonalds!
At McDonalds I told Jon all about the speech and the positive response. When we came back to school and went to the Library, he read the speech and thought it was so funny that he showed it to our English teacher, Mr. Vogel, who also laughed. Later, in Geometry, Allyson and Samantha entered the room with more praise. "That was a good speech, Rob." It was a good day at school.
Back home, the celebration continued with music. I was just so happy. I guess I must have been starved for attention or recognition or something. But with these highs there often comes some lows. My lows were pretty freaking low.
I remember the first time I was very depressed in junior year. It happened one day after school. I was walking up a stair, heading for the door to exit the school, and above I saw a girl I liked talking with a guy who had graduated the year before. I didn't like that at all. I was so jealous. I had seen her with guys before, but it never bothered me like it did now. I knew this was not a normal reaction.
Then one day in December, I think it was the Friday before Christmas break, we were all gathered in the gym for morning assembly. The bell rang and we crossed the gym on our way to our first class. Behind me, a girl called my name, "Rob," she said. I thought it was Scarlett, but turning, I found the girl I had seen on the stairs. I was so happy again. This brief exchange served to erase the foul taste of her association with the other guy.
I joined the basketball team, first time ever. I and some other juniors were put on the JV team, which was kind of a disappointment. Juniors are usually placed on Varsity. At first I liked basketball practice, but it wasn't long before more feelings of inadequacy surfaced, causing me to shy away from practice because I didn't really understand the plays we were doing. Mr. Sullivan told us if we don't come to practice we don't play in a game. I became so self conscious and insecure that I stopped going to practice so he wouldn't put me in a game. I had stage fright. I especially did not like the uniforms they gave us. I thought the shorts looked like swimming shorts. They just made me more self conscious, I felt ridiculous wearing them. For some reason, I still showed up for some games, knowing I would not play. That basketball team was one of my biggest failures. Something I would like to do over again, the right way. Again, as with Biology, I feel that I was delinquent in my responsibility as a team player, but I also feel that a good coach would have recognized my lack of confidence and encouraged me to break through it.
My stage fright did not end with basketball, it followed me into Speech class. We were assigned a speech to entertain. Initially I was thrilled, eager to write something very entertaining. But I had trouble finding something funny to say, and I was still dwarfed by the legacy of the speech that made everyone laugh out loud. I just felt I couldn't top it. I felt like people were tired of my comedic efforts. So I didn't do the speech. Mr. Lyness tried to coax me to get on stage, encouraging me to tell some more grammar school stories, but I refused to do it. I'm lucky I still got a good grade in that class.
Didn't have a large circle of close friends junior year. Jason had left. And my friendship with Evelyn just sort of dissolved. We did talk at the very beginning of the year. I was going to lunch and she and one of her friends followed and surprised me. That was the only real conversation we had for the year. I have thought that maybe I gave her a bad vibe or something. Maybe she saw my new haircut and new clothes and thought that I had changed. I did look very different with the shorter hair. I guess I was a bit more subdued than I was the previous year. A little less silly and energetic. Freshman and sophomore year I was a part-time clown, always trying to get a laugh. We didn't hang out once that year, her senior year. One of my biggest regrets.
One day I'm sitting in the Gannon room. My row is empty and there are plenty of other empty rows in front and behind me. I wonder if a certain girl I like is going to choose my row, asking me to let her through, or one of the other, more accessible routes. "Excuse me, Rob," she says. I shift in my chair to let her through. Not the path of least resistance, but she took it anyway. As I had hoped she would.
I enjoyed any and all communication with a number of girls. But there was one time that felt more special than the others. It was January, during midterm exams. I came to school early in the morning and found the door locked. Instead of trying the larger main entrance to the building or waiting for someone to open the first door, I just went back home and waited for a while, and then took the bus back to school again. I cannot explain my reasoning for this behavior. I think any normal person would have tried the main entrance or waited there for someone to open the door. Instead I decided to return home and wait there and then come back. Weird. As I was walking back to school, I was singing to myself a Phil Collins tune, Sussudio. "There's a girl that's been on my mind, all the time, Sussudio." I'm singing this, and I see a pretty girl a block away, heading in my direction. She comes closer and I see it's a girl I like, without her blazer.
Now, for most normal people who are reasonably well adjusted and in possession of a modicum of rational thought, this incident might register as a pleasant encounter one sunny morning. For me, this seemed like something more than coincidence. This meeting on Park Avenue felt like a very special event. Recall that I really should have entered the school much earlier, but, lacking common sense, I returned home and then later came back to school, just in time to cross paths with a girl I like. For me, it was something magical.
In February '85 I had another taste of depression when I read the Valentine's newsletter. Reading all the messages that people wrote to each other I felt alienated. I felt like the whole school was an exclusive club and everybody had a membership except me. I shouldn't complain, though, because Danielle and her friends wrote, "We love you, Oliver." At least I had that. But I guess I needed more attention and recognition. I've heard that depression is internalized anger. I was upset that I wasn't performing very well socially or academically.
By spring break, I was my normal self again, suppressing all self consciousness and feelings of inadequacy, putting on a smile, almost genuinely cheerful or very close to it. I bought a twelve speed touring bike and started riding in Central Park. I remember the first time I rode my bike to see a movie. I saw Goonies on 57th and 3rd Avenue. It was the first time I locked the bike outside while I went inside. I was happy to find it waiting for me. Since my birth, there have been a number of thefts, each depriving me of a favored wheeled conveyance, beginning with my stroller, followed by my Big Wheel, and finally my green bike. The last item was actually stolen by two boyscouts. At least that's what Bob Evans told the police officer, after the boyscouts had knocked him down and taken our bikes.
Returning now to spring '85, I took that twelve speed touring bike everywhere. I was amazed at how much faster you could reach a location on a bike. I still took the bus to school, but the bike could actually be faster, especially if you had to wait for the bus.
My cycling also carried me to a brief encounter with Scott. Both of us on bikes, our paths crossed on a one way street. I was headed to Central Park and he was doing a delivery for the video store he worked in. We looked at each other without a word. We just kept cycling.
For spring break I spent a week in New York with Andrew visiting, and then a week in Atlanta with my father. Back in Atlanta for the third time, I did my usual routines, most of the time by myself. I played pool, basketball, and watched movies on cable. Then my father came from work and we went to movies and malls and ate junk food.
Refreshed from my trip down south, I returned to Loyola in a cheery mood. It would not last long. For, whatever may have come before, whatever obstacles or anxieties that year had presented, none could equal the blow that was struck that spring. Unfortunately for whoever is reading this, I am not ready to share what happened.
One day in Theology class, Fr. Garaventa was chatting with students and I heard something that disturbed me. I dropped my head onto my desk, feeling ill. Some minutes later Fr. Garaventa was talking about happiness. He asked what it is, and I said, "Happiness is peace of mind." He received this with a look of surprise. "What is peace of mind," he asked. "I don't know," I said. People laughed.
I believe this is where my life took a wrong turn. This was the last straw for me. I spent the remaining weeks of school in a depression. I'm lucky I passed all my classes. The year had started out so bright, so full of promise, and now everything seemed askew. I hit a plateau that year. I didn't move and progress forward like in previous years, adapting to whatever came my way. I got stuck. I had gained some very positive attention, but I didn't know what to do next. Obviously, I wanted attention, and I got it sometimes. But what else did I want? A friendship, probably, or some kind of relationship. Aside from being insecure and fearing rejection, I think there was another issue. If I liked a girl I tended to idealize her, creating an image of her in my mind that was perfect. But no one is perfect. The closer you get to someone, the more imperfections you find. I think a part of my brain wanted to preserve this perfect image, and that meant not looking too closely. It was quite a conflict, wanting to get closer and wanting to retreat. When I barely had any contact with a girl that I liked it was easier to preserve this perfect image. I just had the image stored safely in my mind where it did not tarnish or fade. Also carried the hope that when we did have contact the image would become real. In many ways it did become real, but perfection remains a very lofty, elusive goal.
Junior year started out great. The first day of school I walked into the gym for morning assembly, greeted by a cheering throng. They cheered everyone as they came. I tripped on a wire and got a laugh. In the corner of my eye I caught a girl I liked looking at me. I didn't say anything, but in my mind I was screaming, "Yes!"
Some days later, in English class, Mr. Vogel said, "I'm going to read the best paper in the class," and then read my paper. Allyson looked around to see who wrote the essay and I gave her a grin. She probably told others. Maybe the other girls heard about it. But how do I really get their attention?
That question was answered just a few days later. In Speech class. Our assignment was to give a speech about our most embarrassing moment. I spoke about the time in fifth grade when my teacher had to walk me to the bus stop because three people wanted to beat me up. I expected a few chuckles, but not the tidal wave of laughter that swept through the entire class. It sounded like everyone on earth was laughing. Mission accomplished.
I remember when the speech was over, Mr. Lyness said, "Tough act to follow." And he was right. It was a tough act to follow, but not just for others, for me as well. I could never top that speech. I got some laughs for some other speeches, but none of my future efforts received the massive response I got that day. It was, and remains, one of the happiest days of my life. I was so happy. I don't drink, but I think I was somehow intoxicated by the attention I had gained. I went to lunch that day with Jon F, still high on my shining moment in Speech. I said I want to go to McDonalds. I think I sounded like one of the Disney World commercials. "Robert, you've just delivered the greatest speech of your life. What are you going to do now?" I'm going to McDonalds!
At McDonalds I told Jon all about the speech and the positive response. When we came back to school and went to the Library, he read the speech and thought it was so funny that he showed it to our English teacher, Mr. Vogel, who also laughed. Later, in Geometry, Allyson and Samantha entered the room with more praise. "That was a good speech, Rob." It was a good day at school.
Back home, the celebration continued with music. I was just so happy. I guess I must have been starved for attention or recognition or something. But with these highs there often comes some lows. My lows were pretty freaking low.
I remember the first time I was very depressed in junior year. It happened one day after school. I was walking up a stair, heading for the door to exit the school, and above I saw a girl I liked talking with a guy who had graduated the year before. I didn't like that at all. I was so jealous. I had seen her with guys before, but it never bothered me like it did now. I knew this was not a normal reaction.
Then one day in December, I think it was the Friday before Christmas break, we were all gathered in the gym for morning assembly. The bell rang and we crossed the gym on our way to our first class. Behind me, a girl called my name, "Rob," she said. I thought it was Scarlett, but turning, I found the girl I had seen on the stairs. I was so happy again. This brief exchange served to erase the foul taste of her association with the other guy.
I joined the basketball team, first time ever. I and some other juniors were put on the JV team, which was kind of a disappointment. Juniors are usually placed on Varsity. At first I liked basketball practice, but it wasn't long before more feelings of inadequacy surfaced, causing me to shy away from practice because I didn't really understand the plays we were doing. Mr. Sullivan told us if we don't come to practice we don't play in a game. I became so self conscious and insecure that I stopped going to practice so he wouldn't put me in a game. I had stage fright. I especially did not like the uniforms they gave us. I thought the shorts looked like swimming shorts. They just made me more self conscious, I felt ridiculous wearing them. For some reason, I still showed up for some games, knowing I would not play. That basketball team was one of my biggest failures. Something I would like to do over again, the right way. Again, as with Biology, I feel that I was delinquent in my responsibility as a team player, but I also feel that a good coach would have recognized my lack of confidence and encouraged me to break through it.
My stage fright did not end with basketball, it followed me into Speech class. We were assigned a speech to entertain. Initially I was thrilled, eager to write something very entertaining. But I had trouble finding something funny to say, and I was still dwarfed by the legacy of the speech that made everyone laugh out loud. I just felt I couldn't top it. I felt like people were tired of my comedic efforts. So I didn't do the speech. Mr. Lyness tried to coax me to get on stage, encouraging me to tell some more grammar school stories, but I refused to do it. I'm lucky I still got a good grade in that class.
Didn't have a large circle of close friends junior year. Jason had left. And my friendship with Evelyn just sort of dissolved. We did talk at the very beginning of the year. I was going to lunch and she and one of her friends followed and surprised me. That was the only real conversation we had for the year. I have thought that maybe I gave her a bad vibe or something. Maybe she saw my new haircut and new clothes and thought that I had changed. I did look very different with the shorter hair. I guess I was a bit more subdued than I was the previous year. A little less silly and energetic. Freshman and sophomore year I was a part-time clown, always trying to get a laugh. We didn't hang out once that year, her senior year. One of my biggest regrets.
One day I'm sitting in the Gannon room. My row is empty and there are plenty of other empty rows in front and behind me. I wonder if a certain girl I like is going to choose my row, asking me to let her through, or one of the other, more accessible routes. "Excuse me, Rob," she says. I shift in my chair to let her through. Not the path of least resistance, but she took it anyway. As I had hoped she would.
I enjoyed any and all communication with a number of girls. But there was one time that felt more special than the others. It was January, during midterm exams. I came to school early in the morning and found the door locked. Instead of trying the larger main entrance to the building or waiting for someone to open the first door, I just went back home and waited for a while, and then took the bus back to school again. I cannot explain my reasoning for this behavior. I think any normal person would have tried the main entrance or waited there for someone to open the door. Instead I decided to return home and wait there and then come back. Weird. As I was walking back to school, I was singing to myself a Phil Collins tune, Sussudio. "There's a girl that's been on my mind, all the time, Sussudio." I'm singing this, and I see a pretty girl a block away, heading in my direction. She comes closer and I see it's a girl I like, without her blazer.
Now, for most normal people who are reasonably well adjusted and in possession of a modicum of rational thought, this incident might register as a pleasant encounter one sunny morning. For me, this seemed like something more than coincidence. This meeting on Park Avenue felt like a very special event. Recall that I really should have entered the school much earlier, but, lacking common sense, I returned home and then later came back to school, just in time to cross paths with a girl I like. For me, it was something magical.
In February '85 I had another taste of depression when I read the Valentine's newsletter. Reading all the messages that people wrote to each other I felt alienated. I felt like the whole school was an exclusive club and everybody had a membership except me. I shouldn't complain, though, because Danielle and her friends wrote, "We love you, Oliver." At least I had that. But I guess I needed more attention and recognition. I've heard that depression is internalized anger. I was upset that I wasn't performing very well socially or academically.
By spring break, I was my normal self again, suppressing all self consciousness and feelings of inadequacy, putting on a smile, almost genuinely cheerful or very close to it. I bought a twelve speed touring bike and started riding in Central Park. I remember the first time I rode my bike to see a movie. I saw Goonies on 57th and 3rd Avenue. It was the first time I locked the bike outside while I went inside. I was happy to find it waiting for me. Since my birth, there have been a number of thefts, each depriving me of a favored wheeled conveyance, beginning with my stroller, followed by my Big Wheel, and finally my green bike. The last item was actually stolen by two boyscouts. At least that's what Bob Evans told the police officer, after the boyscouts had knocked him down and taken our bikes.
Returning now to spring '85, I took that twelve speed touring bike everywhere. I was amazed at how much faster you could reach a location on a bike. I still took the bus to school, but the bike could actually be faster, especially if you had to wait for the bus.
My cycling also carried me to a brief encounter with Scott. Both of us on bikes, our paths crossed on a one way street. I was headed to Central Park and he was doing a delivery for the video store he worked in. We looked at each other without a word. We just kept cycling.
For spring break I spent a week in New York with Andrew visiting, and then a week in Atlanta with my father. Back in Atlanta for the third time, I did my usual routines, most of the time by myself. I played pool, basketball, and watched movies on cable. Then my father came from work and we went to movies and malls and ate junk food.
Refreshed from my trip down south, I returned to Loyola in a cheery mood. It would not last long. For, whatever may have come before, whatever obstacles or anxieties that year had presented, none could equal the blow that was struck that spring. Unfortunately for whoever is reading this, I am not ready to share what happened.
One day in Theology class, Fr. Garaventa was chatting with students and I heard something that disturbed me. I dropped my head onto my desk, feeling ill. Some minutes later Fr. Garaventa was talking about happiness. He asked what it is, and I said, "Happiness is peace of mind." He received this with a look of surprise. "What is peace of mind," he asked. "I don't know," I said. People laughed.
I believe this is where my life took a wrong turn. This was the last straw for me. I spent the remaining weeks of school in a depression. I'm lucky I passed all my classes. The year had started out so bright, so full of promise, and now everything seemed askew. I hit a plateau that year. I didn't move and progress forward like in previous years, adapting to whatever came my way. I got stuck. I had gained some very positive attention, but I didn't know what to do next. Obviously, I wanted attention, and I got it sometimes. But what else did I want? A friendship, probably, or some kind of relationship. Aside from being insecure and fearing rejection, I think there was another issue. If I liked a girl I tended to idealize her, creating an image of her in my mind that was perfect. But no one is perfect. The closer you get to someone, the more imperfections you find. I think a part of my brain wanted to preserve this perfect image, and that meant not looking too closely. It was quite a conflict, wanting to get closer and wanting to retreat. When I barely had any contact with a girl that I liked it was easier to preserve this perfect image. I just had the image stored safely in my mind where it did not tarnish or fade. Also carried the hope that when we did have contact the image would become real. In many ways it did become real, but perfection remains a very lofty, elusive goal.
9. Academic Disaster
Summer of '85 I spent some time alone while my parents were away. I think my mother was in Puerto Rico taking care of her mother and my father was either with her or working in Atlanta. I got into a routine. I would stay up late watching TV. In the early morning hours I watched Ben Casey and then an aerobics show. Then, when the sun was starting to come up, I got on my bike and headed for Central Park. I rode through Central Park at dawn. I did this several times. Then I went home and watched The Superfriends. Then I went to sleep, probably before noon.
On one of those trips through Central Park I had a strange experience. I stopped at a gazebo near Central Park West. It overlooked a lake that was covered with something green. It looked like green sand to me. I thought I could walk on it. I moved toward it, and just as I was stepping on it, I saw a soda can that looked odd, like it was floating on the carpet of green. Suddenly I was up to my knees in lake water. Stunned, I scrambled back onto the gazebo, thankful that the lake was not deeper because I don't swim. I've always thought that physical experience reflected my mental state at the time. I thought I was stepping onto something solid, but I fell right through. Mentally, I was not standing on solid ground either.
Back home, I probably watched another episode of The Superfriends. Then went to sleep. That was my schedule. Bike through Central Park in the morning, bike back home, watch some TV, go to sleep.
The only eventful thing that happened that summer was a trip to Atlanta with my father and Al. My circle of close friends at Loyola was down to one person, Al. Christian T and Jason had left. Evelyn had graduated the year before. Of course, I still had Chris, my brother from another mother. And Andrew, my friend and God-brother. So I wasn't desperately lonely. Not yet.
We were going to drive to Atlanta, but for some reason we didn't. The three of us boarded a People's Express plane. I think I called it People's Distress. It was such a small plane with so many passengers. But the price was right so there we were.
In Atlanta I basically did all the same things I did before, but this time I did them with a friend. We played pool and basketball and went to movies and restaurants. We both loved Oxford Books. We also went to Great Adventure.
There is one weird thing I did, or actually refused to do, that shows how terribly insecure I could be. We're in the car, driving around for some place to eat, and my father says we're going to the Bennigan's near the Embarcadero. I voted against it, but my father and Al wanted to go. So my father had to drive me back to the Embarcadero and then go to Bennigan's with Al. How weird is that? I had this notion that Bennigan's was like some bar where certain people hang out, a place where I would not fit in, and I refused to go there. Even with my father and my friend I was still so self-conscious that I did not feel comfortable entering this restaurant. The funny thing is that I would not hesitate to enter a fast food place like McDonalds or Wendy's. But for some reason, certain places and situations made me very uncomfortable and self-conscious. This skewed perspective would haunt me for some time, but mostly it surfaced at Loyola. After junior year, I barely ever entered the commons. I just felt too awkward to blend in with others. I was just too uptight.
Before senior year started I had to go to Sr. Nora's office to adjust my schedule. When I got there I found Al and Lisa, and then Jon and Chris C appeared. Then another girl entered. She started talking about the dress code, saying they can't wear lace socks. I thought I was blushing so I got up and left. This was a perfect opportunity to talk to people, but I retreated. I ran out of the school and sat down somewhere on Park Avenue for a while. Then I went home and sat there for a while. Then I went back to school. When I returned to Sr. Nora's office she was not pleased that I had left. "Now you can wait," she said. Then we looked at my schedule and she asked me if I want to take art or math. I didn't want the art teacher to give me detention again so I chose math. Big mistake.
I think senior year is the first time I ever failed an essay. The English teacher said that fifty lines were required and I only wrote twenty five. This failure really set the tone for my senior year. It shook my confidence.
One morning assembly in October, the Friday before Halloween, we paraded through the gym in costumes like the seniors did every year. I was a giant Cliff's Notes on Camus' The Plague, a book we were supposed to be reading at the time. The highlight for me was when the girls took notice. "A Cliff Note," one of them said. I looked at her. She laughed.
There was one other time I made a girl laugh that year. Al and I were doing a presentation. I read my part aloud and then turned to the class and said very sternly, almost like a threat, "Any questions?" She laughed hysterically, probably trying to make me feel good, and she did. I felt very good.
All my classes had girls that I liked, but there were three classes in particular that made me nervous. During those classes I would frequently doodle nervously in my notebook. Mr. Meade, the English/Creative Writing teacher, liked my doodles and gave me some paper to make a big doodle for him. Years later I would learn he framed it.
I liked Physics class, I felt comfortable with the students, but there was another distraction. Scarlett. But I wasn't nervous around her. I was, however, perhaps a bit distracted sometimes. One time the teacher asked me to tell him what he had just said and I said I didn't know. He asked me why I didn't know and I said because I wasn't paying attention. He told me to leave the class. I was surprised I was kicked out for not paying attention.
But I still liked Physics class. Very often, when we had a double period, the second one being a Lab period, the teacher would let us go early, so it was like another free period. I would go to the gym and play basketball until the next class.
Also liked Creative Writing. We had an assignment to write a story with the title, Mr. Potato Head Goes to Hoboken. In my story, the protagonist, a potato head, does not know the quadratic equation. He learns that people in Hoboken don't care about the equation so he goes there and is happy for a while, but then he thinks about the equation again and goes to a school to ask about it. At last, he learns the quadratic equation and returns to his home. Then he finds people are occupied with the squaring of binomials. He laughs at their folly, realizing he will never know everything. The teacher liked this story. He wrote, "A really excellent story!" He copied a page of dialogue and handed it out to the class. I would have liked it if he copied the whole story so that everyone could read it. He did that with a story by Chris O. In fact, he not only made us read that story, he gave us a quiz based on the story. Chris O was a very good writer. After graduation, he would write me a nice letter that took me out of a depression.
That year I discovered that someone else from my childhood was on TV, appearing on the most popular show on television at the time. My mother told me that Geoffrey Owens was on The Cosby Show. His mother had been a teacher at the University of Puerto Rico where my parents had been her students. Ethel, his mother, told my mother he got the part on the show because she had asked the casting director, who was one of her students, to audition her son.
At some point that year, a very fortunate encounter occurred in Carl Schurz Park. I was riding my bike down East End and I saw someone with a skateboard in the park. Looking closer, I saw Jason. We started talking. I told him how messed up I was and then we went to his place. That reunion with Jay was one of the best things that happened senior year. We were hanging out and going to movies like it was sophomore year again. I thought it was interesting that I had begun my high school career with Jay and now at the end of high school he reappeared. Good thing, too. I needed friends.
The next day after our reunion in the park, I learned from Peter L that he and Allyson and Samantha C saw me cycling at East End while they were taking a driving test. He said he called my name from the car and I recalled hearing someone shout. Later, in one of my classes, one of the girls said, "Biking is the best." She said that twice. I thought it was likely that Allyson and Samantha had told her they saw me biking yesterday.
I think I was at my lowest spring break '86. I was walking down the street, going to see a movie, Highlander, with music by Queen, and I was so upset. Inside the theater I heard a very sad song, Who Wants to Live Forever, and I grew even sadder.
That spring break I went to Atlanta again. My father had a new three bedroom apartment near Lenox Mall that he shared with a co-worker, Mario, a great guy who looks a little like Tom Cruise. The three of us had fun in Atlanta. One night I stayed up late, reading a fantasy novel in the living room while they slept. I wasn't fretting about anything, I was just reading a good book, looking forward to hanging out with my father and Mario.
When I returned to school, all my insecurities and self-consciousness were there waiting for me. With only a couple of months of school left there wasn't much time to mar my academic record further, but I did what I could. Both my parents were away for many weeks, my mother taking care of her mother in Puerto Rico and my father working in Atlanta. I think it was a Sunday when I took the entrance exam for Hunter College. That was the first time Chris M came to my place. I had an English essay and two Creative Writing assignments due. I intended to do them that night, but when Monday came I decided to be absent and do them Monday night. When Tuesday came, I still had not done the assignments, so I was absent on Tuesday. Wednesday was the same deal, absent again. On Tuesday the phone was ringing and ringing and I was certain it was Fr. Prior. I didn't answer. I went to the park to play tennis. Then on Wednesday I answered the phone and Fr. Prior told me that I better go to school tomorrow. I completed my assignments that night and returned to school on Thursday.
The last day of school before finals, I had a political science assignment due and also a Theology test that I had been absent for. The night before that last day I decided to study for Theology and complete the Political Science assignment the next day at school. My plan was to take my heavy typewriter to school and then commandeer the small room on the roof next to the paddle tennis court. The room had an electrical outlet for my typewriter.
So on the last day of school I brought my heavy typewriter to school. At some point Fr. Garaventa appeared and said, "If you don't take the test today you will get a 60." I said I had a lot of work to do so if I have a choice I'll take the 60." He said something like, "You have a choice, a bad choice, but a choice."
Later, I hefted the weighty typewriter up a stair and set up shop in the room next to the paddle tennis court. I then got to work, paraphrasing a pamphlet about South Korea. I felt better while I was typing. I felt like I was accomplishing something. Al appeared. "Your office," he said. It did feel like an office. I liked it.
The English teacher found me on a stair later. "Why weren't you in English class?" he asked. "I heard there was going to be a party or something," I said, and it was true, I did actually hear something like that. "Well, you heard wrong," he said, rising on his toes for emphasis. He said he would tell Fr. Prior and I would have jug. That was fine with me. Don't have to study for jug, just have to show up and sit there. No worries.
Academically, I had never performed so poorly. Before finals I was failing five of my six classes. After finals I only failed one, math again. I remember taking the math final. I left so many questions blank. I should have had a tutor that year. And I really should have taken art instead of math. Detention is better than summer school.
That last week of finals was so depressing, at least for me. At home, in my room, I had books scattered on the floor. If I had a math final the next day, I would pick up a math book from the floor, study, then put the book away somewhere. That was my study routine.
As soon as I had taken my last exam, I was airborne en route to Atlanta again. I left immediately. I couldn't get away fast enough. I remember on Prom night I was at Lenox Mall, seeing a movie, either Poltergeist 2 or Short Circuit, thinking about the Prom. When I returned to New York, my mother met me at the airport, back from Puerto Rico where her mother had passed. Soon after my return, it was time for graduation. I recall sitting at my desk when my mother told me the Headmaster said I could participate in graduation, but I would receive an empty diploma case. I would get the diploma after summer school. I didn't go to graduation. I honestly don't know for certain if I would have gone even if I had passed all my classes. I was really messed up that year.
That summer I discovered another family friend was making a name for himself in the entertainment world. Reading The New York Times one day, my father found Michael Maguire dressed as a soldier, holding up a rifle, in a giant two page spread for Le Miserables. He was in the original Broadway cast and he won a Tony Award for Best New Actor. We knew him because he had been the boyfriend of Mara, the daughter of Peggy, who was one of my mother's best friends. I remember playing Atari with him in my room.
But that summer of '86 there was something that turned my frown upside down. I was talking on the phone with Jay and he tells me that he was with Chris O the other day and they started talking about me. I'm certain Jay told Chris how depressed I was. Jay said that Chris was going to write me a letter. Some time later I received this letter and it really lifted me out of my depression. He said all these great things about me, saying that I was a true individual and the personification of all these great qualities. I wrote him back and he liked what I wrote and he wanted us to continue our correspondence. We both wanted to pursue careers as writers and enjoyed impressing each other with our words. I really believe this letter and the correspondence that followed played a major role in my recovery from a serious depression. I had felt alienated and now I felt I had expanded my circle of friends to include Chris and his gang. I didn't feel so alone anymore.
But I wasn't out of the woods yet. My insecurities faded for a while, but they would resurface again a year later.
On one of those trips through Central Park I had a strange experience. I stopped at a gazebo near Central Park West. It overlooked a lake that was covered with something green. It looked like green sand to me. I thought I could walk on it. I moved toward it, and just as I was stepping on it, I saw a soda can that looked odd, like it was floating on the carpet of green. Suddenly I was up to my knees in lake water. Stunned, I scrambled back onto the gazebo, thankful that the lake was not deeper because I don't swim. I've always thought that physical experience reflected my mental state at the time. I thought I was stepping onto something solid, but I fell right through. Mentally, I was not standing on solid ground either.
Back home, I probably watched another episode of The Superfriends. Then went to sleep. That was my schedule. Bike through Central Park in the morning, bike back home, watch some TV, go to sleep.
The only eventful thing that happened that summer was a trip to Atlanta with my father and Al. My circle of close friends at Loyola was down to one person, Al. Christian T and Jason had left. Evelyn had graduated the year before. Of course, I still had Chris, my brother from another mother. And Andrew, my friend and God-brother. So I wasn't desperately lonely. Not yet.
We were going to drive to Atlanta, but for some reason we didn't. The three of us boarded a People's Express plane. I think I called it People's Distress. It was such a small plane with so many passengers. But the price was right so there we were.
In Atlanta I basically did all the same things I did before, but this time I did them with a friend. We played pool and basketball and went to movies and restaurants. We both loved Oxford Books. We also went to Great Adventure.
There is one weird thing I did, or actually refused to do, that shows how terribly insecure I could be. We're in the car, driving around for some place to eat, and my father says we're going to the Bennigan's near the Embarcadero. I voted against it, but my father and Al wanted to go. So my father had to drive me back to the Embarcadero and then go to Bennigan's with Al. How weird is that? I had this notion that Bennigan's was like some bar where certain people hang out, a place where I would not fit in, and I refused to go there. Even with my father and my friend I was still so self-conscious that I did not feel comfortable entering this restaurant. The funny thing is that I would not hesitate to enter a fast food place like McDonalds or Wendy's. But for some reason, certain places and situations made me very uncomfortable and self-conscious. This skewed perspective would haunt me for some time, but mostly it surfaced at Loyola. After junior year, I barely ever entered the commons. I just felt too awkward to blend in with others. I was just too uptight.
Before senior year started I had to go to Sr. Nora's office to adjust my schedule. When I got there I found Al and Lisa, and then Jon and Chris C appeared. Then another girl entered. She started talking about the dress code, saying they can't wear lace socks. I thought I was blushing so I got up and left. This was a perfect opportunity to talk to people, but I retreated. I ran out of the school and sat down somewhere on Park Avenue for a while. Then I went home and sat there for a while. Then I went back to school. When I returned to Sr. Nora's office she was not pleased that I had left. "Now you can wait," she said. Then we looked at my schedule and she asked me if I want to take art or math. I didn't want the art teacher to give me detention again so I chose math. Big mistake.
I think senior year is the first time I ever failed an essay. The English teacher said that fifty lines were required and I only wrote twenty five. This failure really set the tone for my senior year. It shook my confidence.
One morning assembly in October, the Friday before Halloween, we paraded through the gym in costumes like the seniors did every year. I was a giant Cliff's Notes on Camus' The Plague, a book we were supposed to be reading at the time. The highlight for me was when the girls took notice. "A Cliff Note," one of them said. I looked at her. She laughed.
There was one other time I made a girl laugh that year. Al and I were doing a presentation. I read my part aloud and then turned to the class and said very sternly, almost like a threat, "Any questions?" She laughed hysterically, probably trying to make me feel good, and she did. I felt very good.
All my classes had girls that I liked, but there were three classes in particular that made me nervous. During those classes I would frequently doodle nervously in my notebook. Mr. Meade, the English/Creative Writing teacher, liked my doodles and gave me some paper to make a big doodle for him. Years later I would learn he framed it.
I liked Physics class, I felt comfortable with the students, but there was another distraction. Scarlett. But I wasn't nervous around her. I was, however, perhaps a bit distracted sometimes. One time the teacher asked me to tell him what he had just said and I said I didn't know. He asked me why I didn't know and I said because I wasn't paying attention. He told me to leave the class. I was surprised I was kicked out for not paying attention.
But I still liked Physics class. Very often, when we had a double period, the second one being a Lab period, the teacher would let us go early, so it was like another free period. I would go to the gym and play basketball until the next class.
Also liked Creative Writing. We had an assignment to write a story with the title, Mr. Potato Head Goes to Hoboken. In my story, the protagonist, a potato head, does not know the quadratic equation. He learns that people in Hoboken don't care about the equation so he goes there and is happy for a while, but then he thinks about the equation again and goes to a school to ask about it. At last, he learns the quadratic equation and returns to his home. Then he finds people are occupied with the squaring of binomials. He laughs at their folly, realizing he will never know everything. The teacher liked this story. He wrote, "A really excellent story!" He copied a page of dialogue and handed it out to the class. I would have liked it if he copied the whole story so that everyone could read it. He did that with a story by Chris O. In fact, he not only made us read that story, he gave us a quiz based on the story. Chris O was a very good writer. After graduation, he would write me a nice letter that took me out of a depression.
That year I discovered that someone else from my childhood was on TV, appearing on the most popular show on television at the time. My mother told me that Geoffrey Owens was on The Cosby Show. His mother had been a teacher at the University of Puerto Rico where my parents had been her students. Ethel, his mother, told my mother he got the part on the show because she had asked the casting director, who was one of her students, to audition her son.
At some point that year, a very fortunate encounter occurred in Carl Schurz Park. I was riding my bike down East End and I saw someone with a skateboard in the park. Looking closer, I saw Jason. We started talking. I told him how messed up I was and then we went to his place. That reunion with Jay was one of the best things that happened senior year. We were hanging out and going to movies like it was sophomore year again. I thought it was interesting that I had begun my high school career with Jay and now at the end of high school he reappeared. Good thing, too. I needed friends.
The next day after our reunion in the park, I learned from Peter L that he and Allyson and Samantha C saw me cycling at East End while they were taking a driving test. He said he called my name from the car and I recalled hearing someone shout. Later, in one of my classes, one of the girls said, "Biking is the best." She said that twice. I thought it was likely that Allyson and Samantha had told her they saw me biking yesterday.
I think I was at my lowest spring break '86. I was walking down the street, going to see a movie, Highlander, with music by Queen, and I was so upset. Inside the theater I heard a very sad song, Who Wants to Live Forever, and I grew even sadder.
That spring break I went to Atlanta again. My father had a new three bedroom apartment near Lenox Mall that he shared with a co-worker, Mario, a great guy who looks a little like Tom Cruise. The three of us had fun in Atlanta. One night I stayed up late, reading a fantasy novel in the living room while they slept. I wasn't fretting about anything, I was just reading a good book, looking forward to hanging out with my father and Mario.
When I returned to school, all my insecurities and self-consciousness were there waiting for me. With only a couple of months of school left there wasn't much time to mar my academic record further, but I did what I could. Both my parents were away for many weeks, my mother taking care of her mother in Puerto Rico and my father working in Atlanta. I think it was a Sunday when I took the entrance exam for Hunter College. That was the first time Chris M came to my place. I had an English essay and two Creative Writing assignments due. I intended to do them that night, but when Monday came I decided to be absent and do them Monday night. When Tuesday came, I still had not done the assignments, so I was absent on Tuesday. Wednesday was the same deal, absent again. On Tuesday the phone was ringing and ringing and I was certain it was Fr. Prior. I didn't answer. I went to the park to play tennis. Then on Wednesday I answered the phone and Fr. Prior told me that I better go to school tomorrow. I completed my assignments that night and returned to school on Thursday.
The last day of school before finals, I had a political science assignment due and also a Theology test that I had been absent for. The night before that last day I decided to study for Theology and complete the Political Science assignment the next day at school. My plan was to take my heavy typewriter to school and then commandeer the small room on the roof next to the paddle tennis court. The room had an electrical outlet for my typewriter.
So on the last day of school I brought my heavy typewriter to school. At some point Fr. Garaventa appeared and said, "If you don't take the test today you will get a 60." I said I had a lot of work to do so if I have a choice I'll take the 60." He said something like, "You have a choice, a bad choice, but a choice."
Later, I hefted the weighty typewriter up a stair and set up shop in the room next to the paddle tennis court. I then got to work, paraphrasing a pamphlet about South Korea. I felt better while I was typing. I felt like I was accomplishing something. Al appeared. "Your office," he said. It did feel like an office. I liked it.
The English teacher found me on a stair later. "Why weren't you in English class?" he asked. "I heard there was going to be a party or something," I said, and it was true, I did actually hear something like that. "Well, you heard wrong," he said, rising on his toes for emphasis. He said he would tell Fr. Prior and I would have jug. That was fine with me. Don't have to study for jug, just have to show up and sit there. No worries.
Academically, I had never performed so poorly. Before finals I was failing five of my six classes. After finals I only failed one, math again. I remember taking the math final. I left so many questions blank. I should have had a tutor that year. And I really should have taken art instead of math. Detention is better than summer school.
That last week of finals was so depressing, at least for me. At home, in my room, I had books scattered on the floor. If I had a math final the next day, I would pick up a math book from the floor, study, then put the book away somewhere. That was my study routine.
As soon as I had taken my last exam, I was airborne en route to Atlanta again. I left immediately. I couldn't get away fast enough. I remember on Prom night I was at Lenox Mall, seeing a movie, either Poltergeist 2 or Short Circuit, thinking about the Prom. When I returned to New York, my mother met me at the airport, back from Puerto Rico where her mother had passed. Soon after my return, it was time for graduation. I recall sitting at my desk when my mother told me the Headmaster said I could participate in graduation, but I would receive an empty diploma case. I would get the diploma after summer school. I didn't go to graduation. I honestly don't know for certain if I would have gone even if I had passed all my classes. I was really messed up that year.
That summer I discovered another family friend was making a name for himself in the entertainment world. Reading The New York Times one day, my father found Michael Maguire dressed as a soldier, holding up a rifle, in a giant two page spread for Le Miserables. He was in the original Broadway cast and he won a Tony Award for Best New Actor. We knew him because he had been the boyfriend of Mara, the daughter of Peggy, who was one of my mother's best friends. I remember playing Atari with him in my room.
But that summer of '86 there was something that turned my frown upside down. I was talking on the phone with Jay and he tells me that he was with Chris O the other day and they started talking about me. I'm certain Jay told Chris how depressed I was. Jay said that Chris was going to write me a letter. Some time later I received this letter and it really lifted me out of my depression. He said all these great things about me, saying that I was a true individual and the personification of all these great qualities. I wrote him back and he liked what I wrote and he wanted us to continue our correspondence. We both wanted to pursue careers as writers and enjoyed impressing each other with our words. I really believe this letter and the correspondence that followed played a major role in my recovery from a serious depression. I had felt alienated and now I felt I had expanded my circle of friends to include Chris and his gang. I didn't feel so alone anymore.
But I wasn't out of the woods yet. My insecurities faded for a while, but they would resurface again a year later.
10. Hunted At Hunter
My first class at Hunter College was Political Science. I remember sitting in the back. A girl sat next to me and I thought of a girl from Loyola who used to sit next to me. I thought to myself, "She will never sit next to me again." I was so depressed.
I took three other classes that first semester, Introduction to Philosophy, Logical Thinking, and Religious Ideas In Fiction. I did exceptionally well in Philosophy, so well in fact the teacher took me aside and suggested I consider majoring in Philosophy. My grades were A in Philosophy, A in Logical Thinking, B in Religious Ideas in Fiction, and F in Political Science. I really should have dropped Political Science. I didn't read any of the books we were supposed to read. Not sure if the official grade was Unofficial Withdrawal, which is an F. It's also worth noting that my mother, who already had two Bachelors, decided to take some courses at Hunter College, and then later some courses at the Graduate Center.
My second semester at Hunter was quite unfortunate. I took a required English class and a Philosophy class with a teacher, Joan Stambaugh, that my mother liked very much. The English class started out nicely, I got A on the midterm, but then I heard we had to do a research paper. I loathed research papers. I also heard the teacher say that if you get an A on the final exam you get an A in the class. My faulty, wishful reasoning interpreted this to mean that we don't have to do a research paper. We just get an A on the final and we're fine. I stopped going to class at some point, and later reconsidered my initial thought about being exempt from the research paper, realizing that no one would be exempt from the research paper. I also stopped going to the Philosophy class. I really should have dropped that one. The teacher, Joan, asked my mother if she had a son named Robert. She told my mother that I was probably just bored and said I should go to her to fix the F with some kind of project or something. I never did. At the end of the semester I had two unofficial withdrawals, two failures. I made a decision that semester. I remember telling Al one day outside Hunter. "I'm going to leave college for a while and write my book."
And that's exactly what I did. After spring of '87 I started writing my novel, but it wasn't until January '88 that I put my obsessive infatuation aside and focused instead on my book. I've heard that you don't really get rid of an obsession, you just replace it with something else. My new obsession was my novel. Now I had something to do. Something to look forward to.
But getting back to '87, I spent most of the year in a fairly good mood. Despite all the bad memories of senior year, I started looking forward to the next Alumni Night in November. I had this idea that it would be a great event, a wonderful reunion, and I was really looking forward to it.
When November came, Al and I went to Loyola and arrived before anyone else from our year. We went to eat at Burger King then came back to the school. As soon as we entered the gym I saw a couple of people and suddenly felt very nervous. All at once the insecurities I had suppressed came back to me. I told Al I was leaving and that maybe I would come back later.
Later, when I came back, I said hi to Allyson and Sue in the trophy room, and then entered the gym and saw a certain girl I liked. I kept walking past her and went downstairs and said hi to Margaret. Then went back upstairs and left. I had been looking forward to this event for a year and when it came I just stepped in for a moment and then stepped out. I wasn't ready. I had suppressed all the feelings of inadequacy so successfully for so many months, but when certain triggers appeared I just retreated again. I had no idea that I was still haunted by the ghost of senior year with all its failures. I just went back home and sat there brooding.
It wasn't until January '88 that I made a firm decision to dive head first into my writing and forget all this adolescent insecurity nonsense. And it worked. I became wholly preoccupied with my novel and stopped obsessing over anyone or anything else.
I showed some chapters to Judith Applebaum, a former reviewer for The New York Times, now working at Sensible Solutions. She said my work was definitely publishable and she wasn't going to charge me for reading it. She also advised me to send my manuscript to writers I admire and ask them if they could recommend an editor. I sent it to three writers and my favorite one, Michael Moorcock, gave me some kind words of encouragement, saying, "This shows considerable promise and I suggest you send it to Ginjer Buchanan at Ace. I broke my rule against reading unsolicited manuscripts to look at this!"
Some time in '89 I finished the first draft and realized that my book was not ready for publication. I was somewhat upset about this, but I kept writing, on and off, for years.
At one point I reached out to a company, Iron Crown Enterprises, that was planning a series of books based on their role playing game. I sent them a proposal for a story about a wizard who rents magic items and employs two mercenaries to recover overdue items, like medieval repo men. The editor liked the proposal and asked for the first fifty pages and a synopsis. I got busy writing the first chapter, which was swiftly rejected, and then turned my attention back to my first novel.
That summer I received a disturbing letter from a friend who was not pleased with our last talk on the phone. He said I had nothing cheerful or optimistic to say, but I recall telling him I had a publisher interested in a proposal for a novel. I think that's pretty cheerful. I tried to dismiss this, but it was still distressing and I count it as one of the stressors that led to a more acute case of OCD.
I think I had some measure of OCD for years, but it gradually became more pronounced. In '89 I started a very peculiar practice of taking very slow, careful steps in my room. I did this because I had an irrational concern that I might damage my stereo if I moved faster, as if the vibrations of my stride could cause such damage. I looked like I was walking on egg shells. I'd be sitting down, trying to get up very slowly, staring at the stereo the whole time, often having to repeat the maneuver because it didn't feel right the first, second, or third time. Once standing up, I would slowly step toward the door, again having to repeat the steps when it didn't feel right, until I reached the door. Outside the room, I moved about normally, with no fear of damaging anything. It was only in the room that I acted so strangely. Entering the room was another challenge. Just like exiting, I had to take very slow, careful steps to enter, staring at the stereo, making my way inside. Even changing my pants was a challenge. Standing, I would put my legs into a pair of pants and if it didn't feel right I would do it again. Some days were better than others, but this behavior continued for about two years.
Returning to Hunter in the fall of '89, I was on academic probation because of the three courses I had failed. I never failed another class after that. At some point I declared a major in Theater and Film and a minor in Commnication. Most semesters I would take one or two classes. That's how I got on the Dean's List. Since I often took only one or two classes I often had a GPA of 4. The fall of '90 is the only other semester when I took four classes. It is also the year I met my first acting partner, Jennifer R, a nice co-ed from Texas. I mention her here because I think she may have been another stressor, at least when she went back to Texas, because I missed her so much. I took her to Times Square, I took her through Central Park to the West Side, and finally we went on a farewell date. When she left, the world was a bit more grey than before, now that I had a taste of Southern charm. I don't know what else to call it.
That year I also connected with another Jennifer from Loyola. A classmate in my acting class, Brian Corsi, asked me if I had a brother and I said, "No, do you have a sister named Jennifer?" And he said, "Yes, I do."
Also that year in December, just before my farewell date with my acting partner, I had the worst acne breakout. First a pimple appeared under one eye, then another appeared under the other eye. They looked so symmetrical, as if they had been placed there. Then pimples appeared on my left and right temples. There were actually pimples on top of other pimples and they were quite large. It was so weird. So in January I finally went to a dermatologist, who put me on antibiotics for five years, until I went to another, more famous dermatologist, who put me on acutane, which wiped out the pimples.
Which brings us to fall of '91. A very big stressor occurred then. I took three classes, Acting 3, Voice and Movement, and Speech. In the two acting classes there was a person, I'll call him Jack, who had a penchant for head games. Over the course of the semester he told me some peculiar things about a group of vigilantes he had associated with and how they stalked people with a tazer gun. He talked about guns and black magic, saying that many people in the school are into it. He also mentioned Robert Chambers quite frequently, saying that I was probably a killer slasher like Robert Chambers. This became even weirder when I learned that a girl in our classes, Sean, was Robert Chambers' fiance. She was a friend of Hannah, one of my acting partners, and one night in a restaurant she showed me a stack of pictures of her and Chambers. I started wondering if Jack knew about Sean. I also wondered if his vigilantes were real.
Near the end of the semester I decided not to take the acting class next semester because he would be in that class. I thought I had solved my problem. But then one day after class he asked me if I was taking acting next semester and I said I might. Then a few minutes later, before he left he told me to take the acting class or he would stalk me.
The next day I was locking my bike and he appeared. It was almost the end of the semester and I had never seen him on a Tuesday before. He said "What a coincidence." I got scared and ran to my speech class where I announced that I was being stalked. At some point I suggested that we lock the door, I said, "Lock the door," and my teacher agreed and said, "Lock the door." A girl in the class, Laura, went out of the room for a moment and when she came back she asked, "Is the person stalking you your height, husky, with a tan coat?" I said "Yes, do you know him?" She said, "No, he's outside the room." I was surprised because I had run ahead of him and he could not have seen where I went. I didn't know how he knew where I was going.
"He knows where I live," I said, not knowing where I could go. "You can stay with me," Laura said. "You can stay with me," Liz echoed. Another girl brought two security people and then another girl brought the head of security. They told me to go to the Dean of students so I went to her office, accompanied by Laura and two security officers. I told the Dean the weird things Jack had said about black magic and also that he talked about guns and that he expressed intense anger toward Hannah, saying, "I'd like to kill her and eat her. I probably will."
At some point Liz joined us and said that she had been stalked by someone at Hunter who was into black magic. She said a lot of people are into it and told me to carry a Rosary. This just scared me even more.
The Dean didn't know what to do so she had me talk to another woman, probably a psychologist, who asked me, "What would he do?" I said, "I don't know. Maybe this whole thing is a joke, but he has frightened me and I would like him to stop doing that." At some point I also said, "Talk to students in the acting classes and ask them about me and ask them about him and see what you find."
When the second woman didn't know what to do either, the Dean asked me if I would like to speak to someone named Kasner. I asked if he is a psychologist and she reluctantly said yes. I said, "my father is a psychiatrist so if I need to speak to someone I'll speak to him, so I'll pass." And she said "Oh, I don't think I can allow that." So I said I would speak to him.
After speaking with Kasner, who was actually a psychiatrist, he told me the whole thing sounded like a head game. He said I did the right thing coming forward and said Jack could be a stalker. He said the Dean would have to question Jack, but he also said that I overreacted. He said I was a danger to myself and others because I locked the door. Now seriously, how stupid is that? Is this the dumbest thing you ever heard? Do you know what would happen today if someone came forward complaining about a person who talked about guns and threatened to kill and eat someone? They would probably call the freaking SWAT team or shut down the entire school. But in December '91 it was a very different climate. No one seemed able to conceive of a student shooter. However, just a few weeks later it was reported in the news that a student at a school entered a classroom where a teacher was present and shot one student then went to another classroom where another teacher was present and shot a second student. And soon after that, stalking became a really hot topic everywhere. And now it has been reported in the news that the number one cause of death for children in America is guns. A very different climate indeed. Also, recall that my friend Craig was stalked and killed by a Hunter College employee in '97. My father, a psychiatrist who has worked for years with the criminally insane, told me the first thing a 911 operator will tell you to do is lock the door.
Some days later, the Dean talked with students in the acting classes and she said they spoke highly of me and they said this guy had been bothering me for months. She talked to Jack and he apologized, saying that he was "only acting for his scenes."
I was scared for a few weeks. Then some time in February or March, when I was taking introduction to Film, I stopped being afraid. I decided that I should not be afraid of him, he should be afraid of me. I put that in my mind, changing my perspective. I also realized that he knew about my speech class because I had told him about it. He asked me what other classes I was taking and I told him. He asked what day, what time, what floor, and I told him. So that's how he knew where I was going that day.
It is also worth noting that the next semester on my first day of class there was a security officer stationed outside my classroom. I had never seen that before. Maybe the Dean had been watching the news too.
At Hunter I ran into Jack a few times without incident. Also saw him twice fourteen years later, when I was working at FAO Schwarz. It was creepy seeing him, but he couldn't scare me anymore.
I took three other classes that first semester, Introduction to Philosophy, Logical Thinking, and Religious Ideas In Fiction. I did exceptionally well in Philosophy, so well in fact the teacher took me aside and suggested I consider majoring in Philosophy. My grades were A in Philosophy, A in Logical Thinking, B in Religious Ideas in Fiction, and F in Political Science. I really should have dropped Political Science. I didn't read any of the books we were supposed to read. Not sure if the official grade was Unofficial Withdrawal, which is an F. It's also worth noting that my mother, who already had two Bachelors, decided to take some courses at Hunter College, and then later some courses at the Graduate Center.
My second semester at Hunter was quite unfortunate. I took a required English class and a Philosophy class with a teacher, Joan Stambaugh, that my mother liked very much. The English class started out nicely, I got A on the midterm, but then I heard we had to do a research paper. I loathed research papers. I also heard the teacher say that if you get an A on the final exam you get an A in the class. My faulty, wishful reasoning interpreted this to mean that we don't have to do a research paper. We just get an A on the final and we're fine. I stopped going to class at some point, and later reconsidered my initial thought about being exempt from the research paper, realizing that no one would be exempt from the research paper. I also stopped going to the Philosophy class. I really should have dropped that one. The teacher, Joan, asked my mother if she had a son named Robert. She told my mother that I was probably just bored and said I should go to her to fix the F with some kind of project or something. I never did. At the end of the semester I had two unofficial withdrawals, two failures. I made a decision that semester. I remember telling Al one day outside Hunter. "I'm going to leave college for a while and write my book."
And that's exactly what I did. After spring of '87 I started writing my novel, but it wasn't until January '88 that I put my obsessive infatuation aside and focused instead on my book. I've heard that you don't really get rid of an obsession, you just replace it with something else. My new obsession was my novel. Now I had something to do. Something to look forward to.
But getting back to '87, I spent most of the year in a fairly good mood. Despite all the bad memories of senior year, I started looking forward to the next Alumni Night in November. I had this idea that it would be a great event, a wonderful reunion, and I was really looking forward to it.
When November came, Al and I went to Loyola and arrived before anyone else from our year. We went to eat at Burger King then came back to the school. As soon as we entered the gym I saw a couple of people and suddenly felt very nervous. All at once the insecurities I had suppressed came back to me. I told Al I was leaving and that maybe I would come back later.
Later, when I came back, I said hi to Allyson and Sue in the trophy room, and then entered the gym and saw a certain girl I liked. I kept walking past her and went downstairs and said hi to Margaret. Then went back upstairs and left. I had been looking forward to this event for a year and when it came I just stepped in for a moment and then stepped out. I wasn't ready. I had suppressed all the feelings of inadequacy so successfully for so many months, but when certain triggers appeared I just retreated again. I had no idea that I was still haunted by the ghost of senior year with all its failures. I just went back home and sat there brooding.
It wasn't until January '88 that I made a firm decision to dive head first into my writing and forget all this adolescent insecurity nonsense. And it worked. I became wholly preoccupied with my novel and stopped obsessing over anyone or anything else.
I showed some chapters to Judith Applebaum, a former reviewer for The New York Times, now working at Sensible Solutions. She said my work was definitely publishable and she wasn't going to charge me for reading it. She also advised me to send my manuscript to writers I admire and ask them if they could recommend an editor. I sent it to three writers and my favorite one, Michael Moorcock, gave me some kind words of encouragement, saying, "This shows considerable promise and I suggest you send it to Ginjer Buchanan at Ace. I broke my rule against reading unsolicited manuscripts to look at this!"
Some time in '89 I finished the first draft and realized that my book was not ready for publication. I was somewhat upset about this, but I kept writing, on and off, for years.
At one point I reached out to a company, Iron Crown Enterprises, that was planning a series of books based on their role playing game. I sent them a proposal for a story about a wizard who rents magic items and employs two mercenaries to recover overdue items, like medieval repo men. The editor liked the proposal and asked for the first fifty pages and a synopsis. I got busy writing the first chapter, which was swiftly rejected, and then turned my attention back to my first novel.
That summer I received a disturbing letter from a friend who was not pleased with our last talk on the phone. He said I had nothing cheerful or optimistic to say, but I recall telling him I had a publisher interested in a proposal for a novel. I think that's pretty cheerful. I tried to dismiss this, but it was still distressing and I count it as one of the stressors that led to a more acute case of OCD.
I think I had some measure of OCD for years, but it gradually became more pronounced. In '89 I started a very peculiar practice of taking very slow, careful steps in my room. I did this because I had an irrational concern that I might damage my stereo if I moved faster, as if the vibrations of my stride could cause such damage. I looked like I was walking on egg shells. I'd be sitting down, trying to get up very slowly, staring at the stereo the whole time, often having to repeat the maneuver because it didn't feel right the first, second, or third time. Once standing up, I would slowly step toward the door, again having to repeat the steps when it didn't feel right, until I reached the door. Outside the room, I moved about normally, with no fear of damaging anything. It was only in the room that I acted so strangely. Entering the room was another challenge. Just like exiting, I had to take very slow, careful steps to enter, staring at the stereo, making my way inside. Even changing my pants was a challenge. Standing, I would put my legs into a pair of pants and if it didn't feel right I would do it again. Some days were better than others, but this behavior continued for about two years.
Returning to Hunter in the fall of '89, I was on academic probation because of the three courses I had failed. I never failed another class after that. At some point I declared a major in Theater and Film and a minor in Commnication. Most semesters I would take one or two classes. That's how I got on the Dean's List. Since I often took only one or two classes I often had a GPA of 4. The fall of '90 is the only other semester when I took four classes. It is also the year I met my first acting partner, Jennifer R, a nice co-ed from Texas. I mention her here because I think she may have been another stressor, at least when she went back to Texas, because I missed her so much. I took her to Times Square, I took her through Central Park to the West Side, and finally we went on a farewell date. When she left, the world was a bit more grey than before, now that I had a taste of Southern charm. I don't know what else to call it.
That year I also connected with another Jennifer from Loyola. A classmate in my acting class, Brian Corsi, asked me if I had a brother and I said, "No, do you have a sister named Jennifer?" And he said, "Yes, I do."
Also that year in December, just before my farewell date with my acting partner, I had the worst acne breakout. First a pimple appeared under one eye, then another appeared under the other eye. They looked so symmetrical, as if they had been placed there. Then pimples appeared on my left and right temples. There were actually pimples on top of other pimples and they were quite large. It was so weird. So in January I finally went to a dermatologist, who put me on antibiotics for five years, until I went to another, more famous dermatologist, who put me on acutane, which wiped out the pimples.
Which brings us to fall of '91. A very big stressor occurred then. I took three classes, Acting 3, Voice and Movement, and Speech. In the two acting classes there was a person, I'll call him Jack, who had a penchant for head games. Over the course of the semester he told me some peculiar things about a group of vigilantes he had associated with and how they stalked people with a tazer gun. He talked about guns and black magic, saying that many people in the school are into it. He also mentioned Robert Chambers quite frequently, saying that I was probably a killer slasher like Robert Chambers. This became even weirder when I learned that a girl in our classes, Sean, was Robert Chambers' fiance. She was a friend of Hannah, one of my acting partners, and one night in a restaurant she showed me a stack of pictures of her and Chambers. I started wondering if Jack knew about Sean. I also wondered if his vigilantes were real.
Near the end of the semester I decided not to take the acting class next semester because he would be in that class. I thought I had solved my problem. But then one day after class he asked me if I was taking acting next semester and I said I might. Then a few minutes later, before he left he told me to take the acting class or he would stalk me.
The next day I was locking my bike and he appeared. It was almost the end of the semester and I had never seen him on a Tuesday before. He said "What a coincidence." I got scared and ran to my speech class where I announced that I was being stalked. At some point I suggested that we lock the door, I said, "Lock the door," and my teacher agreed and said, "Lock the door." A girl in the class, Laura, went out of the room for a moment and when she came back she asked, "Is the person stalking you your height, husky, with a tan coat?" I said "Yes, do you know him?" She said, "No, he's outside the room." I was surprised because I had run ahead of him and he could not have seen where I went. I didn't know how he knew where I was going.
"He knows where I live," I said, not knowing where I could go. "You can stay with me," Laura said. "You can stay with me," Liz echoed. Another girl brought two security people and then another girl brought the head of security. They told me to go to the Dean of students so I went to her office, accompanied by Laura and two security officers. I told the Dean the weird things Jack had said about black magic and also that he talked about guns and that he expressed intense anger toward Hannah, saying, "I'd like to kill her and eat her. I probably will."
At some point Liz joined us and said that she had been stalked by someone at Hunter who was into black magic. She said a lot of people are into it and told me to carry a Rosary. This just scared me even more.
The Dean didn't know what to do so she had me talk to another woman, probably a psychologist, who asked me, "What would he do?" I said, "I don't know. Maybe this whole thing is a joke, but he has frightened me and I would like him to stop doing that." At some point I also said, "Talk to students in the acting classes and ask them about me and ask them about him and see what you find."
When the second woman didn't know what to do either, the Dean asked me if I would like to speak to someone named Kasner. I asked if he is a psychologist and she reluctantly said yes. I said, "my father is a psychiatrist so if I need to speak to someone I'll speak to him, so I'll pass." And she said "Oh, I don't think I can allow that." So I said I would speak to him.
After speaking with Kasner, who was actually a psychiatrist, he told me the whole thing sounded like a head game. He said I did the right thing coming forward and said Jack could be a stalker. He said the Dean would have to question Jack, but he also said that I overreacted. He said I was a danger to myself and others because I locked the door. Now seriously, how stupid is that? Is this the dumbest thing you ever heard? Do you know what would happen today if someone came forward complaining about a person who talked about guns and threatened to kill and eat someone? They would probably call the freaking SWAT team or shut down the entire school. But in December '91 it was a very different climate. No one seemed able to conceive of a student shooter. However, just a few weeks later it was reported in the news that a student at a school entered a classroom where a teacher was present and shot one student then went to another classroom where another teacher was present and shot a second student. And soon after that, stalking became a really hot topic everywhere. And now it has been reported in the news that the number one cause of death for children in America is guns. A very different climate indeed. Also, recall that my friend Craig was stalked and killed by a Hunter College employee in '97. My father, a psychiatrist who has worked for years with the criminally insane, told me the first thing a 911 operator will tell you to do is lock the door.
Some days later, the Dean talked with students in the acting classes and she said they spoke highly of me and they said this guy had been bothering me for months. She talked to Jack and he apologized, saying that he was "only acting for his scenes."
I was scared for a few weeks. Then some time in February or March, when I was taking introduction to Film, I stopped being afraid. I decided that I should not be afraid of him, he should be afraid of me. I put that in my mind, changing my perspective. I also realized that he knew about my speech class because I had told him about it. He asked me what other classes I was taking and I told him. He asked what day, what time, what floor, and I told him. So that's how he knew where I was going that day.
It is also worth noting that the next semester on my first day of class there was a security officer stationed outside my classroom. I had never seen that before. Maybe the Dean had been watching the news too.
At Hunter I ran into Jack a few times without incident. Also saw him twice fourteen years later, when I was working at FAO Schwarz. It was creepy seeing him, but he couldn't scare me anymore.
11. OCD In NYC
In November '92 I got a video camera the day after Thanksgiving. I believe this camera also contributed to my OCD because with the camera I was able to record anything and rewind it any time. I did a lot of obsessive rewinding, to see some detail a second time or to hear what someone said. Later, at the New York Film Academy and also at Hunter, I would be editing and rewinding films. Editing requires a keen eye. You have to focus on certain details. You have to splice scenes together with tape, and often that tape has little pieces that need to be cut. I think all this rewinding and tape splicing, all this focusing on scenes and little pieces of tape gradually turned into OCD behaviors. My OCD symptoms were quite strange, but basically I was trying to memorize everything I see.
Then in December '92, I was thinking about an event that occurred ten years earlier in '82. I mentioned my Lego creation earlier. It is an enormous complex that occupied about one-fourth of my room. In December '82 an event occurred that resulted in a relatively slight disfigurement of the Lego. It was not badly damaged, but it was somewhat messed up. I was able to repair it so that it was almost exactly the same. I think my compulsion to memorize things is connected to the Lego, because if I had memorized every inch of the Lego it would be exactly as it was before. So ten years later I was thinking about the Lego and some other things that bothered me. I started obsessing over so many things that bothered me.
This anxiety continued in '93, but that year there were numerous distractions that helped me to cope. At that time my father was working in Boston and also teaching at Massachussetts General Hospital, which is part of Harvard University. I went to Boston twice and then my father and I went to Puerto Rico and then back to Boston. Then I returned to Manhattan and went to The New York Film Academy where I made four short films. It was an eventful summer.
Throughout that summer my OCD continued to be a nuisance, but I still had it under control. I was still able to walk around without much problem. But that changed in spring '94, when the symptoms became more problematic. I recall how it started. I had come out of a class at Hunter and was waiting at the bus stop. A woman passed me and when she was out of sight behind me I wondered about her attire. There was something she was wearing that I wanted to see again, it could have been anything, a necklace, a scarf, glasses. Whatever it was, I wanted to see it again. Maybe I wanted to know what color it was. I don't remember. I just know that I turned in her direction and went to get another look. Then, satisfied, I returned to the bus stop. But I wasn't really satisfied. Another person passed by and another question surfaced. I went to answer that question, and many other such queries that year. And the following year. And there is more. For years before, I would often pick up garbage from a stair or out on the street and throw it in the nearest garbage can. But that spring I recall picking up the paper wrap of a drinking straw and examining it closely, trying to memorize small details. Then I threw it in a garbage can, started to walk away, turned back to look at it again, and then put it in my back pocket, intending to bring it home where I could dispose of it by throwing it down the garbage chute. That way I wouldn't come back to see it again. I did this odd behavior a lot. I tried not to look at the ground, I tried to avoid garbage, but it was everywhere. Other things became a challenge as well. I had to stay away from newspapers, magazines, and books. If I saw these items I would often save, or I should say hoard them whether I really wanted them or not. Frequently, to avoid saving something I would write down what it said, to have some record of it that I could save. These copious notes took some time to write and also began to occupy some space.
Going outside became a problem in '94 at the age of 26. In the beginning, I kept trying to overcome these compulsions, but they would not go away. I remember one time I was downtown. I wanted to get in the subway and go home, but I kept seeing one thing and then another. At some point I saw two girls across the street and I followed to see something about them. Then someone else caught my attention, and at some point, I saw someone go into Tower Records and I followed because I wanted to see something, maybe her face, or her shirt, don't remember. Once inside Tower Records I found a whole bunch of other people and shelves packed with music albums. I spent some time following people and staring at some album covers. Not sure how much time I spent in there. Somehow, I got out and went to the subway. Who knows what I tried to memorize in the station. Posters maybe.
At some point I just stopped going outside unless I had to get groceries or go to school or Church. I stopped going to movies like I used to. One day in Boston in '94, I told my father, a psychiatrist, about my OCD. He said I spend a lot of time alone and that can lead to symptoms. I think loneliness was a big factor. I was not in touch with my close friends at this point. I also think the minor stalking event was another factor. I have wondered if my habit of focusing on things that pass by is a way for me to see who is behind me. With this compulsion no one can surprise me from behind because I am always looking behind. I just think it's possible that a behavior like that develops for some reason. And again, I also think my compulsion to memorize things has likely come from a desire to memorize my Lego so that it could be re-built exactly as it had been originally.
The OCD presented me with a difficult obstacle course, but I still managed to complete my first screenplay, a high school comedy titled, After School. My screenwriting teacher, Marina Feleo Gonzalez, an award winning filmmaker from the Philippines, one day announced to the class, "The only manuscript in this class that is untouched is Robert's." She said she couldn't improve it. Not bad for my first screenplay ever.
Also in '94, after being the biggest Meg Ryan fan since '82 when I discovered her in As The World Turns, my attention suddenly turned to another actress, Penelope Ann Miller. I had seen her in some films, but never really noticed her until she appeared on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno. She seemed nice and pretty and I was surprised that she was only 4 years older than me. I'm not sure why her age was important, but it did get my attention.
So after watching the interview I abruptly decided that she was my favorite actress. That summer I actually got her autograph outside Letterman's Late Show. I found it interesting that she had been in so many movies with big name actors, yet she was not yet a well known actress. It occurred to me that she is probably looking for a script that would finally put her on the map. I decided that I would write such a script and give it to her. And on January 14, '97, one day after her birthday and 4 days before mine, that's exactly what I did.
It was a chilly night when she exited The Ed Sullivan Theater. She saw me standing there with my coat wide open. "You're brave," she said approaching. Then she signed the picture I was holding. She turned to another person, while I tried to figure out if I was actually going to do this or not. A few seconds later, I spoke. "Penelope," I said. "Yes," she replied, signing another picture. "Would it be possible to give you this?" I showed her a disk marked "Screenplay." "Yeah, give it to her," she said enthusiastically. The woman she indicated said she would prefer the manuscript instead of the disk and I swiftly produced the manuscript. She then asked if I had an agent so that I could send it through him, but I told her my agent isn't very good, and then she accepted the screenplay with a smile. It's a good thing I brought the manuscript because I realized later that my disk was formatted for my specific wordprocessor. I had not saved it in a format that would work on a computer.
The next day, when I woke up in bed, as soon as I remembered that I had given her my script last night, I just burst out, "Oh sh__!" Normally, I might wake up from a dream in which I interact with her, but this was waking up into a reality. She actually had my screenplay.
Not long after that I saw her in an interview with Tom Schneider, and when he asked her what's next, she said, "I don't know, maybe a detective action thing," which is exactly what I gave her, an FBI thriller. I never heard from her, but I'm still happy that she took my screenplay.
In February '99 my father got a computer in Boston. Initially I was against buying a computer. I thought a wordprocessor was all we needed, and I had a really good one, the Canon Starwriter. I soon discovered, however, all the advantages of having e-mail and websites. I really enjoyed the computer. I especially liked some of the free games, and one in particular, Cyberstrike, became more than a game. It was like a network of friends from all over the world, playing on a virtual playground. I loved it. I had more friends online than I ever did in real life.
After completing the second draft of my novel in 2001, I started sending it to agents and publishers. This process can take several months, because many agents and publishers do not accept simultaneous submissions. So you have to wait for their response, which can take several weeks, before you send it to someone else.
At some point I was looking for a job and feeling very sorry for myself when I met someone very special. Years ago, in 1988, I had seen a TV movie about him. When he was very young, his parents had a custody battle and his father one night gave him a sleeping pill and then doused him with kerosene and set him on fire. I always thought that was one of the worst things I ever heard of. Sometimes when I felt I was having difficulty with my OCD I would recall his story, reminding myself that my problems are not such a big deal. Well, one day while walking on Fifth Avenue, someone asked me about a bus route. I turned and found myself staring at Dave Rothenberg, the boy portrayed in the film. I was stunned. Some time before, maybe a couple of years, I had seen him on TV talking about his life after the traumatic childhood. He seemed cheery when I met him. I said something about the bus and he went on his way with a smile.
In 2002, I was still sending out my manuscript. But now that the writing process was paused, I sought new diversions. This led me to join an Improv group at The New York Comedy Club. I thought it would be fun, but it was more. It was a life changing experience.
Then in December '92, I was thinking about an event that occurred ten years earlier in '82. I mentioned my Lego creation earlier. It is an enormous complex that occupied about one-fourth of my room. In December '82 an event occurred that resulted in a relatively slight disfigurement of the Lego. It was not badly damaged, but it was somewhat messed up. I was able to repair it so that it was almost exactly the same. I think my compulsion to memorize things is connected to the Lego, because if I had memorized every inch of the Lego it would be exactly as it was before. So ten years later I was thinking about the Lego and some other things that bothered me. I started obsessing over so many things that bothered me.
This anxiety continued in '93, but that year there were numerous distractions that helped me to cope. At that time my father was working in Boston and also teaching at Massachussetts General Hospital, which is part of Harvard University. I went to Boston twice and then my father and I went to Puerto Rico and then back to Boston. Then I returned to Manhattan and went to The New York Film Academy where I made four short films. It was an eventful summer.
Throughout that summer my OCD continued to be a nuisance, but I still had it under control. I was still able to walk around without much problem. But that changed in spring '94, when the symptoms became more problematic. I recall how it started. I had come out of a class at Hunter and was waiting at the bus stop. A woman passed me and when she was out of sight behind me I wondered about her attire. There was something she was wearing that I wanted to see again, it could have been anything, a necklace, a scarf, glasses. Whatever it was, I wanted to see it again. Maybe I wanted to know what color it was. I don't remember. I just know that I turned in her direction and went to get another look. Then, satisfied, I returned to the bus stop. But I wasn't really satisfied. Another person passed by and another question surfaced. I went to answer that question, and many other such queries that year. And the following year. And there is more. For years before, I would often pick up garbage from a stair or out on the street and throw it in the nearest garbage can. But that spring I recall picking up the paper wrap of a drinking straw and examining it closely, trying to memorize small details. Then I threw it in a garbage can, started to walk away, turned back to look at it again, and then put it in my back pocket, intending to bring it home where I could dispose of it by throwing it down the garbage chute. That way I wouldn't come back to see it again. I did this odd behavior a lot. I tried not to look at the ground, I tried to avoid garbage, but it was everywhere. Other things became a challenge as well. I had to stay away from newspapers, magazines, and books. If I saw these items I would often save, or I should say hoard them whether I really wanted them or not. Frequently, to avoid saving something I would write down what it said, to have some record of it that I could save. These copious notes took some time to write and also began to occupy some space.
Going outside became a problem in '94 at the age of 26. In the beginning, I kept trying to overcome these compulsions, but they would not go away. I remember one time I was downtown. I wanted to get in the subway and go home, but I kept seeing one thing and then another. At some point I saw two girls across the street and I followed to see something about them. Then someone else caught my attention, and at some point, I saw someone go into Tower Records and I followed because I wanted to see something, maybe her face, or her shirt, don't remember. Once inside Tower Records I found a whole bunch of other people and shelves packed with music albums. I spent some time following people and staring at some album covers. Not sure how much time I spent in there. Somehow, I got out and went to the subway. Who knows what I tried to memorize in the station. Posters maybe.
At some point I just stopped going outside unless I had to get groceries or go to school or Church. I stopped going to movies like I used to. One day in Boston in '94, I told my father, a psychiatrist, about my OCD. He said I spend a lot of time alone and that can lead to symptoms. I think loneliness was a big factor. I was not in touch with my close friends at this point. I also think the minor stalking event was another factor. I have wondered if my habit of focusing on things that pass by is a way for me to see who is behind me. With this compulsion no one can surprise me from behind because I am always looking behind. I just think it's possible that a behavior like that develops for some reason. And again, I also think my compulsion to memorize things has likely come from a desire to memorize my Lego so that it could be re-built exactly as it had been originally.
The OCD presented me with a difficult obstacle course, but I still managed to complete my first screenplay, a high school comedy titled, After School. My screenwriting teacher, Marina Feleo Gonzalez, an award winning filmmaker from the Philippines, one day announced to the class, "The only manuscript in this class that is untouched is Robert's." She said she couldn't improve it. Not bad for my first screenplay ever.
Also in '94, after being the biggest Meg Ryan fan since '82 when I discovered her in As The World Turns, my attention suddenly turned to another actress, Penelope Ann Miller. I had seen her in some films, but never really noticed her until she appeared on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno. She seemed nice and pretty and I was surprised that she was only 4 years older than me. I'm not sure why her age was important, but it did get my attention.
So after watching the interview I abruptly decided that she was my favorite actress. That summer I actually got her autograph outside Letterman's Late Show. I found it interesting that she had been in so many movies with big name actors, yet she was not yet a well known actress. It occurred to me that she is probably looking for a script that would finally put her on the map. I decided that I would write such a script and give it to her. And on January 14, '97, one day after her birthday and 4 days before mine, that's exactly what I did.
It was a chilly night when she exited The Ed Sullivan Theater. She saw me standing there with my coat wide open. "You're brave," she said approaching. Then she signed the picture I was holding. She turned to another person, while I tried to figure out if I was actually going to do this or not. A few seconds later, I spoke. "Penelope," I said. "Yes," she replied, signing another picture. "Would it be possible to give you this?" I showed her a disk marked "Screenplay." "Yeah, give it to her," she said enthusiastically. The woman she indicated said she would prefer the manuscript instead of the disk and I swiftly produced the manuscript. She then asked if I had an agent so that I could send it through him, but I told her my agent isn't very good, and then she accepted the screenplay with a smile. It's a good thing I brought the manuscript because I realized later that my disk was formatted for my specific wordprocessor. I had not saved it in a format that would work on a computer.
The next day, when I woke up in bed, as soon as I remembered that I had given her my script last night, I just burst out, "Oh sh__!" Normally, I might wake up from a dream in which I interact with her, but this was waking up into a reality. She actually had my screenplay.
Not long after that I saw her in an interview with Tom Schneider, and when he asked her what's next, she said, "I don't know, maybe a detective action thing," which is exactly what I gave her, an FBI thriller. I never heard from her, but I'm still happy that she took my screenplay.
In February '99 my father got a computer in Boston. Initially I was against buying a computer. I thought a wordprocessor was all we needed, and I had a really good one, the Canon Starwriter. I soon discovered, however, all the advantages of having e-mail and websites. I really enjoyed the computer. I especially liked some of the free games, and one in particular, Cyberstrike, became more than a game. It was like a network of friends from all over the world, playing on a virtual playground. I loved it. I had more friends online than I ever did in real life.
After completing the second draft of my novel in 2001, I started sending it to agents and publishers. This process can take several months, because many agents and publishers do not accept simultaneous submissions. So you have to wait for their response, which can take several weeks, before you send it to someone else.
At some point I was looking for a job and feeling very sorry for myself when I met someone very special. Years ago, in 1988, I had seen a TV movie about him. When he was very young, his parents had a custody battle and his father one night gave him a sleeping pill and then doused him with kerosene and set him on fire. I always thought that was one of the worst things I ever heard of. Sometimes when I felt I was having difficulty with my OCD I would recall his story, reminding myself that my problems are not such a big deal. Well, one day while walking on Fifth Avenue, someone asked me about a bus route. I turned and found myself staring at Dave Rothenberg, the boy portrayed in the film. I was stunned. Some time before, maybe a couple of years, I had seen him on TV talking about his life after the traumatic childhood. He seemed cheery when I met him. I said something about the bus and he went on his way with a smile.
In 2002, I was still sending out my manuscript. But now that the writing process was paused, I sought new diversions. This led me to join an Improv group at The New York Comedy Club. I thought it would be fun, but it was more. It was a life changing experience.
12. Live From New YorK!
In the summer of 2002 I was looking at an issue of Backstage, a magazine that has lots of casting opportunities for TV and film, and I saw an ad for an improv group. The director of the group, Joy Newman, had appeared in the Woody Allen film, Radio Days, and I would later discover she had also appeared in Howard Stern's Private Parts and studied with Marcel Marceau.
At the time I was interested in doing sketch comedy, but I decided to try improv. So on a Friday in July I went to The New York Comedy Club on 24th street and second avenue for the first time. For some reason I felt like wearing shoes instead of my usual sneakers. I thought I would look more professional. And since I was wearing them for improv I thought I should also wear shoes for Church on Sunday.
That first day at the comedy club was interesting. I had taken a few acting classes years before, the last one in '91, but I had never done improv and also never performed for a paying audience. The deal was you buy four tickets for $5 each and then sell them to your friends, family, people on the street. I think most of us just bought the tickets and stored them in a drawer. I wasn't going to charge my friends and family to come see me perform. Also, all audience members have to buy a two drink minimum. That's the deal Joy had with her friend Al who owns the club. She gets a free stage and pockets $20 from each performer and he gets his revenue from the drink buying audience members.
She did one show, The Grown-Ups Playground, every Saturday for beginners in the small room, and a Friday show, Undiscovered Treasure, every other Friday for more advanced improvisors in the big room. Before the show there is a rehearsal/audition period where company members and new auditioners often mingled to do group exercises and some improv games. After rehearsal, people buy their tickets and maybe grab something to eat before the show. Then it's showtime.
My first time at the club I noticed a company member, Katherine. She looked sort of like Samantha H from Loyola. Very pretty. After rehearsal/audition I stayed to watch the Friday group, Undiscovered Treasure, perform in the big room. I can't say that I laughed out loud, but I did think the performers had a lot of fun on stage, so I thought what the heck, I'll join this group and see what happens. It's not like I had something better on my calendar.
I was quite nervous my first time on stage. It was a Saturday and I was performing in the small room with a very small audience. The small stage is really small, it's more like a large bathroom tile than a stage. I just remember talking so low at one point and saying something about Pia Zadora. Then later I was yelling like a crazy person, pretending to play a video game.
I did three more Saturday shows and then I did the Friday show in the big room. I remember seeing Morla for the first time. She walked in while I was rehearsing on the large stage. I said something about a gerbil and she smiled. Later, both of us were on stage and she gave me a friendly hip bump, I don't know what else to call it, and I bumped her back. I liked being on stage with this Friday crew. There was Dave, who I always perceived as the leader of the group, his friend Joe, Katherine, Richie, and Morla. After the show, I asked Morla something about a scene she did and she asked if I was going to hang out with them, inviting me to join them. Later, at the bar, she passed by me, touched my arm, and said, "How's it going, hon?" And the next Friday at the bar she wanted a kiss on the cheek before leaving which was just fine with me. And then another time she was on the phone and I was on my way out, waving goodbye, and she gestured with some urgency for another kiss on the cheek. Again, not a problem.
I liked Morla a lot. I was so sad when she and some others left the group. Apparently, one of the company members, Max, had started his own improv group and took some people with him. Not only did he take some people, he also called his group Undiscovered Treasure, the same name that Joy had invented for her group. This was Joy's greatest fear. That someone would come into her group and take people away. But there were always new people coming in. Some would stay for a while, sometimes years, like me. I was the only one who came to every Friday show.
Among those who frequented the club for years were two: Jessica, the nicest, sweetest, most agreeable person on earth, and Kelly, a right wing conservative Republican who seemed to loath liberals with a passion. You might have seen her on television in the reality show, Mad, Mad House. Kelly looked sort of like Monica Lewinsky and I can do voices so we often did a scene as Monica and Clinton. Politically, Kelly and I shared very little in common. We could not talk politics. And yet, somehow, I ended up buying her dinner on several occasions. I even landed my first real job through her.
Also joining us in 2003 were Jack, a former writer for Saturday Night Live, and his girlfriend Deirdre, who looked like Susan Sarandon. Both of them were very good improvisors. Joy liked them a lot, but she had an issue with Jack and his frequent foul language on stage. She asked him to clean up his act, and sometimes he would, but other times he just said whatever he felt like saying. This became a problem later, when Joy found a restaurant in Times Square that would let us perform our improv show. Initially, she had told Jack and Deirdre about the possibility of performing in a restaurant and they were both very enthused about it. But when we started performing in Times Square she was so afraid that Jack would use foul language and we would get kicked out of the restaurant. So she didn't tell them about the Times Square show we were doing every Monday. It didn't take long for them to discover they had been excluded from the Times Square event. I think Melissa told them after Joy kicked her out of the group, another bad move in my opinion. Melissa brought a lot of audience to our show at The New York Comedy Club, but when Joy heard from someone that Melissa was planning her own improv show, she kicked her out. Soon after that we found Jack and Melissa running their own improv show at the club in the big room on the same night we were performing in the small room. Joy talked to her friend Al, the owner of the club, and asked him to schedule them on a different night. It was really sad losing Jack and Deirdre.
Also that summer of 2003, I met another Katherine, this one an actual SAG member, although I didn't recognize her at first. She came to audition one Friday and watched me do my Dr. Phil segment. I remember as she was leaving she gave me a glance as she exited. Then, the very next day, Saturday, my father and I are standing in line for Matrix: Reloaded, and I see this pretty girl looking at me. A few minutes later she walks up to me and says, "Hi, Dr. Phil," then I recognize her from yesterday. I found out later she was on the ABC show, The Commish, a show I used to watch. I thought it was kind of funny that I used to watch her on TV and she's the one walking up to me like I'm the celebrity. I was surprised that she recognized me after only seeing me once.
When I saw her again at the next Friday show, I said, "I'm going to see a movie tomorrow, if I see you there...`" and she said, "That would be a sign." That was the last time I saw her in person. I saw her in a commercial some time later.
In October 2003 Tiffany appeared (not the one from summer school). When she smiled she looked like Julianne Moore. I was an instant admirer. I remember our first conversation. After rehearsal she says to me, "I'm new here, so I'm just going to follow you around, is that OK?" Um, is that OK? I was ready to pay her money to follow me around and she wants to know if she can do it for free. I was thinking, "Yeah, sounds like a plan. I'm all in. Follow me around. Follow me home." What I actually said was more like, "Sure, that's OK." Next, we're sitting at the pizza place across the street and I'm giving her my card with my website, telling her about my novel. She said she would check it out.
Cut to next Friday show, we're at the pizza place again and she's telling me how much she loves my website. This was a little weird for me, because in my first screenplay, After School, a high school comedy, there's a scene in which a girl is telling a guy how much she likes his writing. I felt like I was in that scene.
Tiffany was gone for a while then came back in February 2004, and then stopped coming after some friction with Joy. The conflict started when Tiffany brought someone from Gotham to the group, a person Joy did not like. Joy said she had told TIffany not to bring this person to the show. And another one bites the dust.
I remember a night in October 2004. I'm in a restaurant with Kelly and she tells me she got a job at FAO Schwarz as a Toy Demonstrator. Then Joy got a job there. Several weeks later it occurred to me that I could work there. It was an easy commute with the M31 bus taking me all the way there and then all the way back home. Kelly told me how desperate her manager was looking for tall toy soldiers. I called him and he asked if I could meet him that day. A few hours later I had a job.
At the time I was interested in doing sketch comedy, but I decided to try improv. So on a Friday in July I went to The New York Comedy Club on 24th street and second avenue for the first time. For some reason I felt like wearing shoes instead of my usual sneakers. I thought I would look more professional. And since I was wearing them for improv I thought I should also wear shoes for Church on Sunday.
That first day at the comedy club was interesting. I had taken a few acting classes years before, the last one in '91, but I had never done improv and also never performed for a paying audience. The deal was you buy four tickets for $5 each and then sell them to your friends, family, people on the street. I think most of us just bought the tickets and stored them in a drawer. I wasn't going to charge my friends and family to come see me perform. Also, all audience members have to buy a two drink minimum. That's the deal Joy had with her friend Al who owns the club. She gets a free stage and pockets $20 from each performer and he gets his revenue from the drink buying audience members.
She did one show, The Grown-Ups Playground, every Saturday for beginners in the small room, and a Friday show, Undiscovered Treasure, every other Friday for more advanced improvisors in the big room. Before the show there is a rehearsal/audition period where company members and new auditioners often mingled to do group exercises and some improv games. After rehearsal, people buy their tickets and maybe grab something to eat before the show. Then it's showtime.
My first time at the club I noticed a company member, Katherine. She looked sort of like Samantha H from Loyola. Very pretty. After rehearsal/audition I stayed to watch the Friday group, Undiscovered Treasure, perform in the big room. I can't say that I laughed out loud, but I did think the performers had a lot of fun on stage, so I thought what the heck, I'll join this group and see what happens. It's not like I had something better on my calendar.
I was quite nervous my first time on stage. It was a Saturday and I was performing in the small room with a very small audience. The small stage is really small, it's more like a large bathroom tile than a stage. I just remember talking so low at one point and saying something about Pia Zadora. Then later I was yelling like a crazy person, pretending to play a video game.
I did three more Saturday shows and then I did the Friday show in the big room. I remember seeing Morla for the first time. She walked in while I was rehearsing on the large stage. I said something about a gerbil and she smiled. Later, both of us were on stage and she gave me a friendly hip bump, I don't know what else to call it, and I bumped her back. I liked being on stage with this Friday crew. There was Dave, who I always perceived as the leader of the group, his friend Joe, Katherine, Richie, and Morla. After the show, I asked Morla something about a scene she did and she asked if I was going to hang out with them, inviting me to join them. Later, at the bar, she passed by me, touched my arm, and said, "How's it going, hon?" And the next Friday at the bar she wanted a kiss on the cheek before leaving which was just fine with me. And then another time she was on the phone and I was on my way out, waving goodbye, and she gestured with some urgency for another kiss on the cheek. Again, not a problem.
I liked Morla a lot. I was so sad when she and some others left the group. Apparently, one of the company members, Max, had started his own improv group and took some people with him. Not only did he take some people, he also called his group Undiscovered Treasure, the same name that Joy had invented for her group. This was Joy's greatest fear. That someone would come into her group and take people away. But there were always new people coming in. Some would stay for a while, sometimes years, like me. I was the only one who came to every Friday show.
Among those who frequented the club for years were two: Jessica, the nicest, sweetest, most agreeable person on earth, and Kelly, a right wing conservative Republican who seemed to loath liberals with a passion. You might have seen her on television in the reality show, Mad, Mad House. Kelly looked sort of like Monica Lewinsky and I can do voices so we often did a scene as Monica and Clinton. Politically, Kelly and I shared very little in common. We could not talk politics. And yet, somehow, I ended up buying her dinner on several occasions. I even landed my first real job through her.
Also joining us in 2003 were Jack, a former writer for Saturday Night Live, and his girlfriend Deirdre, who looked like Susan Sarandon. Both of them were very good improvisors. Joy liked them a lot, but she had an issue with Jack and his frequent foul language on stage. She asked him to clean up his act, and sometimes he would, but other times he just said whatever he felt like saying. This became a problem later, when Joy found a restaurant in Times Square that would let us perform our improv show. Initially, she had told Jack and Deirdre about the possibility of performing in a restaurant and they were both very enthused about it. But when we started performing in Times Square she was so afraid that Jack would use foul language and we would get kicked out of the restaurant. So she didn't tell them about the Times Square show we were doing every Monday. It didn't take long for them to discover they had been excluded from the Times Square event. I think Melissa told them after Joy kicked her out of the group, another bad move in my opinion. Melissa brought a lot of audience to our show at The New York Comedy Club, but when Joy heard from someone that Melissa was planning her own improv show, she kicked her out. Soon after that we found Jack and Melissa running their own improv show at the club in the big room on the same night we were performing in the small room. Joy talked to her friend Al, the owner of the club, and asked him to schedule them on a different night. It was really sad losing Jack and Deirdre.
Also that summer of 2003, I met another Katherine, this one an actual SAG member, although I didn't recognize her at first. She came to audition one Friday and watched me do my Dr. Phil segment. I remember as she was leaving she gave me a glance as she exited. Then, the very next day, Saturday, my father and I are standing in line for Matrix: Reloaded, and I see this pretty girl looking at me. A few minutes later she walks up to me and says, "Hi, Dr. Phil," then I recognize her from yesterday. I found out later she was on the ABC show, The Commish, a show I used to watch. I thought it was kind of funny that I used to watch her on TV and she's the one walking up to me like I'm the celebrity. I was surprised that she recognized me after only seeing me once.
When I saw her again at the next Friday show, I said, "I'm going to see a movie tomorrow, if I see you there...`" and she said, "That would be a sign." That was the last time I saw her in person. I saw her in a commercial some time later.
In October 2003 Tiffany appeared (not the one from summer school). When she smiled she looked like Julianne Moore. I was an instant admirer. I remember our first conversation. After rehearsal she says to me, "I'm new here, so I'm just going to follow you around, is that OK?" Um, is that OK? I was ready to pay her money to follow me around and she wants to know if she can do it for free. I was thinking, "Yeah, sounds like a plan. I'm all in. Follow me around. Follow me home." What I actually said was more like, "Sure, that's OK." Next, we're sitting at the pizza place across the street and I'm giving her my card with my website, telling her about my novel. She said she would check it out.
Cut to next Friday show, we're at the pizza place again and she's telling me how much she loves my website. This was a little weird for me, because in my first screenplay, After School, a high school comedy, there's a scene in which a girl is telling a guy how much she likes his writing. I felt like I was in that scene.
Tiffany was gone for a while then came back in February 2004, and then stopped coming after some friction with Joy. The conflict started when Tiffany brought someone from Gotham to the group, a person Joy did not like. Joy said she had told TIffany not to bring this person to the show. And another one bites the dust.
I remember a night in October 2004. I'm in a restaurant with Kelly and she tells me she got a job at FAO Schwarz as a Toy Demonstrator. Then Joy got a job there. Several weeks later it occurred to me that I could work there. It was an easy commute with the M31 bus taking me all the way there and then all the way back home. Kelly told me how desperate her manager was looking for tall toy soldiers. I called him and he asked if I could meet him that day. A few hours later I had a job.
13. Nine To Five
On a Monday in December 2004 I went to FAO Schwarz to meet Anthony, the manager of the Demo team. I had no work history or state issued ID. I just had a photocopy of my birth certificate and my Hunter College ID. I was lucky that I had a social security number. I remember when I took the entrance exam for Hunter they gave me an ID number because I didn't have a social security number. I thought maybe I needed a social security number so I got one in '86. I think it's weird that they would print your social security number on your ID card. Maybe Identity theft wasn't such a big deal in the eighties, I don't know. Now we all know that we have to guard our personal information.
Anthony met me with a big smile. We went to his office and had a brief conversation. He said the job was a seasonal work for hire position, but added that it could become a more permanent position. "Impress me," he said. I said I wanted to work part time, nine to five, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. I told him about my book and gave him a card with my website which he stapled to my application. He told me to come for the paper work on Wednesday at 10 AM.
Tuesday night my parents and I were all sick. I was throwing up, wondering if I would be able to do the paper work tomorrow, thinking of how bad it would look to cancel my first appointment at FAO Schwarz. Next morning I got out of bed and headed out with a bag in my pocket in case I threw up again.
I showed the HR woman the photo copy of my birth certificate and asked her about my shoes. She said I would need black leather shoes. I also needed some black pants. So my father and I took a bus to the West side to buy shoes and pants at Filene's Basement. Shopping for clothes reminded me of Loyola. I remember going downtown in '82 to some place that was recommended for blazers.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004 was my first day of work. Ever. As a teen I had walked dogs and babysat, but this was my first time working on a payroll for a company. I was thirty-six years old, an unpublished author with too much free time and a serious case of OCD. But thankfully the OCD did not interfere with my job. I was able to hide it for the most part. Earlier, in November, I had started using technology to manage my OCD. I used a digital recorder to take my copious notes. At home I would listen to my recordings and type the information into my computer and then erase it from my recorder. This was a much faster way to take notes and it saved a lot of paper. Paper and pen took longer. But it took me a while to learn that I should only use the recorder for relatively short notes because the longer ones were harder to transcribe with all the rewinding I did.
At first I took way too many notes, constantly lifting the recorder up to my mouth to record something I saw: a license plate, a t-shirt with a slogan, a newspaper, anything and everything. So to conceal this activity I bought a small microphone. I ran the wire through my left sleeve and clipped the mic to my collar. That way I could hold the recorder unseen in my left hand, press a button and record my notes without lifting hand to mouth. I did this for a while, but as I got better at resisting the urge to record anything I saw, I stopped using the mic. I could get through the days without constantly lifting the recorder to my mouth.
The recorder really helped a lot. I was having difficulty storing all these notes I was taking. I tried using little note pads, but no matter how small they were, they would quickly grow into piles of paper filled with facts and figures that all became lost like needles in a haystack. Using the recorder was a much faster way of taking notes and then transcribing the notes into a computer file made it easy to store and retrieve anything I recorded. I remember my first recorder. It was a free gift given to my father from one of the drug companies. They often give free pens and other items promoting their brand. The Olympus recorder was sitting in my drawer for some time before I got the idea to use it instead of note pads. It really helped me to manage my note taking habit. Some years later, I started using a digital camera. This helped a lot with newspapers and magazines. If I saw something, anything, I could just take a picture of it and be on my way. At the grocery store there were several racks of magazines. Instead of writing them down on paper or recording them with the digital recorder, I just took a picture of the racks. At home it took some time to organize all the pictures I had taken, but I did get it down to a science. I remember taking a lot of pictures while transporting my father, in his wheelchair, to different locations. When he passed I had more than 500 pictures in my camera. I think it took me three days to organize them. After that I made sure that I organized the pictures before too many had accummulated. I tried to keep it down to about 20, I think.
I was never a morning person, but I chose to work nine to five because I watched TV at night. Weekdays I would watch CBS prime time shows and then the Late Show with Dave Letterman and then The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson. I would get in bed around 2 AM and get up around noon. But now that I had a job I had to get up around 8 AM. This was a real big change for me. I remember waking up thinking, "Am I really going to get out of bed now and go stand on 58th and 5th for several hours?" There were several mornings when I felt like calling the store and telling them I had to quit. But I quickly adopted a much better attitude when I saw my first bank statement. I found that I love direct deposit. But getting a bank account without proper state issued ID was another challenge. I tried Chase bank, but got rejected. Then my mother told me to ask someone which bank FAO uses. The HR woman told me they use Citibank on 57th and Park. And that's where I got my first bank account.
At some point the nice woman at Citibank asked me how I supported myself before I worked at FAO, and I said, "Daddy's credit card." And then I started to explain, saying, "I wrote a novel..." and she immediately replied, "Oh, you're an artist," like she had seen it before a million times. Like it wasn't so unusual. I was very relieved.
Since I had expressed a preference for demonstrating toys rather than greeting people as a Toy Soldier, my first day as a Toy Demonstrator I was assigned to an area that was like a kennel for stuffed dogs. Rachel, my trainer, was very nice and thorough. I sold a few dogs that day, but I wasn't really comfortable with that particular assignment. I saw the Toy Soldiers greeting people at the door and walking around the store and thought maybe I would prefer that. At the end of the day Anthony asked me how I felt about the job and I said, "The Toy Soldier looks interesting," and he very enthusiastically replied, "Yeah, we'll do it tomorrow." He really needed tall toy soldiers.
Next day I put on the big coat and tall hat and stood outside the side entrance, greeting and saluting people and taking pictures. It was quite cold outside and many other soldiers stood inside the store while I remained outside. One of the security officers, Pete, was impressed. He said, "You're a real trooper. I told Anthony."
Soon I was stationed at the front entrance, opening the store with the morning red carpet ceremony. Two of us stood at the door with a rolled up red carpet in front of us. I would say, "Place!" and we placed a foot on the carpet. "Roll!" and we kicked the carpet forward. Then a trumpet player dressed as a soldier crossed the carpet and played his trumpet. And Fao Schwarz was now open.
A lot of celebrities came into the store. Some others passed by on their way to the CBS Morning Show which is located in the GM Building which FAO was actually part of. My second week at the front entrance, a few days after Christmas, we still had long lines of people waiting to enter the store. A man in a white t-shirt holding a small child with his wife beside him asked me if they could enter and I told him to wait on line. He asked if he could speak with a manager and I immediately recognized Harry Connick Jr. and let him skip the line.
Another time I made Treat Williams laugh. I said, "Happy Thursday!" and then looked at his kids and said, "Stay in school, kids!" He cracked up. Even funnier was the time a kid asked me how he could get a long feather like the one I had on my hat. "Drop out of college," I said. That got a big laugh.
The day after I got my bank account in March I saw Donald Trump, who used to own the store. He greeted us as he walked by. Over the course of two and a half years I would encounter many other celebrities, including Christy Brinkley, Richard Thomas, Uma Thurman, Sarah Jessica Parker, Sharon Stone, Laura Dern, Serena Williams, Owen Wilson, David E. Kelly, Brad Garrett, Julie Chen, Anthony Edwards, Paul Schaffer, Matthew McConaughey, Steven Weber, Charlie Rose, and several other lesser known actors whose names I forgot. I saw Larry King so often it was like he worked at FAO.
My favorite celebrity encounter occurred in 2007, when Virginia Madsen took a picture of me with her son. I told her that I love Electric Dreams, a movie from '84. She smiled.
I also encountered some people I knew from Loyola. John Casserini was the first. Lisa Beggins was the second. She and her two sons came to the store a number of times.
I remember getting a call from Jennifer Corsi about donating to Loyola. I asked her if she had come to FAO recently with two boys and she said yes she had. "I was the Toy Soldier on your right," I said. A few days later she appeared with her sons again, this time spotting me immediately with a smile.
I also encountered some people from The New York Film Academy. One of them had worked with me on a few films. He asked me for directions and then was very surprised that I knew his name.
There was only one person from Hunter College who appeared at the store. It was Christmas Eve 2005 and I wasn't even scheduled to work that day, but I was covering for someone. Odd thing is my manager did not have that person in his schedule for that day. He told me to pick anything I want to demonstrate and I chose the juggling balls, having recently learned how to juggle. So there I was teaching people how to juggle, gathering a sizable crowd around me. When that crowd diminished, who do I see? The guy who threatened me at Hunter College in '91. He just stood nearby, never making eye contact, just standing there. I'm guessing he thought his presence would scare me, but he was sadly mistaken. When he backed off fourteen years ago after being questioned by the Dean of Students, I knew he was all talk and no action. Nothing to be afraid of. I just kept juggling, saying, "I can teach anyone to juggle in five minutes." He smiled at that and stood there, pacing a bit, obviously trying to think of something, anything he could do to ruffle me, but to no avail. We were surrounded by security cameras. What could he possibly do? He finally walked away and then stood staring in my direction for a minute before exiting.
I really should thank him, though. Like the first Brian from grammar school who used to bully me, he toughened me up mentally. After you have stared at your greatest fears and overcome them, there is not much left to be afraid of.
Anthony met me with a big smile. We went to his office and had a brief conversation. He said the job was a seasonal work for hire position, but added that it could become a more permanent position. "Impress me," he said. I said I wanted to work part time, nine to five, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. I told him about my book and gave him a card with my website which he stapled to my application. He told me to come for the paper work on Wednesday at 10 AM.
Tuesday night my parents and I were all sick. I was throwing up, wondering if I would be able to do the paper work tomorrow, thinking of how bad it would look to cancel my first appointment at FAO Schwarz. Next morning I got out of bed and headed out with a bag in my pocket in case I threw up again.
I showed the HR woman the photo copy of my birth certificate and asked her about my shoes. She said I would need black leather shoes. I also needed some black pants. So my father and I took a bus to the West side to buy shoes and pants at Filene's Basement. Shopping for clothes reminded me of Loyola. I remember going downtown in '82 to some place that was recommended for blazers.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004 was my first day of work. Ever. As a teen I had walked dogs and babysat, but this was my first time working on a payroll for a company. I was thirty-six years old, an unpublished author with too much free time and a serious case of OCD. But thankfully the OCD did not interfere with my job. I was able to hide it for the most part. Earlier, in November, I had started using technology to manage my OCD. I used a digital recorder to take my copious notes. At home I would listen to my recordings and type the information into my computer and then erase it from my recorder. This was a much faster way to take notes and it saved a lot of paper. Paper and pen took longer. But it took me a while to learn that I should only use the recorder for relatively short notes because the longer ones were harder to transcribe with all the rewinding I did.
At first I took way too many notes, constantly lifting the recorder up to my mouth to record something I saw: a license plate, a t-shirt with a slogan, a newspaper, anything and everything. So to conceal this activity I bought a small microphone. I ran the wire through my left sleeve and clipped the mic to my collar. That way I could hold the recorder unseen in my left hand, press a button and record my notes without lifting hand to mouth. I did this for a while, but as I got better at resisting the urge to record anything I saw, I stopped using the mic. I could get through the days without constantly lifting the recorder to my mouth.
The recorder really helped a lot. I was having difficulty storing all these notes I was taking. I tried using little note pads, but no matter how small they were, they would quickly grow into piles of paper filled with facts and figures that all became lost like needles in a haystack. Using the recorder was a much faster way of taking notes and then transcribing the notes into a computer file made it easy to store and retrieve anything I recorded. I remember my first recorder. It was a free gift given to my father from one of the drug companies. They often give free pens and other items promoting their brand. The Olympus recorder was sitting in my drawer for some time before I got the idea to use it instead of note pads. It really helped me to manage my note taking habit. Some years later, I started using a digital camera. This helped a lot with newspapers and magazines. If I saw something, anything, I could just take a picture of it and be on my way. At the grocery store there were several racks of magazines. Instead of writing them down on paper or recording them with the digital recorder, I just took a picture of the racks. At home it took some time to organize all the pictures I had taken, but I did get it down to a science. I remember taking a lot of pictures while transporting my father, in his wheelchair, to different locations. When he passed I had more than 500 pictures in my camera. I think it took me three days to organize them. After that I made sure that I organized the pictures before too many had accummulated. I tried to keep it down to about 20, I think.
I was never a morning person, but I chose to work nine to five because I watched TV at night. Weekdays I would watch CBS prime time shows and then the Late Show with Dave Letterman and then The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson. I would get in bed around 2 AM and get up around noon. But now that I had a job I had to get up around 8 AM. This was a real big change for me. I remember waking up thinking, "Am I really going to get out of bed now and go stand on 58th and 5th for several hours?" There were several mornings when I felt like calling the store and telling them I had to quit. But I quickly adopted a much better attitude when I saw my first bank statement. I found that I love direct deposit. But getting a bank account without proper state issued ID was another challenge. I tried Chase bank, but got rejected. Then my mother told me to ask someone which bank FAO uses. The HR woman told me they use Citibank on 57th and Park. And that's where I got my first bank account.
At some point the nice woman at Citibank asked me how I supported myself before I worked at FAO, and I said, "Daddy's credit card." And then I started to explain, saying, "I wrote a novel..." and she immediately replied, "Oh, you're an artist," like she had seen it before a million times. Like it wasn't so unusual. I was very relieved.
Since I had expressed a preference for demonstrating toys rather than greeting people as a Toy Soldier, my first day as a Toy Demonstrator I was assigned to an area that was like a kennel for stuffed dogs. Rachel, my trainer, was very nice and thorough. I sold a few dogs that day, but I wasn't really comfortable with that particular assignment. I saw the Toy Soldiers greeting people at the door and walking around the store and thought maybe I would prefer that. At the end of the day Anthony asked me how I felt about the job and I said, "The Toy Soldier looks interesting," and he very enthusiastically replied, "Yeah, we'll do it tomorrow." He really needed tall toy soldiers.
Next day I put on the big coat and tall hat and stood outside the side entrance, greeting and saluting people and taking pictures. It was quite cold outside and many other soldiers stood inside the store while I remained outside. One of the security officers, Pete, was impressed. He said, "You're a real trooper. I told Anthony."
Soon I was stationed at the front entrance, opening the store with the morning red carpet ceremony. Two of us stood at the door with a rolled up red carpet in front of us. I would say, "Place!" and we placed a foot on the carpet. "Roll!" and we kicked the carpet forward. Then a trumpet player dressed as a soldier crossed the carpet and played his trumpet. And Fao Schwarz was now open.
A lot of celebrities came into the store. Some others passed by on their way to the CBS Morning Show which is located in the GM Building which FAO was actually part of. My second week at the front entrance, a few days after Christmas, we still had long lines of people waiting to enter the store. A man in a white t-shirt holding a small child with his wife beside him asked me if they could enter and I told him to wait on line. He asked if he could speak with a manager and I immediately recognized Harry Connick Jr. and let him skip the line.
Another time I made Treat Williams laugh. I said, "Happy Thursday!" and then looked at his kids and said, "Stay in school, kids!" He cracked up. Even funnier was the time a kid asked me how he could get a long feather like the one I had on my hat. "Drop out of college," I said. That got a big laugh.
The day after I got my bank account in March I saw Donald Trump, who used to own the store. He greeted us as he walked by. Over the course of two and a half years I would encounter many other celebrities, including Christy Brinkley, Richard Thomas, Uma Thurman, Sarah Jessica Parker, Sharon Stone, Laura Dern, Serena Williams, Owen Wilson, David E. Kelly, Brad Garrett, Julie Chen, Anthony Edwards, Paul Schaffer, Matthew McConaughey, Steven Weber, Charlie Rose, and several other lesser known actors whose names I forgot. I saw Larry King so often it was like he worked at FAO.
My favorite celebrity encounter occurred in 2007, when Virginia Madsen took a picture of me with her son. I told her that I love Electric Dreams, a movie from '84. She smiled.
I also encountered some people I knew from Loyola. John Casserini was the first. Lisa Beggins was the second. She and her two sons came to the store a number of times.
I remember getting a call from Jennifer Corsi about donating to Loyola. I asked her if she had come to FAO recently with two boys and she said yes she had. "I was the Toy Soldier on your right," I said. A few days later she appeared with her sons again, this time spotting me immediately with a smile.
I also encountered some people from The New York Film Academy. One of them had worked with me on a few films. He asked me for directions and then was very surprised that I knew his name.
There was only one person from Hunter College who appeared at the store. It was Christmas Eve 2005 and I wasn't even scheduled to work that day, but I was covering for someone. Odd thing is my manager did not have that person in his schedule for that day. He told me to pick anything I want to demonstrate and I chose the juggling balls, having recently learned how to juggle. So there I was teaching people how to juggle, gathering a sizable crowd around me. When that crowd diminished, who do I see? The guy who threatened me at Hunter College in '91. He just stood nearby, never making eye contact, just standing there. I'm guessing he thought his presence would scare me, but he was sadly mistaken. When he backed off fourteen years ago after being questioned by the Dean of Students, I knew he was all talk and no action. Nothing to be afraid of. I just kept juggling, saying, "I can teach anyone to juggle in five minutes." He smiled at that and stood there, pacing a bit, obviously trying to think of something, anything he could do to ruffle me, but to no avail. We were surrounded by security cameras. What could he possibly do? He finally walked away and then stood staring in my direction for a minute before exiting.
I really should thank him, though. Like the first Brian from grammar school who used to bully me, he toughened me up mentally. After you have stared at your greatest fears and overcome them, there is not much left to be afraid of.
14. Do you get paid to wear that?
Christmas 2005, after a year of working at FAO, I had saved some money and wanted to get some nice gifts for my parents. I got my father his first large flat screen TV for about $1,000 and I got my mother two very large Swaravski crystals for about $1,000. There had been too many years when I had not given them anything because I hardly went out. Now that I had a job I wanted to get them something nice.
I didn't have much trouble getting to work. I just exit my building, cross the street, and hop on the M31 bus that goes down York and then turns on 57th and takes me to 5th avenue. Then I walk one block to 58th street. I had to sign in by 9:30 AM which meant I had to be on the bus by 9 AM. If the bus was late I ran to 79th street and took the M79 bus to Lexington where I would catch the downtown 6 train. In all my years at FAO I only had 5 minutes of lateness on my record. And from the time I was hired in 2004 until the time I left in 2007 there was not any week that I was not at the store. Not even one. I was there every week for more than 2 years. I remember they had a pizza party for people with perfect time and attendance, a goal I achieved at my second review. The pizza wasn't very good, but I enjoyed the recognition.
Most days I was a Toy Soldier greeting people at the main entrance, but I also demonstrated toys and games. I was told that I had sold triple my sales goal with the juggling balls. I remember the shelf behind me was full of balls when I started and very few remained when I was done.
I also enjoyed demonstrating Gobblet, a really fun board game that I called chess-light because it has a tiny element of chess, but is much easier to learn. It took me a while, but I eventually developed a nice strategy that gave me a competitive edge. This strategy emerged, I believe, from a wounded ego that was tired of being defeated by little kids who had never even seen the game before. It was embarrassing. Some people thought I lost on purpose to make a sale. Playing with my father at home I recall winning thirteen games in a row. I really liked my strategy. I remember playing Steve, the assistant manager, a very smart computer programmer, and beating him twice. And the first time I beat Cesar, another very smart guy who had beaten me several times before, I yelled "Yes!" so loud I must have sounded like Meg Ryan in the deli scene.
It really increases sales when you actually like the item you are selling. One guy asked me, "Do you work for the store or the game?" I said I work for the store and he replied, "You're very enthusiastic. I'll buy one."
Then there was a young girl who instantly loved the game and asked her mother to buy it. "You're not getting that," her mother said with derision. Undaunted, the girl happily produced a wallet from her own purse, ready to purchase the game with her own money.
The same day a guy and his girlfriend, both adults, are checking out the game and the guy seems on the fence about buying it. His girlfriend says, "You know you're getting this, right? You and your brother will play for hours." At this, the guy quickly grabs a game with a huge smile on his face and proceeds to a cashier. He was so happy, he looked like a little kid on his birthday. I'm so glad his girlfriend was there to give him the green light. I don't know how many I sold that day, I just remember we had to open another box when the first one was empty.
Also liked riding the Waveboard, a skateboard with two wheels that is designed in such a way that allows you to maneuver in any direction while keeping both feet on the board. You can propel yourself forward and turn and spin without ever touching the ground. Genius. I bought one, but found that riding it outside on pavement was not as much fun as riding it on the smooth wood floor in the store. The layout of the store also offered an obstacle course that was fun to navigate. Without the obstacles I didn't feel the same sense of movement. I guess it was sort of like playing Asteroids without the asteroids. Just a lot of empty space.
Being a Toy Soldier was fun too. With all the directions we gave we were like the best dressed 411 in town. Bloomingdale's was a popular location. Two people thought that the Plaza hotel across the street from us was a cathedral. A girl asked me, "Is that St. Katherine's Cathedral?" and later I heard a guy telling someone it was a cathedral.
Most people were friendly, but we had some hecklers. One guy asked me, "Do you get paid to wear that?" I said, "Yes. Do you get paid to wear that?" His friend laughed, but the heckler replied very seriously, defending his attire, saying "This is sexy, not like that." Meanwhile women from all over were practically lining up to have their picture taken with us.
Another time a woman asked me, "Do they pay you extra for the humiliation?" And she and her daughter laughed. I should have replied, "I'm wearing a $5,000 jacket by Bob Mackie. What's in your closet?"
The store had two other costumed characters, a princess and a safari guy. They could walk all over the store while we were stationed at the two entrances. All the princesses were very pretty, but one really caught my attention. With long, jet black hair and beautiful eyes, she looked stunning in her costume. I was so happy when we were scheduled together on Fridays. It really felt like going to a prom. We were all dressed up with people taking pictures of us. We just needed a limo to complete the illusion.
Then one foul day the princess' hours were cut. She would only appear at special events and birthdays. A lot of people had their hours cut, including me. FAO had already gone bankrupt twice to my knowledge, and the store continued to have financial problems. Add to this the fact that the owners of the GM building in which the store was located firmly opposed the store's proximity. Apparently, they had an issue with all the tourists the store attracted because the GM building has some sensitive, classified offices. I think the store's physical attachment to the GM building was viewed as a security risk. Gradually, landmark items like the famous FAO clock and the giant bear were phased out. The bear had been removed "temporarily" by GM while the Apple store was being built. GM is contractually obligated to return the bear, but never did.
Toys 'R Us ended up buying FAO, but even that giant store was billions of dollars in debt and sold FAO to ThreeSixty Group in 2016 before going out of business in 2017. Now the last thing I heard about FAO is that it reopened in Rockefeller Center. The old location at 58th and 5th is now an Apple store, which is weird because they had years ago built an Apple store underground on the same block. I wonder if the two stores are physically connected now.
Anyway, no more princess on Fridays. Bummer. She was an actress and had twice told me she had a script she wanted to rehearse with me and I was looking forward to it, but then she cancelled both times. The weird thing about her was that when we were in our costumes she would talk to me and even put her arm around me, but when she was not wearing her costume she really seemed to avoid me. It's like the costume gave her permission to talk to me. It was weird. But I remember one time when we were both not wearing costumes I showed her two photos I had developed of her as the princess. She said, "Are these for me?" I said yeah, and she threw her arms around me like we just got engaged. If I were a psychologist, I might suspect that when she was acting aloof she was overcompensating, trying to hide her true feelings. I had done some overcompensating myself quite a few times, mostly in high school. I can't say that it served me well. It was just a sign of insecurity.
I didn't have much trouble getting to work. I just exit my building, cross the street, and hop on the M31 bus that goes down York and then turns on 57th and takes me to 5th avenue. Then I walk one block to 58th street. I had to sign in by 9:30 AM which meant I had to be on the bus by 9 AM. If the bus was late I ran to 79th street and took the M79 bus to Lexington where I would catch the downtown 6 train. In all my years at FAO I only had 5 minutes of lateness on my record. And from the time I was hired in 2004 until the time I left in 2007 there was not any week that I was not at the store. Not even one. I was there every week for more than 2 years. I remember they had a pizza party for people with perfect time and attendance, a goal I achieved at my second review. The pizza wasn't very good, but I enjoyed the recognition.
Most days I was a Toy Soldier greeting people at the main entrance, but I also demonstrated toys and games. I was told that I had sold triple my sales goal with the juggling balls. I remember the shelf behind me was full of balls when I started and very few remained when I was done.
I also enjoyed demonstrating Gobblet, a really fun board game that I called chess-light because it has a tiny element of chess, but is much easier to learn. It took me a while, but I eventually developed a nice strategy that gave me a competitive edge. This strategy emerged, I believe, from a wounded ego that was tired of being defeated by little kids who had never even seen the game before. It was embarrassing. Some people thought I lost on purpose to make a sale. Playing with my father at home I recall winning thirteen games in a row. I really liked my strategy. I remember playing Steve, the assistant manager, a very smart computer programmer, and beating him twice. And the first time I beat Cesar, another very smart guy who had beaten me several times before, I yelled "Yes!" so loud I must have sounded like Meg Ryan in the deli scene.
It really increases sales when you actually like the item you are selling. One guy asked me, "Do you work for the store or the game?" I said I work for the store and he replied, "You're very enthusiastic. I'll buy one."
Then there was a young girl who instantly loved the game and asked her mother to buy it. "You're not getting that," her mother said with derision. Undaunted, the girl happily produced a wallet from her own purse, ready to purchase the game with her own money.
The same day a guy and his girlfriend, both adults, are checking out the game and the guy seems on the fence about buying it. His girlfriend says, "You know you're getting this, right? You and your brother will play for hours." At this, the guy quickly grabs a game with a huge smile on his face and proceeds to a cashier. He was so happy, he looked like a little kid on his birthday. I'm so glad his girlfriend was there to give him the green light. I don't know how many I sold that day, I just remember we had to open another box when the first one was empty.
Also liked riding the Waveboard, a skateboard with two wheels that is designed in such a way that allows you to maneuver in any direction while keeping both feet on the board. You can propel yourself forward and turn and spin without ever touching the ground. Genius. I bought one, but found that riding it outside on pavement was not as much fun as riding it on the smooth wood floor in the store. The layout of the store also offered an obstacle course that was fun to navigate. Without the obstacles I didn't feel the same sense of movement. I guess it was sort of like playing Asteroids without the asteroids. Just a lot of empty space.
Being a Toy Soldier was fun too. With all the directions we gave we were like the best dressed 411 in town. Bloomingdale's was a popular location. Two people thought that the Plaza hotel across the street from us was a cathedral. A girl asked me, "Is that St. Katherine's Cathedral?" and later I heard a guy telling someone it was a cathedral.
Most people were friendly, but we had some hecklers. One guy asked me, "Do you get paid to wear that?" I said, "Yes. Do you get paid to wear that?" His friend laughed, but the heckler replied very seriously, defending his attire, saying "This is sexy, not like that." Meanwhile women from all over were practically lining up to have their picture taken with us.
Another time a woman asked me, "Do they pay you extra for the humiliation?" And she and her daughter laughed. I should have replied, "I'm wearing a $5,000 jacket by Bob Mackie. What's in your closet?"
The store had two other costumed characters, a princess and a safari guy. They could walk all over the store while we were stationed at the two entrances. All the princesses were very pretty, but one really caught my attention. With long, jet black hair and beautiful eyes, she looked stunning in her costume. I was so happy when we were scheduled together on Fridays. It really felt like going to a prom. We were all dressed up with people taking pictures of us. We just needed a limo to complete the illusion.
Then one foul day the princess' hours were cut. She would only appear at special events and birthdays. A lot of people had their hours cut, including me. FAO had already gone bankrupt twice to my knowledge, and the store continued to have financial problems. Add to this the fact that the owners of the GM building in which the store was located firmly opposed the store's proximity. Apparently, they had an issue with all the tourists the store attracted because the GM building has some sensitive, classified offices. I think the store's physical attachment to the GM building was viewed as a security risk. Gradually, landmark items like the famous FAO clock and the giant bear were phased out. The bear had been removed "temporarily" by GM while the Apple store was being built. GM is contractually obligated to return the bear, but never did.
Toys 'R Us ended up buying FAO, but even that giant store was billions of dollars in debt and sold FAO to ThreeSixty Group in 2016 before going out of business in 2017. Now the last thing I heard about FAO is that it reopened in Rockefeller Center. The old location at 58th and 5th is now an Apple store, which is weird because they had years ago built an Apple store underground on the same block. I wonder if the two stores are physically connected now.
Anyway, no more princess on Fridays. Bummer. She was an actress and had twice told me she had a script she wanted to rehearse with me and I was looking forward to it, but then she cancelled both times. The weird thing about her was that when we were in our costumes she would talk to me and even put her arm around me, but when she was not wearing her costume she really seemed to avoid me. It's like the costume gave her permission to talk to me. It was weird. But I remember one time when we were both not wearing costumes I showed her two photos I had developed of her as the princess. She said, "Are these for me?" I said yeah, and she threw her arms around me like we just got engaged. If I were a psychologist, I might suspect that when she was acting aloof she was overcompensating, trying to hide her true feelings. I had done some overcompensating myself quite a few times, mostly in high school. I can't say that it served me well. It was just a sign of insecurity.
15. From Hero To Zero
In 2006 I wanted to get back to my writing, so I briefly switched from working three days a week to working one day a week. I only did this for a few weeks and then did two days a week.
When we had our first review I was very surprised to receive a low score of 2 on my review. It did not seem consistent with the frequent praise I heard from my manager. He said things like, "My best employee," and "I need ten more like him." I was also surprised at the low score I received for punctuality since I only had five minutes of lateness on my record. One of the Toy Soldiers believed I received a low score because I was only doing one day a week. I asked my manager about it and he said there is a difference between being a good employee and a good associate. Whatever that means. And he did mention something about only working one day a week.
Still confused, I took the advice of a fellow Toy Soldier and sent an e-mail to the assistant general manager. Soon after that my manager came to me and basically said that if I ever have an issue with anything I can always come and talk to him. Then some time after that the assistant general manager came to me and said he wanted to get the three of us together to discuss this and I said I had already talked to my manager. He asked me what my manager said and I said that he told me I have to smile, which really was not accurate, his assistant had told me I have to smile. But I just said I would like to let it go and the assistant general manager said something like, "My door is always open."
At some point we had a meeting in the sub basement, an area where two pigeons frequently hovered over employees as they ate their lunch, a situation that persisted for months and had been brought to the attention of management with no action taken. There we listened to my manager extol the virtues of being a Toy Demonstrator. During his speech, he looked at me for a moment and said, "If anyone is rolling their eyes, come see me after the meeting and we'll see about placing you in another department." At this, the assistant general manager raised his voice, declaiming, "If anyone is rolling their eyes, see Anthony after the meeting!" Then after a pause, he added, "We received some complaints, huffing and puffing, but you have to smile, you may think it's petty, but you have to do it."
This was a very strange meeting. I have to wonder about my manager's vision if he thought I was rolling my eyes. He may need prescription glasses. I was never an eye roller. But the tables would turn in November, when my manager made a huge mistake that I corrected. The Friday after Thanksgiving, the absolute biggest shopping day of the year, he had posted the wrong time for the morning Toy Soldiers who open the store with the red carpet ceremony. That morning, when I suddenly realized the mistake, I leapt out of bed and got into a cab. When I got out of the cab I found the assistant manager Steve outside the store. I told him about the error and he called the manager. Minutes later in the sub basement my manager appears, saying, "I can't thank you enough. We're going to give you some points." I don't really know what the points did, but apparently they look good on your record. Upstairs, just before the opening ceremony, the assistant general manager asked my manager, "Where's the other soldier?" My manager did not answer the question. Didn't see a lot of smiling that day.
Later, after the morning ceremony, Steve said, "Thank you for being a genius. We usually give three points, but we're giving you five." I actually am not sure if those numbers are right, I just remember he told me I was getting more points than they usually give.
Some months later I received another review that was better than the first one and also received an actual raise in salary. That was fine with me.
Then one day in August 2007, at the morning assembly before the opening ceremony, my manager was about to read the most recent mystery shopper scores, but then skipped it, saying something like, "Not good. We'll talk about it later."
The mystery shopper is someone who gets paid to come into a store and evaluate employees based on their own shopping experience. At FAO the policy was if you score a hundred you get to have dinner with the CEO and also an extra $100 in your paycheck. If you get a low score, you get a conversation with your manager about how to improve. If you get a zero at FAO you are fired. No discussion, no inquiry, just fired. So later that day, before I discovered I had been the one evaluated by the mystery shopper, my manager approached me where I stood at the side entrance and said he wanted to speak to me about a mystery shopper. I just said, "Oh no," assuming I got a low score.
At the end of my shift I went to his office in the sub basement and for some reason he said we'll talk about it next week, adding, "It's not good." At some point I saw Cesar, an assistant manager, and I asked, "Is it just bad or really bad?" and he said he didn't know. Then I said, "Oh, it's really bad."
Next week I arrive at FAO in the early morning. I look at the daily schedule that changes each day, and then I look at the other schedule that always has everyone listed, only the hours change on that one. I look at it and I don't see my name. In half a second I knew I was being fired that day. I even went around telling people. Nobody could believe it. Joy thought I must be exaggerating. I took Ceser totally by surprise at the morning assembly, in fact I took the whole establishment by surprise because they never want you to know you're being fired while you're still working there. According to their policy, I should have been fired immediately last week. Who knows, maybe my manager wanted to talk to people about this, thinking he might change their minds.
So I'm sitting there in my Toy Soldier costume and I see Cesar approaching, probably thinking, "The poor bastard, he doesn't have a clue that he's going to be fired." As soon as he comes near me, I say, "My name was noticeably absent from the schedule." He gives me a look of surprise, then says, "I can't talk about it." I persisted, saying, "When is it going to happen?" He said, "Someone will come."
The someone who came was Cesar. He said he felt bad and he didn't want me to be angry with him. I wasn't. He took me downstairs and I spoke to some HR person who said, "I'll be honest with you, this is weird. People like you, but we have a policy. It's nothing personal." I asked for a copy of the review and he had to go ask someone higher than him to get it for me.
Later at home I looked at the review and discovered some surprising facts. According to the time of the review I was the one observed, but the description of me did not seem accurate. Most people overestimate my height and say that I'm 6'2" or more. I'm actually closer to 6'1". But this mystery shopper recorded that the person observed was 5'10". No one ever describes me as less than 6', they always think I'm taller than I actually am. The mystery shopper also said the Toy Soldier had brown hair, but most people agree mine is strawberry blonde. And finally, the mystery shopper said the Toy Soldier looked like he was in his forties and also said that another demonstrator, Hector, looked like he was in his thirties. But I don't think many people would ever say that I look older than Hector. Now the other Toy Soldier who had a shift just before mine the day of the report looks about 5'10" and also looks older than just about everyone else in the store. So to this day I question the accuracy of that report. It could have been me, but there is evidence to suggest it was not.
My father and I actually spoke to a lawyer about this. What a terrific waste of time and money that was. The lawyer said if you are work for hire with no contract they can fire you with or without a reason, as long as it is not discrimination for age, religion, sex, etc. I expressed some concern for the way the store treats employees, mentioning the two birds hovering above the lunch area for months. I said, "I don't see any birds flying around in this office." I said I could write something about my experience in the store and he said it would look like sour grapes. I said, "Not the way I'll write it." I said I think I would be articulating something that others would like to say, but they can't because they still work there. At one point the lawyer said that I was incensed and something about my ego being bruised. I should have said, "I thought my father was the pychiatrist and you're the lawyer." That ridiculous meeting cost $500. What a scam.
I still can't believe that my near perfect time and attendance, my consistent and impressive sales, and my Black Friday rescue in November were rewarded with a termination notice. Nice. And there were others before me who were also dismissed, including Steve the assistant manager who had made significant contributions with his computer skills, and Laura who had been an assistant general manager at one point and then found her position at the store had been removed and she was let go soon after giving birth. I heard she was not happy about that. And I also heard Steve was going to quit at one point when he was skipped for a promotion that went to another assistant. He decided to stay after a talk with his manager and then some months later was fired.
I also can't fathom how any store could give so much power to a mystery shopper. And the list of questions for the costumed characters was different than the questions for Demonstrators. For the Demonstrators one of the questions asks, "Was the associate wearing a name tag?" So as long as you wear a name tag you can never get a zero as a Demonstrator. There was no such question for the costumed characters. Nothing like, "Was the character in full costume?" That would have been fair.
So ended my career at FAO Schwarz. I really enjoyed my time there and I will always be grateful to my manager for hiring me. I have only kind words for him and his assistants. The corporate suits who made the ridiculous zero policy are another matter.
After more than two and a half years it was time to say farewell to retail and get back to the business of writing.
16. Limbo
In August 2007 I had no job, no agent, no publisher, and few friends. I don't recall doing anything significant in 2007. I wasn't writing or reading anything. I would stay up late watching Letterman and then Craig Ferguson and go to sleep around 2 or 3 or 4 in the morning. I was still going to movies on 86th street with my father almost every Saturday. Still going to Pizzeria Uno on 86th street after the movie, a ritual that we observed since 2004, when I tried the barbecue chicken pizza instead of my usual plain deep dish that I didn't even like very much. Can you believe that I ordered the plain deep dish pizza for twelve years before deciding to try somethnig else in 2004. For several years I avoided going to the movie theaters on 86th street because I thought they were too small, but in 2004, after I tried the barbecue chicken pizza, I almost always went to the 86th street theaters because then I could go to Pizzeria Uno. And I tried other pizzas as well and liked all of them much more than the plain deep dish. Pizzeria Uno became my favorite place on 86th street and the highlight of my week. But some Saturdays, when we didn't go to Pizzeria Uno, or I didn't order a pizza there, I would order a pizza at home to eat while watching Saturday Night Live. I often ate four slices, sometimes six. And I'm not talking about the little mini slices you get from Dominoes or Pizza Hut. I'm talking about the large slices. I can recall two times in my life, in the nineties, when I ate the entire pizza, all eight slices. I don't recommend it.
Also on my to do list, Cyberstrike 2, an online multi-player game I had played since we got a computer in '99. I said earlier that I had more friends in this game than I ever did in real life and that is the truth. Back in the day, there were often more than a hundred people in the game. It took me a while to learn how to move in a fight, but I had many people giving me instruction and I eventually did get really good at it. My all time best sparring partner was a guy who had many names, but I knew him as Zule. We would fight one on one for hours and hours. I think we often fought on Sundays after church. I also remember a guy called O*Ryan, he was one of my "newbs". I taught him some basics, but he learned more advanced techniques from others and he quickly became almost invincible with me. I could almost never beat him. The weird thing about that is that I could beat some people who could beat him, but for some reason I could almost never beat him.
Our first computer (not counting the Commodore 64) was in Boston where my father, a psychiatrist, had been working since '87. His job allowed him to get an additional computer for free, so he got me a laptop that I used in Manhattan. The laptop couldn't really handle Cyberstrike very well, it had a slow frame rate that would often pause. Then in 2001, after the twin towers came down, my father for some reason felt he should be in Manahttan with us. Still don't know why he felt that way. So he got a job first in long island where he had an apartment for a while, and then he was at Riker's Island where he could commute in his car from our Manhattan apartment, and finally he was in Westchester where he could still commute in his car. So we brought his computer and lots of other stuff to Manhattan. Now I could play the game any time with no problem. One of the things I liked about Cyberstrike is that it was fun to play, but still boring enough that you could maintain a normal life. I heard stories about games that are very addictive. Some very successful professionals are so addicted to some games that they spend all their free time playing and are hardly ever seen by their families.
On a typical day, I would get out of bed around 5 or 6 PM, eat something, and log into the game and play. At 8 PM I would turn on the TV and watch mostly CBS prime time shows. It was difficult to really pay attention to the TV while playing, but I had the TV on in the background. That, unfortunately, was more often than not a typical day for me.
A "good" day for me was when I stayed up late at night, writing into the morning hours without distraction, creating great prose while "in the zone," that place where unbridled creativity and unwavering discipline meet. That's when I feel happy. When I create prose that flows like music. Hey, that rhymes, prose that flows.
Meanwhile, I was still sending my manuscript to every publisher and agent on earth. I only recall one agent requesting some sample chapters. Another agent, Katharine Sands, said, "You are clearly a writer of ability."
I sent queries to large publishers, small publishers, and even to academic publishers. The universities had positive things to say. Jane Bunker at SUNY Press said, "... project seems to us to be an important one ...", Charles Rankin at the University of Oklahoma said, "... impressive proposal ...", and Tamara Zelinsky at the University of Hawaii Press said, "... sounds like a great story ..."
After I had exhausted every available avenue, I turned to self-publishing in 2008. I turned to iUniverse. Some people view self-publishing companies like iUniverse as vanity presses, but they are extremely incorrect. Back in the day, a vanity publisher would publish your work, charge you for every copy they printed, and bid you farewell. You ended up buying a whole bunch of books which, in most cases, no bookstore was interested in carrying. Today, print-on-demand has totally changed the publishing game. Now a publisher only has to produce books that are ordered. They carry your book in their computer files and they only print books on demand. They don't have to produce and shelve any books. They only produce books that have been purchased. So now you can have your self-published book available for sale at Barnes & Noble and Amazon, something that was nearly impossible with the vanity presses.
Of course, making your book available for sale and making it sell are two very different agendas. With print-on-demand literally anyone can now publish anything and make it available for sale at Barnes & Noble and Amazon. You can publish your grocery list if you want to, but making people buy it is another matter.
So near the end of 2008, I bought one of iUniverse's publishing packages, the most expensive one at the time, now they have even more expensive deals, and started my journey toward publication.
Also on my to do list, Cyberstrike 2, an online multi-player game I had played since we got a computer in '99. I said earlier that I had more friends in this game than I ever did in real life and that is the truth. Back in the day, there were often more than a hundred people in the game. It took me a while to learn how to move in a fight, but I had many people giving me instruction and I eventually did get really good at it. My all time best sparring partner was a guy who had many names, but I knew him as Zule. We would fight one on one for hours and hours. I think we often fought on Sundays after church. I also remember a guy called O*Ryan, he was one of my "newbs". I taught him some basics, but he learned more advanced techniques from others and he quickly became almost invincible with me. I could almost never beat him. The weird thing about that is that I could beat some people who could beat him, but for some reason I could almost never beat him.
Our first computer (not counting the Commodore 64) was in Boston where my father, a psychiatrist, had been working since '87. His job allowed him to get an additional computer for free, so he got me a laptop that I used in Manhattan. The laptop couldn't really handle Cyberstrike very well, it had a slow frame rate that would often pause. Then in 2001, after the twin towers came down, my father for some reason felt he should be in Manahttan with us. Still don't know why he felt that way. So he got a job first in long island where he had an apartment for a while, and then he was at Riker's Island where he could commute in his car from our Manhattan apartment, and finally he was in Westchester where he could still commute in his car. So we brought his computer and lots of other stuff to Manhattan. Now I could play the game any time with no problem. One of the things I liked about Cyberstrike is that it was fun to play, but still boring enough that you could maintain a normal life. I heard stories about games that are very addictive. Some very successful professionals are so addicted to some games that they spend all their free time playing and are hardly ever seen by their families.
On a typical day, I would get out of bed around 5 or 6 PM, eat something, and log into the game and play. At 8 PM I would turn on the TV and watch mostly CBS prime time shows. It was difficult to really pay attention to the TV while playing, but I had the TV on in the background. That, unfortunately, was more often than not a typical day for me.
A "good" day for me was when I stayed up late at night, writing into the morning hours without distraction, creating great prose while "in the zone," that place where unbridled creativity and unwavering discipline meet. That's when I feel happy. When I create prose that flows like music. Hey, that rhymes, prose that flows.
Meanwhile, I was still sending my manuscript to every publisher and agent on earth. I only recall one agent requesting some sample chapters. Another agent, Katharine Sands, said, "You are clearly a writer of ability."
I sent queries to large publishers, small publishers, and even to academic publishers. The universities had positive things to say. Jane Bunker at SUNY Press said, "... project seems to us to be an important one ...", Charles Rankin at the University of Oklahoma said, "... impressive proposal ...", and Tamara Zelinsky at the University of Hawaii Press said, "... sounds like a great story ..."
After I had exhausted every available avenue, I turned to self-publishing in 2008. I turned to iUniverse. Some people view self-publishing companies like iUniverse as vanity presses, but they are extremely incorrect. Back in the day, a vanity publisher would publish your work, charge you for every copy they printed, and bid you farewell. You ended up buying a whole bunch of books which, in most cases, no bookstore was interested in carrying. Today, print-on-demand has totally changed the publishing game. Now a publisher only has to produce books that are ordered. They carry your book in their computer files and they only print books on demand. They don't have to produce and shelve any books. They only produce books that have been purchased. So now you can have your self-published book available for sale at Barnes & Noble and Amazon, something that was nearly impossible with the vanity presses.
Of course, making your book available for sale and making it sell are two very different agendas. With print-on-demand literally anyone can now publish anything and make it available for sale at Barnes & Noble and Amazon. You can publish your grocery list if you want to, but making people buy it is another matter.
So near the end of 2008, I bought one of iUniverse's publishing packages, the most expensive one at the time, now they have even more expensive deals, and started my journey toward publication.
17. Don't Stop Me Now
While I was still on the fence about self-publishing, I picked up my ipod one day and decided to use the shuffle feature to pick a song at random. It stored 99 songs and one of them was Don't Stop Me Now by Queen. I told myself that if it randomly picks Don't Stop Me Now that would be a sign in favor of self-publishing. Can you guess what song it picked? It randomly selected Don't Stop Me Now.
That was in 2006, when I still worked at FAO. Another two years would pass before I fully embraced iUniverse at the end of 2008. I wanted my book to be marked as an "Editor's Choice," a mark of editorial excellence, upon it's back cover, so I had to submit it to an editor at iUniverse.
The first editor had many very positive things to say about the manuscript, but pointed out the fact that there were too many very long sentences. I was given the option of hiring another editor to fix this or do it myself. I did it myself and about two weeks later re-submitted the manuscript to the same editor who was pleased with the editing that I had done. Now I just needed a copywriter to do some very light editing which I could either approve or disapprove. As long as I accepted most of the copywriter's edits the book would be marked as an Editor's Choice.
For the cover I really didn't want to use a stock image. I wanted a cover that would sell books, and make no mistake, covers do in fact sell books. It has happened to me a few times, both as a reader and an author. I bought a book by Elizabeth Moon, Sheepfarmer's Daughter, because I liked the cover and then I ended up reading the whole series. As an author I saw a woman marvel at the cover of my book and declare that she would be back tomorrow to buy it. And she did.
After searching the Internet, I found Carol Phillips, a great fantasy artist who really does magic with form, light, and color. A great cover can also help you to win an award because contests sometimes judge not only the content of the book, but the cover as well. In the Readers' Favorite Book Contest my book scored 5 out of 5 for the cover and also for editing.
My book was published in February 2009. It got some good reviews, but the awards came later. In 2010 the book was nominated for a Montaigne Medal for Most Thought Provoking Book in the Eric Hoffer Book Award Contest. Some months later, on September 1st, 2010, it won a first place Gold Medal in the Readers' Favorite Book Contest. And a year later in 2011, it won a second place Runner-Up award in the Los Angeles Book Festival.
I think I was very lucky to win the Gold Medal. Initially, I was only going to enter one category, Fantasy, at Readers' Favorite. But then I read they had a limit of three categories and for some reason I decided I would enter the maximum three categories. So I entered in the Fantasy, Young Adult, and Action/Adventure categories. I took some time deciding if I should enter Mystery/Suspense instead of Action/Adventure, but chose Action/Adventure. It was a good decision because I won the Gold Medal in Action/Adventure.
I remember when I found out my book had made the finals in all three categories. It was a Saturday on July 31st, 2010. I had just seen a movie, Dinner for Schmucks, with my father on 86th street. Instead of Pizzeria Uno, we went to a small pizza place across the street from the theater. I remember hearing the song Two Princes on the radio. When we got home I checked my e-mails and found that my book was a finalist in every category I had entered. I was very excited, confident that my book would win an award. But I really wanted it to win a first place Gold Medal. The winners would be announced next month on September 1st, 2010. I spent that month praying to God that I would win an award, but especially praying for a Gold Medal. I even said I would drop a hundred dollars in the collection basket at church if I won, and then I quickly amended my promise and said I would donate a hundred dollars whether I won or lost.
And on Wednesday, September 1, 2010, my book, The Sylvan Horn, won its first award. It won the Gold in the Action/Adventure category. I was very happy. I sent a bunch of e-mails to people, announcing the award. I updated my website with a Gold Medal emblem on the first page. Also updated my Bio with the phrase, "award-winning author." It was a good day.
Later, my book was a finalist in two categories, Fantasy/Sci-Fi and Mystery/Suspense, in the International Book Awards, and also in the Adventure category in the Indie Excellence Book Awards. Then in 2011, I won a second place Runner-Up award in the Los Angeles Book Festival.
In 2011 I reached out to so-called "mommy-bloggers" who did book reviews and book giveaways. Almost all of them gave very positive reviews and I gave away a lot of books to the winners of the giveaways. I also made hundreds of posters that I placed in several movie theaters that were showing the current Harry Potter film at that time, hoping to reach fans of fantasy. I recall spending more than a few dollars on Internet marketing services that did absolutely nothing.
But the biggest scam was the book signing fiasco. One of my mother's artist friends from Spain suggested that I have a book signing at a community college where her friend works. The friend, who I prefer to call Asshole, gave us the impression that people from the college would attend the book signing. He told us to make 500 invitations and he would need about 250 to send to people on his list. He even suggested having some food and wine for all the people who would come. So we bought food and wine and invitations and a giant banner.
Then on the day of the event only one person showed up, Carlos, a close family friend, and he bought seven hardcovers which he said he would give as Christmas gifts to his friends. There were two others who appeared, but judging by the way one of them spoke to Asshole, asking, "Is it over?" it seemed apparent that he had asked these two to come, knowing that nobody else would.
At one point I asked him about the poor attendance, I said, "So is this what we can expect?" and he replied, "That depends on you." I should have said, "Hey, Asshole, we thought it depended on the college. That's why we had this book signing on Gilligan's Island with no bus or train stop nearby. We expected the natives to gather for the event." Also, he mentioned something about people studying for final exams. Funny, he didn't mention that when he changed the original date we had in mind. He scheduled the book signing to coincide with final exams. And as we were getting ready to leave, he says to my father, "Take a bottle of wine," and my father replied, "I'm taking all the wine." But I must also mention that some weeks earlier, when we first met him, he did give my father a very large and expensive-looking art book. He also said the college could purchase a few of my books, a promise I made sure he kept.
That was in 2006, when I still worked at FAO. Another two years would pass before I fully embraced iUniverse at the end of 2008. I wanted my book to be marked as an "Editor's Choice," a mark of editorial excellence, upon it's back cover, so I had to submit it to an editor at iUniverse.
The first editor had many very positive things to say about the manuscript, but pointed out the fact that there were too many very long sentences. I was given the option of hiring another editor to fix this or do it myself. I did it myself and about two weeks later re-submitted the manuscript to the same editor who was pleased with the editing that I had done. Now I just needed a copywriter to do some very light editing which I could either approve or disapprove. As long as I accepted most of the copywriter's edits the book would be marked as an Editor's Choice.
For the cover I really didn't want to use a stock image. I wanted a cover that would sell books, and make no mistake, covers do in fact sell books. It has happened to me a few times, both as a reader and an author. I bought a book by Elizabeth Moon, Sheepfarmer's Daughter, because I liked the cover and then I ended up reading the whole series. As an author I saw a woman marvel at the cover of my book and declare that she would be back tomorrow to buy it. And she did.
After searching the Internet, I found Carol Phillips, a great fantasy artist who really does magic with form, light, and color. A great cover can also help you to win an award because contests sometimes judge not only the content of the book, but the cover as well. In the Readers' Favorite Book Contest my book scored 5 out of 5 for the cover and also for editing.
My book was published in February 2009. It got some good reviews, but the awards came later. In 2010 the book was nominated for a Montaigne Medal for Most Thought Provoking Book in the Eric Hoffer Book Award Contest. Some months later, on September 1st, 2010, it won a first place Gold Medal in the Readers' Favorite Book Contest. And a year later in 2011, it won a second place Runner-Up award in the Los Angeles Book Festival.
I think I was very lucky to win the Gold Medal. Initially, I was only going to enter one category, Fantasy, at Readers' Favorite. But then I read they had a limit of three categories and for some reason I decided I would enter the maximum three categories. So I entered in the Fantasy, Young Adult, and Action/Adventure categories. I took some time deciding if I should enter Mystery/Suspense instead of Action/Adventure, but chose Action/Adventure. It was a good decision because I won the Gold Medal in Action/Adventure.
I remember when I found out my book had made the finals in all three categories. It was a Saturday on July 31st, 2010. I had just seen a movie, Dinner for Schmucks, with my father on 86th street. Instead of Pizzeria Uno, we went to a small pizza place across the street from the theater. I remember hearing the song Two Princes on the radio. When we got home I checked my e-mails and found that my book was a finalist in every category I had entered. I was very excited, confident that my book would win an award. But I really wanted it to win a first place Gold Medal. The winners would be announced next month on September 1st, 2010. I spent that month praying to God that I would win an award, but especially praying for a Gold Medal. I even said I would drop a hundred dollars in the collection basket at church if I won, and then I quickly amended my promise and said I would donate a hundred dollars whether I won or lost.
And on Wednesday, September 1, 2010, my book, The Sylvan Horn, won its first award. It won the Gold in the Action/Adventure category. I was very happy. I sent a bunch of e-mails to people, announcing the award. I updated my website with a Gold Medal emblem on the first page. Also updated my Bio with the phrase, "award-winning author." It was a good day.
Later, my book was a finalist in two categories, Fantasy/Sci-Fi and Mystery/Suspense, in the International Book Awards, and also in the Adventure category in the Indie Excellence Book Awards. Then in 2011, I won a second place Runner-Up award in the Los Angeles Book Festival.
In 2011 I reached out to so-called "mommy-bloggers" who did book reviews and book giveaways. Almost all of them gave very positive reviews and I gave away a lot of books to the winners of the giveaways. I also made hundreds of posters that I placed in several movie theaters that were showing the current Harry Potter film at that time, hoping to reach fans of fantasy. I recall spending more than a few dollars on Internet marketing services that did absolutely nothing.
But the biggest scam was the book signing fiasco. One of my mother's artist friends from Spain suggested that I have a book signing at a community college where her friend works. The friend, who I prefer to call Asshole, gave us the impression that people from the college would attend the book signing. He told us to make 500 invitations and he would need about 250 to send to people on his list. He even suggested having some food and wine for all the people who would come. So we bought food and wine and invitations and a giant banner.
Then on the day of the event only one person showed up, Carlos, a close family friend, and he bought seven hardcovers which he said he would give as Christmas gifts to his friends. There were two others who appeared, but judging by the way one of them spoke to Asshole, asking, "Is it over?" it seemed apparent that he had asked these two to come, knowing that nobody else would.
At one point I asked him about the poor attendance, I said, "So is this what we can expect?" and he replied, "That depends on you." I should have said, "Hey, Asshole, we thought it depended on the college. That's why we had this book signing on Gilligan's Island with no bus or train stop nearby. We expected the natives to gather for the event." Also, he mentioned something about people studying for final exams. Funny, he didn't mention that when he changed the original date we had in mind. He scheduled the book signing to coincide with final exams. And as we were getting ready to leave, he says to my father, "Take a bottle of wine," and my father replied, "I'm taking all the wine." But I must also mention that some weeks earlier, when we first met him, he did give my father a very large and expensive-looking art book. He also said the college could purchase a few of my books, a promise I made sure he kept.
18. The Healer
In 2011 I sprained my left index finger. I couldn't make a fist or flex my finger without pain. I thought it would heal, but after a month had passed with no sign of improvement, I went to a chiropractor who had helped my mother. He assigned one of his staff, a nice young woman named Kiersten, to treat my finger. After a few weeks of laser treatments, the finger became flexible. I also believe that hot water and epson salt, a remedy suggested by my mother, played a role in the healing process. At first, when I dipped my hand in a glass of hot water with epson salt I didn't feel anything. But the last time I did it I felt a very powerful tingling sensation and soon after that my finger was flexible.
With my finger healed, I told her about a pain I would sometimes feel in my right thigh, and she started treating my leg. She was very friendly. She read my first book and four chapters of my second book. One day I came with a compact DVD player and showed her my films. It was like a little film festival in her office.
Another time we were talking about improv and UCB (the Upright Citizen's Brigade). She said if I ever took a class at UCB I should invite her to the show. That was all I needed to hear. I immediately enrolled in Level One improv at UCB so that I could invite her to the show. Unfortunately, she could not make the show date. Also, I didn't enjoy the class at UCB. They required students to attend two improv shows before the last class. I thought the show date was the last class, but it wasn't. I attended one show, thinking I had time to see another show before our show, which I believed was the last class. Another girl thought the same thing and we were both told that we could not graduate to Level Two. We would have to take Level One again if we were to continue at UCB. So ended my career at UCB.
But, undaunted, I enrolled in Level One improv at Magnet Theater, where I actually enjoyed the classes and shows that we did. Kiersten came to my Level One show with some colleagues from work. It was a good show, but the absolute best show was Level Three in 2013. We had a full house, fifty or sixty people, and I got the biggest laughs I ever heard.
I liked Kiersten so much that I got her a little crystal figurine of a pearl inside a clam shell for Christmas 2011, and then another one of an owl for Christmas 2012. She said she loves owls and that her grandmother likes them too. Then she said the gift was totally unnecessary, to which I replied, "You read my book and my four chapters and made me so happy." She paused a moment, and then threw her arms around me for a hug with her head tilted in such a way that seemed to invite a kiss on the cheek. So I kissed her on the cheek. With no objection, it seemed like the right thing to do.
I continued my appointments with her until 2013 when her mother was diagnosed with cancer for the second time and she went back to Seattle to help her. She said she would come back, but she didn't. During our last session she suggested that I make an appointment with one of her colleagues while she was away, and I said firmly, "No substitutes, I want the Healer." She smiled and said that I should see one of them if I felt any pain. At the end of that last session I felt like giving her a hug, but didn't know if I should. And then she says, "Give me a hug," so I did.
Some months ago I looked her up online and found that she apparently started her own chiropractic office with two other women. I wrote a note on their site, saying, "When she was in New York she fixed my finger and my leg. She takes a personal interest in each of her clients. The west coast is lucky to have her. She is sorely missed in the east."
I would see her on Fridays, just like I did with D'laine the bartender. And just like D'laine, I found Kiersten's presence to be very positive and healing. I think they were both like surrogate girlfriends. I just enjoyed being around them.
Do you remember a thing called "speed dating?" People gather in a restaurant or some place and spend maybe ten minutes talking to each participant and then decide if they want to date anyone they spoke with. My appointments with Kiersten felt kind of like speed dating. In about 20 minutes I tried to impress her with my literary and filmmaking pursuits. She is one of the nicest people I know. Another really nice girl who I mentioned before, Jessica, from The New York Comedy Club, is also from Seattle. So I've wondered if Seattle is some kind of hot spot for nice people.
I will always think of Kiersten when I think of 2011, but two other big things happened that year. One day I was sitting in my chair with wheels and I found my self rocking left and right like I was on a boat. But I wasn't on a boat. I realized the whole building must be rocking. Later, my father came from work and asked, "Did you feel the earthquake?"
The other big thing that happened that year was losing rent stability. This would haunt us later, after my father passed. I think it's interesting that both our earthly and constructed foundations were shaken that year.
With my finger healed, I told her about a pain I would sometimes feel in my right thigh, and she started treating my leg. She was very friendly. She read my first book and four chapters of my second book. One day I came with a compact DVD player and showed her my films. It was like a little film festival in her office.
Another time we were talking about improv and UCB (the Upright Citizen's Brigade). She said if I ever took a class at UCB I should invite her to the show. That was all I needed to hear. I immediately enrolled in Level One improv at UCB so that I could invite her to the show. Unfortunately, she could not make the show date. Also, I didn't enjoy the class at UCB. They required students to attend two improv shows before the last class. I thought the show date was the last class, but it wasn't. I attended one show, thinking I had time to see another show before our show, which I believed was the last class. Another girl thought the same thing and we were both told that we could not graduate to Level Two. We would have to take Level One again if we were to continue at UCB. So ended my career at UCB.
But, undaunted, I enrolled in Level One improv at Magnet Theater, where I actually enjoyed the classes and shows that we did. Kiersten came to my Level One show with some colleagues from work. It was a good show, but the absolute best show was Level Three in 2013. We had a full house, fifty or sixty people, and I got the biggest laughs I ever heard.
I liked Kiersten so much that I got her a little crystal figurine of a pearl inside a clam shell for Christmas 2011, and then another one of an owl for Christmas 2012. She said she loves owls and that her grandmother likes them too. Then she said the gift was totally unnecessary, to which I replied, "You read my book and my four chapters and made me so happy." She paused a moment, and then threw her arms around me for a hug with her head tilted in such a way that seemed to invite a kiss on the cheek. So I kissed her on the cheek. With no objection, it seemed like the right thing to do.
I continued my appointments with her until 2013 when her mother was diagnosed with cancer for the second time and she went back to Seattle to help her. She said she would come back, but she didn't. During our last session she suggested that I make an appointment with one of her colleagues while she was away, and I said firmly, "No substitutes, I want the Healer." She smiled and said that I should see one of them if I felt any pain. At the end of that last session I felt like giving her a hug, but didn't know if I should. And then she says, "Give me a hug," so I did.
Some months ago I looked her up online and found that she apparently started her own chiropractic office with two other women. I wrote a note on their site, saying, "When she was in New York she fixed my finger and my leg. She takes a personal interest in each of her clients. The west coast is lucky to have her. She is sorely missed in the east."
I would see her on Fridays, just like I did with D'laine the bartender. And just like D'laine, I found Kiersten's presence to be very positive and healing. I think they were both like surrogate girlfriends. I just enjoyed being around them.
Do you remember a thing called "speed dating?" People gather in a restaurant or some place and spend maybe ten minutes talking to each participant and then decide if they want to date anyone they spoke with. My appointments with Kiersten felt kind of like speed dating. In about 20 minutes I tried to impress her with my literary and filmmaking pursuits. She is one of the nicest people I know. Another really nice girl who I mentioned before, Jessica, from The New York Comedy Club, is also from Seattle. So I've wondered if Seattle is some kind of hot spot for nice people.
I will always think of Kiersten when I think of 2011, but two other big things happened that year. One day I was sitting in my chair with wheels and I found my self rocking left and right like I was on a boat. But I wasn't on a boat. I realized the whole building must be rocking. Later, my father came from work and asked, "Did you feel the earthquake?"
The other big thing that happened that year was losing rent stability. This would haunt us later, after my father passed. I think it's interesting that both our earthly and constructed foundations were shaken that year.
19. Invincible
My father's health began declining in 2014. Coming home from work one day his legs suddenly became very swollen and he had to go to the hospital. They put him on lasix and somehow reduced the swelling. He continued working in Westchester until May 2015 when he was forced to retire due to his declining health. First he had a cane then a walker and finally a wheelchair.
Some months after retiring, my father, now bedridden, had to go to the hospital when his leg hurt. After being examined it was determined that he needed dialysis and surgery for his congestive heart failure. He stayed at New York Presbyterian, five blocks away from home, for several months. I visited every day until he was sent to Regency in Yonkers for rehabilitation. When he returned from Yonkers a month later he was strong enough to use a walker around the house. He still needed dialysis, but without Medicare Part B he could not receive dialysis from any hospital in Manhattan. At 77th and York avenue we were literally surrounded by hospitals, but no one would accept him without Medicare Part B. The only place that accepted him was the the rehab center in Yonkers he had just been discharged from. So for three times a week we had to go to Yonkers for dialysis. It was crazy. A 77-year-old, wheelchair-bound, Vietnam veteran should not have to travel to another city to receive dialysis. And making it worse, Access-A-Ride would not take him at first. We had to take cabs, buses, and a Metro-North train at Grand Central station for months. We were like a couple of broken ATM's, tossing twenty dollar bills like confetti at everyone we passed, Deals On Wheels, I called us. It was really messed up and expensive. Then my father found out from someone at the rehab place that they brought her from Far Rockaway which is farther than Manhattan. So he called Access-A-Ride again and told them about the woman they were transporting to rehab and then they agreed to take him.
Finally, after several months, he got Medicare Part B and I was able to take him to a place five blocks away from home. He was very sensitve to cold weather so we still had to take Access-A-Ride even though the place was only five blocks away. But soon after he was accepted at a nursing home only two blocks away from dialysis so I could easily transport him to dialysis in his wheelchair.
At some point, I took him to a podiatrist who fully extracted one of his big toe nails and half extracted the other big toe nail. Soon after that all of his toes turned black with gangrene. One of the visiting nurses saw his black toes and wanted to take him to the Emergency Room, but he refused. My father had told me that they regularly check feet at the dialysis place so I assumed the doctors there were aware of his situation. But one day while we were waiting for them to take him for dialysis I asked him when was the last time someone saw his feet and he didn't know. Shocked, I said we're not leaving here until they see his feet. They took pictures and sent them to a vascular surgeon we had recently visited, but during our visit we had neglected to show the doctor his black toes. That was a truly ludicrous mistake. Some days later the amputations started. First the toes then half of one leg. Then the other foot. The second foot was the most harrowing procedure. One day I came to the nursing home to pick him up for dialysis and found him very weak so I canceled disalysis that day. The next day I found him very weak again. Someone said he was declining and I was told that a doctor would come in tomorrow and examine him. The next day I met the doctor and as soon as he saw me he told someone to call an ambulance for my father. He said the gangrene had spread and he could die at any moment. Apparently, no one, including myself, had thought of examining his foot that was bandaged. When this doctor looked at the foot he could see clearly that the gangrene was spreading.
At the hospital the vascular surgeon was called and he quickly informed me that the foot must be amputated or else my father would die. He also added that since he had a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate Order) we could "let him go" in comfort. I said he didn't look so comfortable and he said they could give him something for the pain. I reminded him of my father's reaction when he was told they had to amputate his leg. Without hesitation he said, "Cut it off," and the surgeon agreed with me that my father would choose amputation. My father was somewhat disoriented and I said I would like to wait until he was more lucid and could clearly decide for himself, but the surgeon told me if they were going to cut they had to cut right now. So I explained the situation to my father and asked him if he wanted them to cut the foot and he said "OK," still somewhat disoriented, and then he was quickly taken away to the operating room. This wasn't like the other amputations, this was an emergency guillotine procedure, a procedure that had to be done so quickly, they didn't even seal the wound, they just cut and left bone and muscle hanging out, that's how quickly it had to be done.
His heart almost stopped during the procedure. I was told he had months to live. I didn't even know if he was going to recover from the operation. But the next day, he was up and talking. I told him what had happened. I told him they cut his other foot off and when he heard that I had to make a decision about life and death he said, "Oh, I'm so sorry you had to go through that." He just had his second foot cut off and he's still worried about me. What I have to go through? If I had to go through any one of the things he had to go through I'd be curled up in a fetal position, crying like a baby. This man took everything that was thrown at him, dialysis, a heart valve replacement, numerous amputations, hernias, cataracts, he took all of it and basically said, "Next." Nothing could break him.
For a few days he dipped in and out of some kind of delirium. He was sometimes not clear on where he was or what was happening. The staff in the IC unit told me this was normal, especially in a room without windows, so they put him in a room with a window as soon as they could. They would often ask him questions like what's today's date and where do you live and sometimes he had to think for a moment before he could answer. But I knew one question that would get answered without hesitation. Who is your favorite singer? "Maria Callas," he said. I knew he was still in there. I told the staff if he ever answers that question with anything other than Maria Callas you have to shoot him with adrenaline and call somebody, check his vitals because something is not right.
If you knew him, you know he loved the opera. If you were his son, you know he loved movies too. All kinds of movies. Art films, comedies, documentaries, action-adventure, he loved all of it and I loved it with him. Movies were our thing. Some fathers and sons go to ball games or go fishing, we went to movies, and we went all the time. The weekend came and we were at the movies again like a pair of maniacs. It was our thing, and for years after, while still in Manhattan, I still did it. Saturday I was at the movies, and I know he was sitting next to me. And if that's denial, I recommend it, especially at Easter when Jesus denied death. If that's denial, I recommend it.
He loved life. He loved books, and movies, and museums, and Pac-Man, and Backgammon, and so many other things. He loved school. When he was too young to go to kindergarten he grabbed a pencil and a newspaper and stepped outside the house and said he was going to school. He couldn't wait to go to school and start learning things. Some years later his academic achievements won him the Borden Prize. Although it wasn't just his academic achievements that earned him the award because there were four people who had a 4.0 average and the decision to give it to him was based on his character. If you knew him, you know that was a good call.
He was so academically talented. I remember when I was in 8th grade I had to do a science project and he suggested I do it on computers. He went and got some books and then started outlining for me how this project was going to go down. "You start with the first computer," he said, "ENIAC, Electronic Numerical Integrator and Computer. Memorize that, it will impress." I followed his instructions. I got up in front of the class and said, "The first computer was ENIAC which stands for Electronic Numerical Integrator and Computer," and before I could say another word, the teacher interrupted and said, "And that's all from memory." He said it would impress and it certainly did. Before that science project I was public enemy number one with that teacher. She did not like me one bit. After that science project, I was the teacher's pet. I could do no wrong. She loved the crap out of that science project. It was ridiculous how much she liked it. When someone else was doing his science project, also about computers, she interrupted him and said, "Robert, would you like to put that diagram you did on the board again." And she wasn't the only one who fell under the spell of that science project. Later, when I was in high school, I got a call from someone I went to gammar school with. He wanted to know if I had my notes for that project I did in 8th grade. In the academic arena, my father knew what he was doing.
He loved food. He was such a great cook. I remember his cheese cake was always a big hit. I loved his tuna, it was so much better than what you buy in stores. And he would make me these ham, cheese, and egg sandwiches that were so great. And the other day I remembered the spanish rice he would make me with tomatoes and all this other stuff. It was so good. Anything he made was so good.
He loved people and people loved him right back. You don't meet a person like him and not get affected. He puts a joy in your heart that stays even after he leaves the earth. Now imagine not just meeting a person like that, but having that person for your father. How lucky is that.
After losing both legs he ended up in the Yonkers rehab place again because the place that was five blocks away in Manhattan does not have a hoist, so they require that people can stand on at least one foot. So he went back to Yonkers where he lived for maybe a week and then passed. He was really amazing. He took everything that came at him like it was nothing.
His battle with gangrene ended with both of his legs being cut above the knees. Gangrene took both of his legs, but not one piece of his spirit. It could not touch any part of that indomitable, invincible force of nature.
My father was always there for me. Wherever I was, whatever I was doing, he was always there for me, even if he was somewhere else, miles away, he was still with me. I didn't have to see him to feel his presence. At night I don't see the sun, but I still feel its warmth. That's what he's like. I don't see him, but I still feel him. It's impossible not to.
In the montage of pictures there's one of a little boy, it's me, standing there by myself. It looks like I'm alone, but I'm pretty sure he took that picture. You don't see him, but he's there. I guess that's how it is now. You don't see him, but he's here.
He is with me always, but I still miss him. I think of all those trips to Yonkers and how much we complained about the journey and the expense. Do you know how much I would pay if I could take him there again?
The picture I chose for the memorial invitation shows him in his army uniform, standing in front of a car. I like that one because it looks like he's going on a trip and will be right back. Until we meet again, I say to him. Until we meet again.
Some months after retiring, my father, now bedridden, had to go to the hospital when his leg hurt. After being examined it was determined that he needed dialysis and surgery for his congestive heart failure. He stayed at New York Presbyterian, five blocks away from home, for several months. I visited every day until he was sent to Regency in Yonkers for rehabilitation. When he returned from Yonkers a month later he was strong enough to use a walker around the house. He still needed dialysis, but without Medicare Part B he could not receive dialysis from any hospital in Manhattan. At 77th and York avenue we were literally surrounded by hospitals, but no one would accept him without Medicare Part B. The only place that accepted him was the the rehab center in Yonkers he had just been discharged from. So for three times a week we had to go to Yonkers for dialysis. It was crazy. A 77-year-old, wheelchair-bound, Vietnam veteran should not have to travel to another city to receive dialysis. And making it worse, Access-A-Ride would not take him at first. We had to take cabs, buses, and a Metro-North train at Grand Central station for months. We were like a couple of broken ATM's, tossing twenty dollar bills like confetti at everyone we passed, Deals On Wheels, I called us. It was really messed up and expensive. Then my father found out from someone at the rehab place that they brought her from Far Rockaway which is farther than Manhattan. So he called Access-A-Ride again and told them about the woman they were transporting to rehab and then they agreed to take him.
Finally, after several months, he got Medicare Part B and I was able to take him to a place five blocks away from home. He was very sensitve to cold weather so we still had to take Access-A-Ride even though the place was only five blocks away. But soon after he was accepted at a nursing home only two blocks away from dialysis so I could easily transport him to dialysis in his wheelchair.
At some point, I took him to a podiatrist who fully extracted one of his big toe nails and half extracted the other big toe nail. Soon after that all of his toes turned black with gangrene. One of the visiting nurses saw his black toes and wanted to take him to the Emergency Room, but he refused. My father had told me that they regularly check feet at the dialysis place so I assumed the doctors there were aware of his situation. But one day while we were waiting for them to take him for dialysis I asked him when was the last time someone saw his feet and he didn't know. Shocked, I said we're not leaving here until they see his feet. They took pictures and sent them to a vascular surgeon we had recently visited, but during our visit we had neglected to show the doctor his black toes. That was a truly ludicrous mistake. Some days later the amputations started. First the toes then half of one leg. Then the other foot. The second foot was the most harrowing procedure. One day I came to the nursing home to pick him up for dialysis and found him very weak so I canceled disalysis that day. The next day I found him very weak again. Someone said he was declining and I was told that a doctor would come in tomorrow and examine him. The next day I met the doctor and as soon as he saw me he told someone to call an ambulance for my father. He said the gangrene had spread and he could die at any moment. Apparently, no one, including myself, had thought of examining his foot that was bandaged. When this doctor looked at the foot he could see clearly that the gangrene was spreading.
At the hospital the vascular surgeon was called and he quickly informed me that the foot must be amputated or else my father would die. He also added that since he had a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate Order) we could "let him go" in comfort. I said he didn't look so comfortable and he said they could give him something for the pain. I reminded him of my father's reaction when he was told they had to amputate his leg. Without hesitation he said, "Cut it off," and the surgeon agreed with me that my father would choose amputation. My father was somewhat disoriented and I said I would like to wait until he was more lucid and could clearly decide for himself, but the surgeon told me if they were going to cut they had to cut right now. So I explained the situation to my father and asked him if he wanted them to cut the foot and he said "OK," still somewhat disoriented, and then he was quickly taken away to the operating room. This wasn't like the other amputations, this was an emergency guillotine procedure, a procedure that had to be done so quickly, they didn't even seal the wound, they just cut and left bone and muscle hanging out, that's how quickly it had to be done.
His heart almost stopped during the procedure. I was told he had months to live. I didn't even know if he was going to recover from the operation. But the next day, he was up and talking. I told him what had happened. I told him they cut his other foot off and when he heard that I had to make a decision about life and death he said, "Oh, I'm so sorry you had to go through that." He just had his second foot cut off and he's still worried about me. What I have to go through? If I had to go through any one of the things he had to go through I'd be curled up in a fetal position, crying like a baby. This man took everything that was thrown at him, dialysis, a heart valve replacement, numerous amputations, hernias, cataracts, he took all of it and basically said, "Next." Nothing could break him.
For a few days he dipped in and out of some kind of delirium. He was sometimes not clear on where he was or what was happening. The staff in the IC unit told me this was normal, especially in a room without windows, so they put him in a room with a window as soon as they could. They would often ask him questions like what's today's date and where do you live and sometimes he had to think for a moment before he could answer. But I knew one question that would get answered without hesitation. Who is your favorite singer? "Maria Callas," he said. I knew he was still in there. I told the staff if he ever answers that question with anything other than Maria Callas you have to shoot him with adrenaline and call somebody, check his vitals because something is not right.
If you knew him, you know he loved the opera. If you were his son, you know he loved movies too. All kinds of movies. Art films, comedies, documentaries, action-adventure, he loved all of it and I loved it with him. Movies were our thing. Some fathers and sons go to ball games or go fishing, we went to movies, and we went all the time. The weekend came and we were at the movies again like a pair of maniacs. It was our thing, and for years after, while still in Manhattan, I still did it. Saturday I was at the movies, and I know he was sitting next to me. And if that's denial, I recommend it, especially at Easter when Jesus denied death. If that's denial, I recommend it.
He loved life. He loved books, and movies, and museums, and Pac-Man, and Backgammon, and so many other things. He loved school. When he was too young to go to kindergarten he grabbed a pencil and a newspaper and stepped outside the house and said he was going to school. He couldn't wait to go to school and start learning things. Some years later his academic achievements won him the Borden Prize. Although it wasn't just his academic achievements that earned him the award because there were four people who had a 4.0 average and the decision to give it to him was based on his character. If you knew him, you know that was a good call.
He was so academically talented. I remember when I was in 8th grade I had to do a science project and he suggested I do it on computers. He went and got some books and then started outlining for me how this project was going to go down. "You start with the first computer," he said, "ENIAC, Electronic Numerical Integrator and Computer. Memorize that, it will impress." I followed his instructions. I got up in front of the class and said, "The first computer was ENIAC which stands for Electronic Numerical Integrator and Computer," and before I could say another word, the teacher interrupted and said, "And that's all from memory." He said it would impress and it certainly did. Before that science project I was public enemy number one with that teacher. She did not like me one bit. After that science project, I was the teacher's pet. I could do no wrong. She loved the crap out of that science project. It was ridiculous how much she liked it. When someone else was doing his science project, also about computers, she interrupted him and said, "Robert, would you like to put that diagram you did on the board again." And she wasn't the only one who fell under the spell of that science project. Later, when I was in high school, I got a call from someone I went to gammar school with. He wanted to know if I had my notes for that project I did in 8th grade. In the academic arena, my father knew what he was doing.
He loved food. He was such a great cook. I remember his cheese cake was always a big hit. I loved his tuna, it was so much better than what you buy in stores. And he would make me these ham, cheese, and egg sandwiches that were so great. And the other day I remembered the spanish rice he would make me with tomatoes and all this other stuff. It was so good. Anything he made was so good.
He loved people and people loved him right back. You don't meet a person like him and not get affected. He puts a joy in your heart that stays even after he leaves the earth. Now imagine not just meeting a person like that, but having that person for your father. How lucky is that.
After losing both legs he ended up in the Yonkers rehab place again because the place that was five blocks away in Manhattan does not have a hoist, so they require that people can stand on at least one foot. So he went back to Yonkers where he lived for maybe a week and then passed. He was really amazing. He took everything that came at him like it was nothing.
His battle with gangrene ended with both of his legs being cut above the knees. Gangrene took both of his legs, but not one piece of his spirit. It could not touch any part of that indomitable, invincible force of nature.
My father was always there for me. Wherever I was, whatever I was doing, he was always there for me, even if he was somewhere else, miles away, he was still with me. I didn't have to see him to feel his presence. At night I don't see the sun, but I still feel its warmth. That's what he's like. I don't see him, but I still feel him. It's impossible not to.
In the montage of pictures there's one of a little boy, it's me, standing there by myself. It looks like I'm alone, but I'm pretty sure he took that picture. You don't see him, but he's there. I guess that's how it is now. You don't see him, but he's here.
He is with me always, but I still miss him. I think of all those trips to Yonkers and how much we complained about the journey and the expense. Do you know how much I would pay if I could take him there again?
The picture I chose for the memorial invitation shows him in his army uniform, standing in front of a car. I like that one because it looks like he's going on a trip and will be right back. Until we meet again, I say to him. Until we meet again.
20. From Yorkville To Yonkers
Sunday, August 28, 2016. The phone rings. "Hello, Robert. I have some bad news." That was all I needed to hear. I knew my father had passed. I didn't want him to pass, but I didn't want him to suffer either. And he had really suffered. Both of his legs had been amputated and he was in pain. I didn't cry. I had already cried before when they started cutting him. For me it felt like he had died five weeks before, when his heart almost stopped and I was told he had months to live, and then came back to life and stayed with me for an extra five weeks.
My mother was sleeping. I would tell her later when she woke up. Suddenly it seemed the weight of the world had fallen on my shoulders. There was so much to do. We had about $45K in the bank. The rent was about $4,600 and the fixed income was about $5,000 while my father lived. Now that he passed we would have to do some paperwork for my mother to receieve his social security and pension. The social security came first, but we had to wait a few months for the pension to come. So we were bleeding thousands of dollars from savings each month to cover our expenses which was about $7,000 a month. When our savings dropped to $20K I was worried. I didn't want it to drop any further and I prayed for a financial miracle. Almost immediately my prayer was answered when my mother came to me with a letter from Fidelity Investments regarding an investment in the amount of $31K. That was a real life saver. For a few months I used that money to pay the rent and our other expenses and our savings did not drop below $20K.
One of our expenses was a storage facility in the Bronx where we had two units, a small and a large, that were costing us more than $500 a month. That was a financial hemorrhage that I wanted to eliminate as soon as possible. First I had to get all the paintings out of storage and bring them home. I don't drive, so in October I called a family friend, Chris Owens, the brother of Geoffrey Owens who played Alvin on the Cosby Show, and also the son of Congressman Major Owens, to help me transport the paintings in a U-Haul. Chris was a great help who not only assisted me with the paintings, but also volunteered to help me move all the stuff in the smaller unit into the larger unit so that I could eliminate the smaller unit. He even had an important appointment that day, but still took the time to help me get rid of one of the units. He also told me about a company, GotJunk.com, that could help me eliminate the larger unit. In December I called them and they hauled away a ton of stuff. I did save a relatively small portion of miscellaneous things that took me four days to transport via the subway. I really should have called a car service and made one trip, but I guess I wanted to save money, so I did it the long way. Not recommended.
Then in February 2017, our long awaited insurance money arrived and I could catch my breath. I didn't have to worry about how I was going to pay the rent for the rest of that year. We stayed in Manhattan until the lease ended in 2018. The new lease was going to be about $5,100 a month. Again, as I mentioned in a previous blog entry, we lost rent stability in 2011. The rent was out of control, climbing higher and higher every 2 years.
During our frequent trips to Yonkers for my father's dialysis, I noticed a nice apartment complex, Hudson Park, in front of the train station. Situated by the Hudson River, it reminded me of a place we had in Boston by the water. It occurred to me that if we were ever pushed out of Manhattan we might find an affordable and relatively spacious apartment in Hudson Park. I figured it had to be less expensive and more spacious than anything we could find in Manhattan. Soon after my father passed, I went to Hudson Park to investigate and it turned out they did have affordable and relatively spacious apartments available. At first, my mother didn't want to go to Yonkers. She said she needed a warmer place like Florida, which was also my father's first choice. But I wasn't planning on moving before the lease ended, so we had plenty of time to consider our options. Near the end of 2017 my mother agreed that Yonkers was a good choice. It offered more space than anything I found in Manhattan or Queens and it was only a twenty minute train ride to Manhattan.
So in January 2018, I went to Yonkers again and found an apartment that seemed perfect for us. I remember being enchanted by the view of the Hudson River. It wasn't as big as our Manhattan apartment, but it was much bigger than anything we could afford in New York City. Still, even with the extra space, we had to get rid of 11 pieces of large furniture to fit in the new apartment. If we didn't have so much furniture and other stuff we could have fit in a smaller apartment. We threw away and gave away so many things, as much as we could, but we still had so much stuff.
Then in February 2018 we watched the movers pack all our possessions into a truck bound for Yonkers, our new residence. I felt ill as they emptied the apartment, our home for almost half a century. I tried to be positive, saying things like, "We're not losing Manhattan, we're gaining Yonkers." I can't describe how I felt that day. Losing rent stability was one of the worst things that ever happened to us. The Hudson Park location is not bad. It's probably one of the best neighborhoods in Yonkers. It's just not home for us. Manhattan is our home.
My mother was sleeping. I would tell her later when she woke up. Suddenly it seemed the weight of the world had fallen on my shoulders. There was so much to do. We had about $45K in the bank. The rent was about $4,600 and the fixed income was about $5,000 while my father lived. Now that he passed we would have to do some paperwork for my mother to receieve his social security and pension. The social security came first, but we had to wait a few months for the pension to come. So we were bleeding thousands of dollars from savings each month to cover our expenses which was about $7,000 a month. When our savings dropped to $20K I was worried. I didn't want it to drop any further and I prayed for a financial miracle. Almost immediately my prayer was answered when my mother came to me with a letter from Fidelity Investments regarding an investment in the amount of $31K. That was a real life saver. For a few months I used that money to pay the rent and our other expenses and our savings did not drop below $20K.
One of our expenses was a storage facility in the Bronx where we had two units, a small and a large, that were costing us more than $500 a month. That was a financial hemorrhage that I wanted to eliminate as soon as possible. First I had to get all the paintings out of storage and bring them home. I don't drive, so in October I called a family friend, Chris Owens, the brother of Geoffrey Owens who played Alvin on the Cosby Show, and also the son of Congressman Major Owens, to help me transport the paintings in a U-Haul. Chris was a great help who not only assisted me with the paintings, but also volunteered to help me move all the stuff in the smaller unit into the larger unit so that I could eliminate the smaller unit. He even had an important appointment that day, but still took the time to help me get rid of one of the units. He also told me about a company, GotJunk.com, that could help me eliminate the larger unit. In December I called them and they hauled away a ton of stuff. I did save a relatively small portion of miscellaneous things that took me four days to transport via the subway. I really should have called a car service and made one trip, but I guess I wanted to save money, so I did it the long way. Not recommended.
Then in February 2017, our long awaited insurance money arrived and I could catch my breath. I didn't have to worry about how I was going to pay the rent for the rest of that year. We stayed in Manhattan until the lease ended in 2018. The new lease was going to be about $5,100 a month. Again, as I mentioned in a previous blog entry, we lost rent stability in 2011. The rent was out of control, climbing higher and higher every 2 years.
During our frequent trips to Yonkers for my father's dialysis, I noticed a nice apartment complex, Hudson Park, in front of the train station. Situated by the Hudson River, it reminded me of a place we had in Boston by the water. It occurred to me that if we were ever pushed out of Manhattan we might find an affordable and relatively spacious apartment in Hudson Park. I figured it had to be less expensive and more spacious than anything we could find in Manhattan. Soon after my father passed, I went to Hudson Park to investigate and it turned out they did have affordable and relatively spacious apartments available. At first, my mother didn't want to go to Yonkers. She said she needed a warmer place like Florida, which was also my father's first choice. But I wasn't planning on moving before the lease ended, so we had plenty of time to consider our options. Near the end of 2017 my mother agreed that Yonkers was a good choice. It offered more space than anything I found in Manhattan or Queens and it was only a twenty minute train ride to Manhattan.
So in January 2018, I went to Yonkers again and found an apartment that seemed perfect for us. I remember being enchanted by the view of the Hudson River. It wasn't as big as our Manhattan apartment, but it was much bigger than anything we could afford in New York City. Still, even with the extra space, we had to get rid of 11 pieces of large furniture to fit in the new apartment. If we didn't have so much furniture and other stuff we could have fit in a smaller apartment. We threw away and gave away so many things, as much as we could, but we still had so much stuff.
Then in February 2018 we watched the movers pack all our possessions into a truck bound for Yonkers, our new residence. I felt ill as they emptied the apartment, our home for almost half a century. I tried to be positive, saying things like, "We're not losing Manhattan, we're gaining Yonkers." I can't describe how I felt that day. Losing rent stability was one of the worst things that ever happened to us. The Hudson Park location is not bad. It's probably one of the best neighborhoods in Yonkers. It's just not home for us. Manhattan is our home.
21. The Twilight Zone
The day after we arrived in Yonkers I was roaming the streets, looking for the nearest Catholic Church for me to attend on Sundays. In our immediate neighborhood we had a Citibank, library, post office, social security office, and a few restaurants. A few blocks further I found City Hall, Bank of America, Burger King, and St. Mary's Catholic Church. Walking around I really felt I was out of my element. In Manhattan we had buses and taxies and trains and bicycles everywhere. In Yonkers we rely on a car service that takes cash only. I tried Uber once, but had difficulty, and my God-mother had a couple of bad experiences with the company so we now use Mexicana car service. They show up promptly and are relatively inexpensive, but they only take cash.
My first Sunday at St. Mary's Church I saw someone who works at Regency where my father went for dialysis and later passed away. I asked him about any job opportunities at Regency and he gave me a name of someone I knew. I had this idea that maybe I could work there, but I did think it would be weird because that is where my father passed.
My second Sunday at St. Mary's Church I had a very strange experience. As soon as I sat down, I had this terrible feeling, like I couldn't breathe or something, and I felt like I was being pulled down. I felt like I was going to a very bad place, slipping down toward the earth and beyond. I focused on the girl who was singing and I kept repeating, "Jesus, Jesus," and somehow I felt I could breathe again. This was a truly bizarre experience for which I had no explanation. I felt like I was being punished for my sins.
After the mass ended, I spoke to the priest, saying, "I need to speak with you, I think I'm having a crisis." He said he could speak to me tomorrow on Monday. So on Monday I showed up and gave him my sob story about my father passing and losing rent stability and leaving Manhattan where we lived for nearly half a century. He listened to me and when I was finished, asked, "Are you taking any drugs?" I said I was not taking drugs and he seemed quite surprised. At some point he even asked me a second time about drugs. He was also beside himself with shock and surprise when I told him I had no job. "Do you have any friends?" he asked. "Yes, I have friends," I replied. Then he wanted to give me a book about St. Mary's Church, he said reading it would distract me from my anxiety, but I told him I had come on my bicycle and could not carry the large book.
The next Sunday I went to Church and, together with others, greeted the priest as he was leaving. It was the last time I saw him. The next Sunday, Easter, I was trying to figure out how I could go to church and then get groceries. The ShopRite store did not deliver. I thought I could bike to church and then bike to the apartment where I would leave the bike and then walk to the grocery store. I just kept trying to think of how I would do this until it was too late to make it to church on the most important day in the Catholic calendar, Easter Sunday. This was not a positive development.
I really grew to dislike the ShopRite. In Manhattan we had D'agostino two blocks away and many other grocery stores in the neighborhood. The ShopRite in Yonkers is about ten blocks away and they don't deliver (now they do online only). I would go there with my grocery shopping bag and for some reason I was never able to get everything we needed. I never had this problem in Manhattan, using the same grocery bag. But I guess the reason for that is the fact that in Manhattan I went outside more often. Saturday I would see a movie on 86th street and go to the Fairway grocery store there and Sunday I would go to St. Joseph's Church on 87th street and go to the Gristedes grocery store there. That's the only explanation I can think of for this very odd inability to stock enough food in our apartment. This problem was compounded by the fact that almost as soon as we arrived in Yonkers I had the worst case of constipation imaginable. I didn't have a bowel movement for several weeks. This made it very difficult to eat anything.
Gradually, I stopped going to ShopRite. Instead, I would frequently go to a nearby convenience store that makes sandwiches. I kept buying two orders of chicken quesadillas, which were three per order, so that's six quesadillas total. My mother got sick of it. She wanted to eat other things, just like any normal person would want, but apparently I had developed some kind of phobia about ShopRite. It wasn't that close and I was never able to bring everything we needed. I just loathed that grocery store. So I kept going to the convenience store across the street. And I would only eat one of the quesadillas and leave the rest for my mother. I also rarely drank her ensure so that she would have more and I wouldn't have to buy more sooner. I sort of stopped eating because of severe constipation and the fear that if I ate too much of the food there would be nothing for my mother and I would have to go out to buy more food.
One night in 2018, after losing too much weight and being severely malnourished, I went out to get some more chicken quesadillas. As soon as I stepped outside I felt so weak. I had trouble breathing. When I was just a few feet away from the store, I felt like turning around and going back to the apartment. But I continued moving forward. Inside the store I had some trouble deciding if I should get chicken or vegetable quesadillas, and the man at the counter, said, "One chicken quesadilla and one vegetable," and I said, "Yeah." Then, waiting for my food, I moved to a spot where I could lean against the counter, still breathing strangely. When I was handed the bag of food I felt too weak to carry it, and I immediately collapsed to the floor. I was still conscious, but feeling to weak to stand for a moment. Some people helped me up and someone called an ambulance which arrived immediately.
I remember there were three paramedics, two men and a woman. I didn't get a good look at one of the men, the driver, but I was examined by the other man and the woman. I said I don't want to go to the hospital. The woman said I don't have to go to the hospital they just want to examine me, so I got in the ambulance and they examined me. Apparently, my condition was serious enough that one of them said if I don't go to the hospital, I could die walking down the street. So I said I would go to the hospital. Without delay, the ambulance speeded to St. Joseph's Hospital, a place I would grow to loathe and fear like nothing else I have ever loathed and feared on earth.
For some time, since we arrived in Yonkers, I felt like I was being punished for my sins. When we arrived at the hospital, I asked the comely female paramedic what her name was, and was taken aback when she answered, "Sin." This did not make me feel better. I also recall my last weekend in Manhattan, I wondered what would be the last Cinemax movie I would see in the apartment, our true home. The movie was "Drag me to hell." And I even recall picking up a piece of trash on the street that said, "You are going to hell." Another day another piece of trash said something about a place called "Hell Gate." I never considered myself a superstitious person, but there certainly seemed to be an abundance of circumstantial evidence suggesting an unpleasant future lay ahead.Why, you ask, would I fear being punished? Because since we moved to Yonkers I dropped out of life. I stopped doing anything. I just slept and got up to go to the bathroom. I didn't keep track of our finances, the taxes, or anything. I didn't take my mother to appointments she had. She wanted the phone number of a doctor we had visited once and I lied and said I didn't have it. Why did I do that? Because I felt that doctor was too far away and I worried about being stranded and lost and spending money and everything. I think I became somewhat agorophobic. I was just scared of going anywhere.
I should mention at this point that earlier, while we were still in Manhattan, in October 2017, on Friday the 13th, my mother was hearing voices. She said my father, who had passed, and my God-mother, who was in Texas at the time, told her to call 911. The first time she called I thought she was trying to reach my God-mother. She said, "They want to talk to you," and handed me the phone. That's when I heard, "911, what is your emergency?" Stunned, I said there was no emergency, my mother just called because she is hearing voices.
A few minutes later, I was in bed, wondering who I should speak to about my mother hearing voices. I thought I should contact a social worker I knew from New York Presbyterian Hospital. Then I heard my mother on the phone again. I got up and asked, "Did you call 911 again?" And she paused a moment to think, and then said, "Yes, I think I did." I said, "They're going to send someone now."Minutes later I explained to police and paramedics that this was the second time she called 911 tonight. I told them she was hearing voices and a police officer asked me if I wanted to send her to New York Presbyterian Hospital where they have a Psychiatric unit. I said, "I don't want to send her to the hospital, but if you guys leave she's going to call 911 again." So they took her to the hospital. At first she didn't want to go, she said, "You can shoot me, but I'm not going." But we finally went to the Hospital.
She was in the Psychiatric unit for a month. At first she acted quite hostile and paranoid, but they tried different medications and eventually gave her Haldol which seemed to stabalize her, but it also seemed to make her less lucid, like she was half-awake. I visited her in the hospital every day, just like I did with my father. I really felt like I worked at New York Presbyterian after gioing there everyday for months.
Once released from the hospital, I took my mother home and each day gave her several medications, one of them Haldol. I was instructed to take her once a month to Manhattan Hospital for a Haldol injection that lasts for a month. At the hospital I was told to stop giving her the Haldol pill because it makes people sluggish. The injection once a month was much better.
I should also mention that my mother had taken klonopin for twenty five or thirty years. My father had prescribed it for her to reduce anxiety. She ended up using it like a sleeping pill, a drug that would knock her out. And when she woke up she was sometimes in a foul mood. Without going into geater detail, I'll just say I think klonopin might be the worst thing that ever happened to my mother. But when she stopped taking it she had severe trouble sleeping. That's when she started hearing voices. And earlier in 2017 she was seeing hand written notes that did not exist on any of the blank pages she was reading from. I told her the pages were blank and she insisted that she saw hand writing. This phase or whatever it was thankfully stopped happening, but she sometimes had trouble telling the difference between her dreams and reality. One time she woke up and thought there was a dead body in a closet. I told her she had been dreaming and it was hard for her to believe it.
So now that we were in Yonkers it was my responsibility to give her the medications that had been prescribed. At first I made a feeble attempt to do this, but soon I stopped giving any medications, just like I stopped doing anything else. However, it is worth noting that this apparent negligence on my part has ultimately been a positive thing because she has never again heard voices, and so obviously does not need to be taking Haldol with all its side effects.
Returning back to my first hospitalization in Yonkers, they hooked me up with an IV drip for hydration and a doctor spoke to me. I gave him my sob story about my father passing and moving out of our home in Manhattan. I told him about my constipation and the trouble I had bringing enough food into the apartment. He said something about a social worker possibly helping me with these issues. At some point I called my mother and told her I had collapsed at the store and I was now in the hospital. She was very glad I called because she was worried. Later, the doctor asked me if I felt well enough to go back to the apartment or did I want to stay overnight. I paused, and he decided they would keep me overnight.
The next morning I awoke surprised to find myself wearing a hospital gown. I have no memory of changing my clothes. I don't see how it is possible to sleep through such a change of clothing. How could they take my clothes off and put me in a gown without waking me up? Welcome to the twilight zone.
In the morning someone brought me breakfast. I don't remember what it was, but I probably didn't eat much of it due to my constipation. I will say that the food at St. Joseph's Hospital was good, but that's the only positive thing I have to say about the place.
At some point they attached some wires and pads on my chest to examine my heart. Then I told a doctor that my mother was alone and I had to go help her and he said they could not release me because of my poor condition. I remember walking around with my voice raised, demanding that someone bring some food to my mother. I was very concerned that she would not have anything to eat. I was told that a social worker would be sent to her, but that never happened. The doctor who said they couldn't release me said they located a doctor who lives in our building and supposedly he would assist my mother, but that never happened either.
My first time in St. Joseph's Hospital was quite bizarre. Whenever they gave me medication, I had trouble breathing. At the time I thought the drugs were causing the breathing problem, but later, during my second hospitalization, I no longer had trouble breathing with or without medication. It was about three years later, at Regency, where I am now, that I discovered the breathing trouble was actually a panic attack. I believe my first truly severe panic attack occurred in 2021, at Regency. Given that I never had breathing trouble during my second and third hospitalizations, it seems clear the breathing issue I experienced during my first hospitalization was a panic attack and not drug related.
So there I was at St. Joseph's Hospital in 2018. That first morning my mother called my room and told me she had spoken to a psychiatrist who was talking about having me committed because I was so malnourished. She said she had at first agreed with him, but then changed her mind and wanted me to call him and tell him I don't want to be committed. So I called the doctor, (I'll call him Dr. Accent) and he said sternly, "It's up to the committee," and hung up on me. Dr. Accent was my least favorite doctor, in fact he was probably one of my least favorite humans, but I had very little contact with him during my first hospitalization that lasted about ten days. During my second trip to the hospital, which lasted about a month, I would have more dealings with him and some other people who gave me the creeps.
The phone system at St. Joseph's Hospital was also weird. They give you a weird looking wireless phone and your first call is free, but any calls after that require a fee. I found it very inconvenient.So my first time in the hospital I had trouble breathing whenever they gave me medication. For hours I had some kind of shortness of breath and I felt like my heart would explode. It was terrible, but not as bad as the panic attacks I had in 2021 and 2023, attacks that really felt like breathing had stopped. I can't describe it. You would have to experience it yourself to believe that such a thing could be possible. Thankfully, the most severe panic attacks did not occur often. But more frequently I would experience a terrible fear of having a severe attack that never came. I would sometimes try to sleep while dreading another attack would occur as soon as I woke up. It has taken some time, but I have learned to manage these attacks by doing what I call "Embrace and Engage." Instead of fearing the day ahead, look forward to it, embrace and engage it, and if possible even try to enjoy it. Enjoy reading a book, or writing your second novel, or chatting on Facebook, or watching TV. Whatever it takes, just don't panic.
That first hospitalization I also met another psychiatrist (I'll call him Dr. Glasses) who spoke to me briefly. He asked me if I ever heard voices and I said no I don't hear voices. I told him I was having difficulty managing and he seemed to accept that. He said something like he couldn't put me in a mental unit without any psychotic symptoms. That's not exactly what he said, but it was something like that. He was basically saying I was not a mental case.
I remember one night at the hospital I was having difficulty breathing. I was just laying in bed, trying to sleep and I felt like I was going to go through all eternity with this labored breathing. I just kept breathing and breathing, and then I found two women in my room staring at me. "Are you scared?" one of them asked. "Yes," I replied. Then she asked me if I had a bowel movement and I said I did. That brief exchange apparently corrected my breathing becsause I was able to fall asleep afterward.
Another day I was having terrible anxiety, watching the hours pass, dreading the medication they would give me. I just kept staring at the clock, desperately trying to think of a way out of the hospital. I was so terrified of the medication, believing that it was the cause of my breathing trouble.Then, quite suddenly, a woman entered the room, saying, "Here are your discharge papers." I was being discharged from the hospital that day. At first I was glad to hear that, thinking I might escape the medication. But later a doctor and someone else came to give me the pills and I resisted. I said it would kill me and the doctor said it would not kill me. I finally swallowed them. Then my lunch came. It was fish fillet. Somehow, I got this idea in my head that the fish could "absorb" the medication and I would be able to breathe. Don't ask me how this idea got in my head, but I'm glad it did because I had no trouble breathing. At the time I still did not know I was having panic attacks. I really thought the medication caused my breathing problems.
Before they discharged me I said I cannot be forced to take medication. I refused to take any more medication and I insisted that they do not put any medication in my discharge papers. They reluctantly agreed and I was discharged without a list of medications to take in the future. But I knew I still needed something for the constipation. But, apparently having very little common sense at the time, I took nothing for my condition. I tried prune juice, which I believe helped me years before, when I had constipation for a few days, but this time it didn't help much, but that may be because I really didn't drink much of it.
Also on my mind was the expense of the ten days in the hospital. I was told that I had Medicaid, but before I was hospitalized there had been some issues with my Medicaid so I was concerned about possible expenses I would incur.
I remember getting dressed to leave the hospital, thinking that I have no where to go for help. I still had constipation, I still couldn't bring enough groceries in my grocery bag, and I still had some kind of agoraphobia. Anyone with common sense would have taken medication for constipation and purchased a larger grocery bag. But I just stayed on my nonsensical path to oblivion.This was my first, and sadly not my last, taste of the twilight zone.
My first Sunday at St. Mary's Church I saw someone who works at Regency where my father went for dialysis and later passed away. I asked him about any job opportunities at Regency and he gave me a name of someone I knew. I had this idea that maybe I could work there, but I did think it would be weird because that is where my father passed.
My second Sunday at St. Mary's Church I had a very strange experience. As soon as I sat down, I had this terrible feeling, like I couldn't breathe or something, and I felt like I was being pulled down. I felt like I was going to a very bad place, slipping down toward the earth and beyond. I focused on the girl who was singing and I kept repeating, "Jesus, Jesus," and somehow I felt I could breathe again. This was a truly bizarre experience for which I had no explanation. I felt like I was being punished for my sins.
After the mass ended, I spoke to the priest, saying, "I need to speak with you, I think I'm having a crisis." He said he could speak to me tomorrow on Monday. So on Monday I showed up and gave him my sob story about my father passing and losing rent stability and leaving Manhattan where we lived for nearly half a century. He listened to me and when I was finished, asked, "Are you taking any drugs?" I said I was not taking drugs and he seemed quite surprised. At some point he even asked me a second time about drugs. He was also beside himself with shock and surprise when I told him I had no job. "Do you have any friends?" he asked. "Yes, I have friends," I replied. Then he wanted to give me a book about St. Mary's Church, he said reading it would distract me from my anxiety, but I told him I had come on my bicycle and could not carry the large book.
The next Sunday I went to Church and, together with others, greeted the priest as he was leaving. It was the last time I saw him. The next Sunday, Easter, I was trying to figure out how I could go to church and then get groceries. The ShopRite store did not deliver. I thought I could bike to church and then bike to the apartment where I would leave the bike and then walk to the grocery store. I just kept trying to think of how I would do this until it was too late to make it to church on the most important day in the Catholic calendar, Easter Sunday. This was not a positive development.
I really grew to dislike the ShopRite. In Manhattan we had D'agostino two blocks away and many other grocery stores in the neighborhood. The ShopRite in Yonkers is about ten blocks away and they don't deliver (now they do online only). I would go there with my grocery shopping bag and for some reason I was never able to get everything we needed. I never had this problem in Manhattan, using the same grocery bag. But I guess the reason for that is the fact that in Manhattan I went outside more often. Saturday I would see a movie on 86th street and go to the Fairway grocery store there and Sunday I would go to St. Joseph's Church on 87th street and go to the Gristedes grocery store there. That's the only explanation I can think of for this very odd inability to stock enough food in our apartment. This problem was compounded by the fact that almost as soon as we arrived in Yonkers I had the worst case of constipation imaginable. I didn't have a bowel movement for several weeks. This made it very difficult to eat anything.
Gradually, I stopped going to ShopRite. Instead, I would frequently go to a nearby convenience store that makes sandwiches. I kept buying two orders of chicken quesadillas, which were three per order, so that's six quesadillas total. My mother got sick of it. She wanted to eat other things, just like any normal person would want, but apparently I had developed some kind of phobia about ShopRite. It wasn't that close and I was never able to bring everything we needed. I just loathed that grocery store. So I kept going to the convenience store across the street. And I would only eat one of the quesadillas and leave the rest for my mother. I also rarely drank her ensure so that she would have more and I wouldn't have to buy more sooner. I sort of stopped eating because of severe constipation and the fear that if I ate too much of the food there would be nothing for my mother and I would have to go out to buy more food.
One night in 2018, after losing too much weight and being severely malnourished, I went out to get some more chicken quesadillas. As soon as I stepped outside I felt so weak. I had trouble breathing. When I was just a few feet away from the store, I felt like turning around and going back to the apartment. But I continued moving forward. Inside the store I had some trouble deciding if I should get chicken or vegetable quesadillas, and the man at the counter, said, "One chicken quesadilla and one vegetable," and I said, "Yeah." Then, waiting for my food, I moved to a spot where I could lean against the counter, still breathing strangely. When I was handed the bag of food I felt too weak to carry it, and I immediately collapsed to the floor. I was still conscious, but feeling to weak to stand for a moment. Some people helped me up and someone called an ambulance which arrived immediately.
I remember there were three paramedics, two men and a woman. I didn't get a good look at one of the men, the driver, but I was examined by the other man and the woman. I said I don't want to go to the hospital. The woman said I don't have to go to the hospital they just want to examine me, so I got in the ambulance and they examined me. Apparently, my condition was serious enough that one of them said if I don't go to the hospital, I could die walking down the street. So I said I would go to the hospital. Without delay, the ambulance speeded to St. Joseph's Hospital, a place I would grow to loathe and fear like nothing else I have ever loathed and feared on earth.
For some time, since we arrived in Yonkers, I felt like I was being punished for my sins. When we arrived at the hospital, I asked the comely female paramedic what her name was, and was taken aback when she answered, "Sin." This did not make me feel better. I also recall my last weekend in Manhattan, I wondered what would be the last Cinemax movie I would see in the apartment, our true home. The movie was "Drag me to hell." And I even recall picking up a piece of trash on the street that said, "You are going to hell." Another day another piece of trash said something about a place called "Hell Gate." I never considered myself a superstitious person, but there certainly seemed to be an abundance of circumstantial evidence suggesting an unpleasant future lay ahead.Why, you ask, would I fear being punished? Because since we moved to Yonkers I dropped out of life. I stopped doing anything. I just slept and got up to go to the bathroom. I didn't keep track of our finances, the taxes, or anything. I didn't take my mother to appointments she had. She wanted the phone number of a doctor we had visited once and I lied and said I didn't have it. Why did I do that? Because I felt that doctor was too far away and I worried about being stranded and lost and spending money and everything. I think I became somewhat agorophobic. I was just scared of going anywhere.
I should mention at this point that earlier, while we were still in Manhattan, in October 2017, on Friday the 13th, my mother was hearing voices. She said my father, who had passed, and my God-mother, who was in Texas at the time, told her to call 911. The first time she called I thought she was trying to reach my God-mother. She said, "They want to talk to you," and handed me the phone. That's when I heard, "911, what is your emergency?" Stunned, I said there was no emergency, my mother just called because she is hearing voices.
A few minutes later, I was in bed, wondering who I should speak to about my mother hearing voices. I thought I should contact a social worker I knew from New York Presbyterian Hospital. Then I heard my mother on the phone again. I got up and asked, "Did you call 911 again?" And she paused a moment to think, and then said, "Yes, I think I did." I said, "They're going to send someone now."Minutes later I explained to police and paramedics that this was the second time she called 911 tonight. I told them she was hearing voices and a police officer asked me if I wanted to send her to New York Presbyterian Hospital where they have a Psychiatric unit. I said, "I don't want to send her to the hospital, but if you guys leave she's going to call 911 again." So they took her to the hospital. At first she didn't want to go, she said, "You can shoot me, but I'm not going." But we finally went to the Hospital.
She was in the Psychiatric unit for a month. At first she acted quite hostile and paranoid, but they tried different medications and eventually gave her Haldol which seemed to stabalize her, but it also seemed to make her less lucid, like she was half-awake. I visited her in the hospital every day, just like I did with my father. I really felt like I worked at New York Presbyterian after gioing there everyday for months.
Once released from the hospital, I took my mother home and each day gave her several medications, one of them Haldol. I was instructed to take her once a month to Manhattan Hospital for a Haldol injection that lasts for a month. At the hospital I was told to stop giving her the Haldol pill because it makes people sluggish. The injection once a month was much better.
I should also mention that my mother had taken klonopin for twenty five or thirty years. My father had prescribed it for her to reduce anxiety. She ended up using it like a sleeping pill, a drug that would knock her out. And when she woke up she was sometimes in a foul mood. Without going into geater detail, I'll just say I think klonopin might be the worst thing that ever happened to my mother. But when she stopped taking it she had severe trouble sleeping. That's when she started hearing voices. And earlier in 2017 she was seeing hand written notes that did not exist on any of the blank pages she was reading from. I told her the pages were blank and she insisted that she saw hand writing. This phase or whatever it was thankfully stopped happening, but she sometimes had trouble telling the difference between her dreams and reality. One time she woke up and thought there was a dead body in a closet. I told her she had been dreaming and it was hard for her to believe it.
So now that we were in Yonkers it was my responsibility to give her the medications that had been prescribed. At first I made a feeble attempt to do this, but soon I stopped giving any medications, just like I stopped doing anything else. However, it is worth noting that this apparent negligence on my part has ultimately been a positive thing because she has never again heard voices, and so obviously does not need to be taking Haldol with all its side effects.
Returning back to my first hospitalization in Yonkers, they hooked me up with an IV drip for hydration and a doctor spoke to me. I gave him my sob story about my father passing and moving out of our home in Manhattan. I told him about my constipation and the trouble I had bringing enough food into the apartment. He said something about a social worker possibly helping me with these issues. At some point I called my mother and told her I had collapsed at the store and I was now in the hospital. She was very glad I called because she was worried. Later, the doctor asked me if I felt well enough to go back to the apartment or did I want to stay overnight. I paused, and he decided they would keep me overnight.
The next morning I awoke surprised to find myself wearing a hospital gown. I have no memory of changing my clothes. I don't see how it is possible to sleep through such a change of clothing. How could they take my clothes off and put me in a gown without waking me up? Welcome to the twilight zone.
In the morning someone brought me breakfast. I don't remember what it was, but I probably didn't eat much of it due to my constipation. I will say that the food at St. Joseph's Hospital was good, but that's the only positive thing I have to say about the place.
At some point they attached some wires and pads on my chest to examine my heart. Then I told a doctor that my mother was alone and I had to go help her and he said they could not release me because of my poor condition. I remember walking around with my voice raised, demanding that someone bring some food to my mother. I was very concerned that she would not have anything to eat. I was told that a social worker would be sent to her, but that never happened. The doctor who said they couldn't release me said they located a doctor who lives in our building and supposedly he would assist my mother, but that never happened either.
My first time in St. Joseph's Hospital was quite bizarre. Whenever they gave me medication, I had trouble breathing. At the time I thought the drugs were causing the breathing problem, but later, during my second hospitalization, I no longer had trouble breathing with or without medication. It was about three years later, at Regency, where I am now, that I discovered the breathing trouble was actually a panic attack. I believe my first truly severe panic attack occurred in 2021, at Regency. Given that I never had breathing trouble during my second and third hospitalizations, it seems clear the breathing issue I experienced during my first hospitalization was a panic attack and not drug related.
So there I was at St. Joseph's Hospital in 2018. That first morning my mother called my room and told me she had spoken to a psychiatrist who was talking about having me committed because I was so malnourished. She said she had at first agreed with him, but then changed her mind and wanted me to call him and tell him I don't want to be committed. So I called the doctor, (I'll call him Dr. Accent) and he said sternly, "It's up to the committee," and hung up on me. Dr. Accent was my least favorite doctor, in fact he was probably one of my least favorite humans, but I had very little contact with him during my first hospitalization that lasted about ten days. During my second trip to the hospital, which lasted about a month, I would have more dealings with him and some other people who gave me the creeps.
The phone system at St. Joseph's Hospital was also weird. They give you a weird looking wireless phone and your first call is free, but any calls after that require a fee. I found it very inconvenient.So my first time in the hospital I had trouble breathing whenever they gave me medication. For hours I had some kind of shortness of breath and I felt like my heart would explode. It was terrible, but not as bad as the panic attacks I had in 2021 and 2023, attacks that really felt like breathing had stopped. I can't describe it. You would have to experience it yourself to believe that such a thing could be possible. Thankfully, the most severe panic attacks did not occur often. But more frequently I would experience a terrible fear of having a severe attack that never came. I would sometimes try to sleep while dreading another attack would occur as soon as I woke up. It has taken some time, but I have learned to manage these attacks by doing what I call "Embrace and Engage." Instead of fearing the day ahead, look forward to it, embrace and engage it, and if possible even try to enjoy it. Enjoy reading a book, or writing your second novel, or chatting on Facebook, or watching TV. Whatever it takes, just don't panic.
That first hospitalization I also met another psychiatrist (I'll call him Dr. Glasses) who spoke to me briefly. He asked me if I ever heard voices and I said no I don't hear voices. I told him I was having difficulty managing and he seemed to accept that. He said something like he couldn't put me in a mental unit without any psychotic symptoms. That's not exactly what he said, but it was something like that. He was basically saying I was not a mental case.
I remember one night at the hospital I was having difficulty breathing. I was just laying in bed, trying to sleep and I felt like I was going to go through all eternity with this labored breathing. I just kept breathing and breathing, and then I found two women in my room staring at me. "Are you scared?" one of them asked. "Yes," I replied. Then she asked me if I had a bowel movement and I said I did. That brief exchange apparently corrected my breathing becsause I was able to fall asleep afterward.
Another day I was having terrible anxiety, watching the hours pass, dreading the medication they would give me. I just kept staring at the clock, desperately trying to think of a way out of the hospital. I was so terrified of the medication, believing that it was the cause of my breathing trouble.Then, quite suddenly, a woman entered the room, saying, "Here are your discharge papers." I was being discharged from the hospital that day. At first I was glad to hear that, thinking I might escape the medication. But later a doctor and someone else came to give me the pills and I resisted. I said it would kill me and the doctor said it would not kill me. I finally swallowed them. Then my lunch came. It was fish fillet. Somehow, I got this idea in my head that the fish could "absorb" the medication and I would be able to breathe. Don't ask me how this idea got in my head, but I'm glad it did because I had no trouble breathing. At the time I still did not know I was having panic attacks. I really thought the medication caused my breathing problems.
Before they discharged me I said I cannot be forced to take medication. I refused to take any more medication and I insisted that they do not put any medication in my discharge papers. They reluctantly agreed and I was discharged without a list of medications to take in the future. But I knew I still needed something for the constipation. But, apparently having very little common sense at the time, I took nothing for my condition. I tried prune juice, which I believe helped me years before, when I had constipation for a few days, but this time it didn't help much, but that may be because I really didn't drink much of it.
Also on my mind was the expense of the ten days in the hospital. I was told that I had Medicaid, but before I was hospitalized there had been some issues with my Medicaid so I was concerned about possible expenses I would incur.
I remember getting dressed to leave the hospital, thinking that I have no where to go for help. I still had constipation, I still couldn't bring enough groceries in my grocery bag, and I still had some kind of agoraphobia. Anyone with common sense would have taken medication for constipation and purchased a larger grocery bag. But I just stayed on my nonsensical path to oblivion.This was my first, and sadly not my last, taste of the twilight zone.
22. The Twilight Zone - Part Two: The Second Floor
After ten days in St. Joseph's Hospital, I was discharged and driven, free of charge, back to the apartment. Once there, I was surprised to find there was more food than I had remembered, but some of it was decaying now. I still didn't want to go to the ShopRite ten blocks away with a grocery bag that was not big enough for all that we needed. So I asked the concierge in our building if there was a grocery store that delivered and he gave me the phone number for Cherry Valley. I started ordering groceries over the phone, but it wasn't the most convenient method and I still wasn't getting everything I wanted to get. I would call them and tell them what I want and then they would call me back and tell me if they had everything. Then they would send it and the delivery people in the car would sometimes call for us to come down and open the door because the concierge was not there. Then I would pay with a card and give the tip in cash. I was always worried that I didn't have enough cash in the apartment, but I probably could have added the tip to the card. I remember one time my mother was literally begging me to order some groceries. She didn't want to do it because she said people don't understand her accent. This is something she said at certain times, and it was just ridiculous because she speaks perfect English and has ordered many things over the phone in the past. She kept begging me to order some groceries and I kept delaying because I only had a bunch of quarters for cash. I didn't tell her why I was delaying, but at some point I discovered she had some cash so then I called to order the food.
It was this kind of neglect that made me feel like I was a bad person. For some time I actually thought I might be arrested by police for neglecting my mother. Before my first hospitalization, I had taken her to St. Joseph's hospital because it was relatively nearby. But once there I was told to make sure that her insurance covered the visit because sometimes Medicare does not cover the expense. So I called a number and was told something about in network and out network and was told her expense would be about $1,000 out of network and much cheaper in network. So I made an appointment at Montefiore, apparently an in-network place covered by insurance. Some days later, another woman at St. Joseph's would tell me the opposite, insisting that Medicare definitely covers the visits.
Montefiore was not nearby. At some point a woman asked my mother what she had eaten today and my mother said she had eight grapes. The woman then asked me to leave the room so she could speak to my mother in private, obviously concerned about how she was being treated. I really felt like the cops were coming to hand me a brand new set of shiny, steel bracelets.
I remember the doctor was trying to schedule another appointment and I said the place was not nearby and I don't drive. She asked me how I got there today and I said we took a cab. I was so disorganized at this point and it was just going to get worse. When my mother asked me later for this doctor's phone number I lied and said I couldn't find it. Again, I felt so disoriented and lost in Yonkers. I was afraid of getting lost or stranded and not having enough cash for the car services or deliveries or anything. I was so ashamed, in fact, that when my best friend Chris called on my phone, I saw it was him and didn't answer because I didn't want him to find out I was neglecting my mother. A few days later he called a second time on the landline and left a message that I didn't answer. That's how ashamed I felt. Two years would pass before I finally reached out to him.
At some point, I don't remember exactly when, we had a terrible flood in the apartment. It came from the bathroom outside my room and stretched into the living room. We had problems with flooding before, leaking from both the tub and toilet, but never anything as big as this. A few days later they tore up the floor and put in new wood for the floor. This had actually happened to us in Manhattan more than once beginning in 2005, when water leaked from an air conditioner, but we had lived there for several decades without any such problem. In Yonkers, even before we had actually moved in, I got a call from the concierge informing me of a plumbing issue in the bathroom. I explained that I wasn't even in Yonkers yet and knew nothing about the flood.
So now I was ordering groceries from Cherry Valley. Still not getting enough food. Still severely constipated. Still not eating very much. I don't know how long I was there before I fell again, but I did fall, more than once I think. One time I hit my head and was bleeding. I went to get some water and discovered the water was shut off. At first I thought maybe we owed rent money and they shut off the water, but then I read a notice explaining the temporary shut down. What unfortunate timing. Thankfully I had ordered some bottled water and I used that for my bleeding head.
Another day I fell in my room and my mother heard it. She asked me if I fell and I said yes and the she called an ambulance. I didn't want to go to the hospital. One paramedic asked me if I knew today's date and who was the president and I answered both questions correclty. He said the way I look and answered they couldn't take me against my will. But my mother was literally screaming at me to go with them. She even wrote a note she wanted the paramedics to give to a doctor. I kept saying I can't breathe when they give me medication at the hospital. And she kept screaming at me to go. I said that if I didn't go she would just call another ambulance, and the paramedic replied, "It's a circle." And I reluctantly agreed to go to the hospital. But even after we stepped out of the apartment, I was still conflicted, saying I don't want to go, and the paramedic, becoming impatient, asked me something like, "Have we been patient and fair with you?" I agreed they had been, but I knocked on the door and asked my mother to open and I think she could tell that I was going to go with them, I justed wanted to ask her something, so she opened the door and I asked for another $20 bill which she gave me. Then I went to St. Joseph's Hospital for the second time.
As I was being checked into the hospital a woman wanted me to sign in and I said that I didn't want to and she was going to let me go, but then another doctor insisted that I could not leave because of my emaciated state. I think he found a psychiatrist to keep me there. I spent a long time regretting my decision to go with the paramedics. But I was afraid if I didn't, some other paramedics would take me either to St. Joseph's or some place farther away. I just kept imagining what would have happened if I had refused to go.
I dreaded being rolled around in a stretcher, entering the gloomy, creepy elevator, seeing all the creepy doctors and nurses I saw last time. I was just totally creeped out by the whole experience. But, oddly, I did not have any panic attacks. I was full of dread and fear, but my breathing was fine. I never wanted to take any medication, but this time I didn't have any trouble breathing after taking the pills they gave me. But I was still afraid of drugs.
At this point, I wasn't doing anything. I just slept, woke up, ate some food, and spent the days pondering all the terrible things that might happen. I didn't read books or watch TV or listen to music or do anything except brood about the misery of my existence. I also still didn't eat very much. For some reason I would eat the breakfast, usually pancakes and oatmeal, but many times I would eat very little of the lunch or dinner. I especially avoided red meat.
One day my mother called me and said there was another flood, even bigger than the first one. She said the water went out into the hallway and a neighbor helped her and I think a maintenance person must have come with the special vacuum device they use for floods. This time they didn't tear up the floor. And at some point my mother said there was a third flood, and again they did not replace the floor.
I ran into Dr. Glasses (not his real name) one day and he asked me if my father, a psychiatrist, had ever diagnosed me or given me drugs, and I said that I have OCD and I think I mentioned I had briefly tried some samples of paxil that my father kept at home. Dr. Glasses said at our first meeting he felt I had been candid with him, telling him I was having trouble managing, but now he was becoming more concerned about my condition. He cautioned me not to lose any more weight or else he would have to put me in a psychiatric unit. Then he showed me a phone number I had given him the first time I was admitted. I told him my voice is on the answering machine, but he could reach my mother with that number. He said when he had called and heard my vioice he thought it was just my number. Now he would call again to speak to my mother.
Not long after I spoke with him, I heard some people talking outside my room and one of the doctors said something about an undiagnosed schizophrenic. I hoped they weren't talking about me.
Every day a woman was always stationed outside my room. They came in shifts and there was one in particular who was very outspoken and frequently berated me for not eating. Then one day I heard her telling someone that I was being sent to the second floor where all the crazies are. This was not what I wanted to hear.
I remember when they took me in a wheel chair (they thought I was a fall risk because sometimes, not often, I collapsed) to the infamous second floor, the psychiatric unit for the mental cases. As they wheeled me into the unit I thought of my mother when she was hospitalized on the eleventh floor at New York Presbyterian, also a psychiatric unit. I also thought of my father's mother, who passed away in a mental institution when he was a child. And my mother's mother, who cared so much for people and animals, had some kind of OCD, hoarding cats and dogs and even some relatives in her house.
I really hated being on the second floor. I remember one night, staring out the window, wondering how I ended up in a psychiatric unit. I was beyond depressed. I felt so alone.
Then one day the phone in the hall rings and someone tells me it's for me and I take the phone and talk to my mother for a few seconds and then collapse to the floor, still malnourished. Some people helped me get up from the floor and when I was on my feet again, Dr. Accent (the one I dreaded the most) said, "Question. Do you want to die?" I said, "No," and then was immediately taken on a stretcher to the hospital on the upper floor again.
Upstairs in the hospital, still afraid of the medications they gave me, I pleaded with them not to give me any pills that day. I don't remember if they did or not, but I did receive plenty of medications after that day. I believe I was in the hospital for a month this time, though it really seemed much longer. I had lost so much weight that my pants were falling. In the psychiatric unit I was not allowed a belt, probably because some people are inclined to hang themselves, so somebody tied something around my pants to hold them up.
At some point, I was moved to another room. When I saw my new roommate I was filled with more fear and dread. This guy was wrapped up like a mummy. His mouth was free, but his hands seemed like they might be restrained. He would sometimes mumble things, but was usually quiet. I was afraid that I might get restrained.
The weirdest thing I saw in that room may be the weirdest thing I have ever seen. Late at night, I awoke and in the darkness saw a naked black man on top of the mummified man. It looked like he was clipping the mummy's toe nails. I have never hallucinated or heard voices. I am telling you for a fact that I saw what I saw. So when I call that hospital the twilight zone you know I'm not fooling around.
At some point, with a different, normal-looking roommate who was not wrapped up like a mummy, I was visited by my cousin Ingrid and her father Jose, both attorneys, who came to check on me. Since they were going to visit my mother I gave them my keys, including a special security eletronic key needed to open the front doors. I should have kept the keys and let the concierge open the door for them, but I wanted to help. It was so weird being visited by people who felt like they were part of another life, a dream I had lived in Manhattan. They visited me twice in Yonkers and Ingrid's husband, Bill, still keeps in touch on Facebook.
You've heard the expression, "Things are going to get worse before they get better." No truer words could ever be spoken about what came next, my third hospitalization. When you hit rock bottom, the only way out is up.
I hope.
It was this kind of neglect that made me feel like I was a bad person. For some time I actually thought I might be arrested by police for neglecting my mother. Before my first hospitalization, I had taken her to St. Joseph's hospital because it was relatively nearby. But once there I was told to make sure that her insurance covered the visit because sometimes Medicare does not cover the expense. So I called a number and was told something about in network and out network and was told her expense would be about $1,000 out of network and much cheaper in network. So I made an appointment at Montefiore, apparently an in-network place covered by insurance. Some days later, another woman at St. Joseph's would tell me the opposite, insisting that Medicare definitely covers the visits.
Montefiore was not nearby. At some point a woman asked my mother what she had eaten today and my mother said she had eight grapes. The woman then asked me to leave the room so she could speak to my mother in private, obviously concerned about how she was being treated. I really felt like the cops were coming to hand me a brand new set of shiny, steel bracelets.
I remember the doctor was trying to schedule another appointment and I said the place was not nearby and I don't drive. She asked me how I got there today and I said we took a cab. I was so disorganized at this point and it was just going to get worse. When my mother asked me later for this doctor's phone number I lied and said I couldn't find it. Again, I felt so disoriented and lost in Yonkers. I was afraid of getting lost or stranded and not having enough cash for the car services or deliveries or anything. I was so ashamed, in fact, that when my best friend Chris called on my phone, I saw it was him and didn't answer because I didn't want him to find out I was neglecting my mother. A few days later he called a second time on the landline and left a message that I didn't answer. That's how ashamed I felt. Two years would pass before I finally reached out to him.
At some point, I don't remember exactly when, we had a terrible flood in the apartment. It came from the bathroom outside my room and stretched into the living room. We had problems with flooding before, leaking from both the tub and toilet, but never anything as big as this. A few days later they tore up the floor and put in new wood for the floor. This had actually happened to us in Manhattan more than once beginning in 2005, when water leaked from an air conditioner, but we had lived there for several decades without any such problem. In Yonkers, even before we had actually moved in, I got a call from the concierge informing me of a plumbing issue in the bathroom. I explained that I wasn't even in Yonkers yet and knew nothing about the flood.
So now I was ordering groceries from Cherry Valley. Still not getting enough food. Still severely constipated. Still not eating very much. I don't know how long I was there before I fell again, but I did fall, more than once I think. One time I hit my head and was bleeding. I went to get some water and discovered the water was shut off. At first I thought maybe we owed rent money and they shut off the water, but then I read a notice explaining the temporary shut down. What unfortunate timing. Thankfully I had ordered some bottled water and I used that for my bleeding head.
Another day I fell in my room and my mother heard it. She asked me if I fell and I said yes and the she called an ambulance. I didn't want to go to the hospital. One paramedic asked me if I knew today's date and who was the president and I answered both questions correclty. He said the way I look and answered they couldn't take me against my will. But my mother was literally screaming at me to go with them. She even wrote a note she wanted the paramedics to give to a doctor. I kept saying I can't breathe when they give me medication at the hospital. And she kept screaming at me to go. I said that if I didn't go she would just call another ambulance, and the paramedic replied, "It's a circle." And I reluctantly agreed to go to the hospital. But even after we stepped out of the apartment, I was still conflicted, saying I don't want to go, and the paramedic, becoming impatient, asked me something like, "Have we been patient and fair with you?" I agreed they had been, but I knocked on the door and asked my mother to open and I think she could tell that I was going to go with them, I justed wanted to ask her something, so she opened the door and I asked for another $20 bill which she gave me. Then I went to St. Joseph's Hospital for the second time.
As I was being checked into the hospital a woman wanted me to sign in and I said that I didn't want to and she was going to let me go, but then another doctor insisted that I could not leave because of my emaciated state. I think he found a psychiatrist to keep me there. I spent a long time regretting my decision to go with the paramedics. But I was afraid if I didn't, some other paramedics would take me either to St. Joseph's or some place farther away. I just kept imagining what would have happened if I had refused to go.
I dreaded being rolled around in a stretcher, entering the gloomy, creepy elevator, seeing all the creepy doctors and nurses I saw last time. I was just totally creeped out by the whole experience. But, oddly, I did not have any panic attacks. I was full of dread and fear, but my breathing was fine. I never wanted to take any medication, but this time I didn't have any trouble breathing after taking the pills they gave me. But I was still afraid of drugs.
At this point, I wasn't doing anything. I just slept, woke up, ate some food, and spent the days pondering all the terrible things that might happen. I didn't read books or watch TV or listen to music or do anything except brood about the misery of my existence. I also still didn't eat very much. For some reason I would eat the breakfast, usually pancakes and oatmeal, but many times I would eat very little of the lunch or dinner. I especially avoided red meat.
One day my mother called me and said there was another flood, even bigger than the first one. She said the water went out into the hallway and a neighbor helped her and I think a maintenance person must have come with the special vacuum device they use for floods. This time they didn't tear up the floor. And at some point my mother said there was a third flood, and again they did not replace the floor.
I ran into Dr. Glasses (not his real name) one day and he asked me if my father, a psychiatrist, had ever diagnosed me or given me drugs, and I said that I have OCD and I think I mentioned I had briefly tried some samples of paxil that my father kept at home. Dr. Glasses said at our first meeting he felt I had been candid with him, telling him I was having trouble managing, but now he was becoming more concerned about my condition. He cautioned me not to lose any more weight or else he would have to put me in a psychiatric unit. Then he showed me a phone number I had given him the first time I was admitted. I told him my voice is on the answering machine, but he could reach my mother with that number. He said when he had called and heard my vioice he thought it was just my number. Now he would call again to speak to my mother.
Not long after I spoke with him, I heard some people talking outside my room and one of the doctors said something about an undiagnosed schizophrenic. I hoped they weren't talking about me.
Every day a woman was always stationed outside my room. They came in shifts and there was one in particular who was very outspoken and frequently berated me for not eating. Then one day I heard her telling someone that I was being sent to the second floor where all the crazies are. This was not what I wanted to hear.
I remember when they took me in a wheel chair (they thought I was a fall risk because sometimes, not often, I collapsed) to the infamous second floor, the psychiatric unit for the mental cases. As they wheeled me into the unit I thought of my mother when she was hospitalized on the eleventh floor at New York Presbyterian, also a psychiatric unit. I also thought of my father's mother, who passed away in a mental institution when he was a child. And my mother's mother, who cared so much for people and animals, had some kind of OCD, hoarding cats and dogs and even some relatives in her house.
I really hated being on the second floor. I remember one night, staring out the window, wondering how I ended up in a psychiatric unit. I was beyond depressed. I felt so alone.
Then one day the phone in the hall rings and someone tells me it's for me and I take the phone and talk to my mother for a few seconds and then collapse to the floor, still malnourished. Some people helped me get up from the floor and when I was on my feet again, Dr. Accent (the one I dreaded the most) said, "Question. Do you want to die?" I said, "No," and then was immediately taken on a stretcher to the hospital on the upper floor again.
Upstairs in the hospital, still afraid of the medications they gave me, I pleaded with them not to give me any pills that day. I don't remember if they did or not, but I did receive plenty of medications after that day. I believe I was in the hospital for a month this time, though it really seemed much longer. I had lost so much weight that my pants were falling. In the psychiatric unit I was not allowed a belt, probably because some people are inclined to hang themselves, so somebody tied something around my pants to hold them up.
At some point, I was moved to another room. When I saw my new roommate I was filled with more fear and dread. This guy was wrapped up like a mummy. His mouth was free, but his hands seemed like they might be restrained. He would sometimes mumble things, but was usually quiet. I was afraid that I might get restrained.
The weirdest thing I saw in that room may be the weirdest thing I have ever seen. Late at night, I awoke and in the darkness saw a naked black man on top of the mummified man. It looked like he was clipping the mummy's toe nails. I have never hallucinated or heard voices. I am telling you for a fact that I saw what I saw. So when I call that hospital the twilight zone you know I'm not fooling around.
At some point, with a different, normal-looking roommate who was not wrapped up like a mummy, I was visited by my cousin Ingrid and her father Jose, both attorneys, who came to check on me. Since they were going to visit my mother I gave them my keys, including a special security eletronic key needed to open the front doors. I should have kept the keys and let the concierge open the door for them, but I wanted to help. It was so weird being visited by people who felt like they were part of another life, a dream I had lived in Manhattan. They visited me twice in Yonkers and Ingrid's husband, Bill, still keeps in touch on Facebook.
You've heard the expression, "Things are going to get worse before they get better." No truer words could ever be spoken about what came next, my third hospitalization. When you hit rock bottom, the only way out is up.
I hope.
23. The Twilight Zone - Part Three: The Third Floor
During my second hospitalization my constipation was so bad at one point I had an enema. Another time a gastroenterologist examined me, placing his hand in my anus, and said I was very impacted and if I didn't have any bowel movements he would have to do a surgical procedure. He gave me a huge container filled with something that seemed like gatorade and told me to drink it frequently. The thing was huge. I never finished it.
For a few weeks no one was certain where I should be sent. There was some talk of a rehab facility somewhere, and someone from a rehab actually came to speak to me and give me a brochure. I was scared that I might get sent to some far away place. Then I was told that I was being discharged and I could go back to the apartment with my mother. I remember when my mother called to give me the news. She asked me why I didn't sound happy about coming back and I said I was concerned because I had trouble there in the past. Basically, I was afraid that I was just going to end up in the hospital again. But something was different this time. My mother said that Medicaid refused to pay for this month in the hospital. She said they had informed her that we could appeal this decision and we had a few weeks to respond. She was very concerned about the hospital bill, thinking it could be about $50,000.
When I was discharged, Dr. Isaac (one of the few doctors who was not creepy) said that Dr. Accent (the creepiest one whom I dreaded the most) might be able to write a letter to Medicaid to resolve the financial issue. I really dreaded any dealings with Dr. Accent. I did not want him involved in my affairs.
I remember the day I was discharged from St. Joseph's Hospital for the second time. I took my hospital gown off and put my clothes on and a woman gave me some papers with a list of medications I was supposed to take. She told me after dinner I should just leave. So after spaghetti and meatballs I started on my way out. The driver escorting me said, "I remember you. One Van Der," referring to my address, 1 Van Der Donck. He had driven me back after my first hospitalization and recalled the address. Before we got in the elevator, I asked for some ensure to take with me, not knowing what the food situation in the apartment was like. I was given two bottles.
Downstairs, walking toward the exit of the hospital, I passed by Dr. Glasses (the second creepiest doctor) and felt like I would see him again in the very near future. Stepping outside, I could not enjoy the pleasant weather, thinking only of my seemingly inescapable, inevitable return to St. Joseph's Hospital. I was conflicted. I did not like the hospital, but I also did not like my situation in the apartment. I just did not know what to do.
Back in the apartment with my mother, I managed to shave the beard I had grown at the hospital with my two shavers, both of them not working properly. With the Remington I used the trimmer to cut the long hairs and then used the Braun to cut the short hairs. I really needed a new shaver.
My mother had been managing to order groceries from Cherry Valley and a close family friend who lives in Beverly Hills, Rita, after spending hours on the phone, finally got an agency that helps the elderly to deliver meals to my mother five days a week, one meal per day. Something I feel I should have done. I should have been going to the grocery store with a larger grocery bag and brought my mother everything she needed. I also should have taken her to her doctors appointments. But, as usual, I did nothing.
Each day I stayed in bed until the meal arrived around 1 PM. I would then get up to see what came and my mother would always tell me to have some or all of it. Throughout the day my mother would often tell me to eat something. Before my second hospitalization she would often threaten to call an ambulance if I didn't eat. But things were different this time because Medicaid said they would not cover my last visit. So she felt the hospital was no longer an option. At least, that's how she felt at first.
The next day after my return to the apartment, on a Friday, a social worker came to visit my mother and decided we should both be in a hospital. We told her we had both been to St. Joseph's Hospital and she said we should try St. John's Hospital. My mother and I did not want to go and the paramedics called their supervisor who came and said my mother should go to the hospital. She really felt coerced by the social worker and ended up going with the paramedics, but she said she would only go if I accompanied her. I insisted that I did not want to be admitted to another hospital and the supervisor told me I didn't have to be admitted, but he wanted me to come so that my mother would go with them. We went outside with my mother on a stretcher, and I suddenly decided I wanted to get my shaver, just in case I was placed in another hospital. I told them how long it had taken me to shave the beard I had grown at St. Joseph's Hospital, but the supervisor insisted that I come with them right now. Looking back on it, I think I should have insisted that I was not going, but my mother wanted me to accompany her so I did.
At St. John's Hospital my mother was admitted and we both ate dinner there. I had some kind of large fish and she had chicken. I spent many hours downstairs in a small waiting area, watching a movie, A Bronx Tale, on TV. At some point I got potato chips from a vending machine while debating whether I should wait there all night or go back to the apartment. But I needed a key to the apartment and I had given mine to my cousin Ingrid. Fortunately, my mother found my key in her purse.
Later, when she had been moved to a room upstairs, I took an elevator and went to her room and was told I had to go back downstairs. So I went downstairs and asked someone if I could possibly receive breakfast there in the morning if I stayed all night and she didn't seem to think I could, but she said I could wait there.
At some point the small waiting area was closed and I went to a larger area where I saw a few people sitting. But the TV in the smaller area was still on and I wanted to take a quick peek at what it was showing. As soon as I did that a security person told me I had to leave because visiting hours were over. It seemed strange because I saw people who looked like visitors sitting in a large area. I asked him if he could call a car service for me and he did. While waiting for the car I went to another vending machine and got some granola bars, knowing there wasn't much food in the apartment. I actually went up to the security officer and said, "This is personal, right?" And he insisted it was nothing personal, saying he was in charge and visiting hours were over, and I said, "I know, that's why I'm leaving."
In the car coming back to the apartment, I wasn't able to enjoy the music playing or the pleasant ride, I was just anxious about everything. But still no panic attacks. I got back to the apartment around 2 AM. It was the first night I was alone in the apartment. Soon after waking up on Saturday I called the hospital to talk to my mother. She was very concerned about me because there wasn't much food in the apartment. I told her I had an egg. Later, I went to the convenience store and bought some frozen meals, not realizing they were made for microwave ovens which I loathe because they kill all the vitamins in food, only the minerals survive the radiation. I also bought a Digiorno pizza and some granola bars. Not much nutrition. Again, I should have purchased a large grocery bag and made a trip to ShopRite and brought back all the food we needed like I did for years in Manhattan.
One of my mother's friends, Juan Bastos, an artist who has painted many portraits for celebrities, called and we talked for a while. He was concerned that now that my mother was in the hospital she might lose the meals that came five days a week. He told me Rita had spent hours on the phone arranging it and cautioned me not to lose it. Not sure what he expected me to do or say if they found out she was not in the apartment. Fortunately, on Monday when a woman came to deliver the meal she did not require my mother to sign for it. She signed it for my mother. This happened every day that my mother was in the hospital, but as soon as my mother returned, another woman would routinely enter the apartment to see that my mother was there. It was very fortunate that woman had not come earlier to inspect.
When my mother was finally discharged from the hospital, someone called me and asked who was coming to pick her up. Still somewhat agoraphobic, I didn't want to call a car service and spend more cash so I asked if she had money for a cab or if they had an ambulance that could take a card. They had to check and find out and called me back later and said she had a card and was going to pay an ambulance to transport her back to the apartment. I was relieved that I did not have to make a trip to the hospital, but I still felt ashamed that I was too disorganized to venture out and pick up my mother the way a son should.
My mother had a woman, Maria, who would come to help with cooking and laundry and cleaning. I remember one day I got out of bed and walked a few steps, then a moment later I found myself on the floor with Maria kneeling by me, trying to revive me. My mother said she almost called an ambulance, but did not do so because Medicaid would not cover it.
My mother urgently wanted to appeal Medicaid's refusal to cover my stay at the hospital. She wanted Jose, an attorney in Puerto Rico, the same Jose who visited me with his daughter Ingrid, my cousin, to review the papers from Medicaid. She also wanted Dr. Accent (the doctor I dreaded more than any other doctor on earth) to write a letter on my behalf, as Dr. Isaac had suggested he might do. I didn't want to involve Dr. Accent in any of my affairs. And for some reason I didn't want to involve my relatives either. Several times I sat in front of my laptop, trying to e-mail Jose the information he wanted, but each time I chose not to send it. I don't know why I was so reluctant to involve them. My mother and I had quite an altercation regarding the papers and the Medicaid deadline. She ended up talking to Dr. Accent on the phone and mailing him some papers. I have no idea what happened after that. Apparently Medicaid stopped bothering us and my mother stopped worrying about it.
At some point my mother was on the phone with Rita, the woman who got her the daily meals, and Rita decided to call an ambulance for both of us. A few minutes later we were talking to the same paramedic supervisor we had met before and we both refused to go to the hospital. He said he knew that we would, and told us if we ever need medical attention to call them and they could check us out for free.
In October 2018, I still wasn't eating very much, but I wasn't collapsing either. One night my mother told me to eat a banana and to have an ensure and I did. Then at some point I got in bed. She entered my room and when she saw that I wasn't asleep, she said, "Well at least you're in the sleeping position," and then went to call an ambulance. She said, "Do you want to go to St. Joseph's or St. John's," and I said, "St. Joseph's is closer." But I didn't understand why she was calling an ambulance after I had eaten some things that she told me to eat. Years later, even she cannot explain why she called. She said it was stupid to expect me to eat when there was so little in the apartment to eat.
But, for whatever reason, she called and paramedics arrived. One of them said, "We can't force him to go, but they can," and she indicated the police officers who had come with them. The police? Really? What episode of the Twilight Zone is this?
I was so nervous. Before leaving with my police escort, I had some peanuts and drank some milk. Waiting for the elevator, one officer asked me if I had any sharp objects. I said no. Then I was in an ambulance headed for my least favorite place on earth, St. Joseph's Hospital.
Sitting somewhere on the first floor of the hospital, I had to wait for more than ten hours before someone came to admit me. While I was waiting I saw two people "escape" the hospital. One guy with an IV in his arm, demanded that someone take out the IV so he could leave, and someone did as he requested, and he got on his phone and told someone to be waiting for him outside, then abruptly fled the premises. I mentioned this to the woman who had removed his IV, saying, "Why can't I leave like that," and she said, "You know better, Robert."
Another guy was just sitting on a chair for a moment, then suddenly sprang up and ran to the exit. Looking back, he saw a woman who said, "You don't want to be admitted?" And he shook his head and took off.
I considered doing the same thing, but was still conflicted about where I should be. I sat there for so many hours. Someone gave me a sandwich that was oddly marked, "Sandwich, Any Kind." I ate it.
Finally, someone came to ask me some questions. He found my answers were very vague so he called my mother and, despite how far away he was, I could hear what he was saying. First he said I had given him "the vaguest answers." Then he asked, "Is he suicidal?" and I heard him say, as if echoing, "He doesn't realize." When he got off the phone he went to another area and told them I was being admitted into the medical unit. Someone at some point congratulated me, saying I was being sent to the medical unit, as opposed to the psychiatric unit.
After being placed in a room by myself, I did something I never did in the hospital. I turned the TV on to catch the end of Saturday Night Live. Then I told myself I just had to eat the food they give me and then I'll get discharged and be fine.
That night a woman came into my room to adjust my bed and she just seemed weird, like myabe she had some OCD. As one with intimate knowledge of the disorder, I've found I can recognize the condition quite accurately in others.
The next morning I ate whatever they gave me and I was visited by the nutritionist I had seen several times before. She was impressed that I ate a banana, because I had avoided them before. I told her all that I had eaten and said my stomach felt a bit odd and she said that's because my body was not used to the amount I had ingested.
The woman who sometimes berated me as she sat outside my room watching me (I'll call her Ms. Nosey) was a bit friendlier this time, maybe because she saw me eating a bit more, not sure, because I still was not eating everything they gave me.
One day I saw Dr. Accent (the one I feared most) and Ms. Nosey said, "He's going to take you." I remember I was so afraid of being sent back to the second floor, the psychiatric unit. I also recall eating some good pasta while I dreaded the inevitable transfer that was about to occur. Then they came to get me. They took me in a wheelchair (unnecessary, but they were over cautious) and I was back on the second floor. As I was pushed forward in the wheelchair I remember saying, "No, no, no," and pressing my feet against the floor, like I was trying to hit the brakes. I could not believe I was going to the psych unit for a second time. I felt like my life was over.
Ms. Nosey apparently felt bad for me and accompanied me to the second floor. She sat with me in my new room for a while, trying to reassure me that I had been here before and I would come out again.
I was very upset about being back on the second floor, but I still wasn't having panic attacks. I remember saying something to my roommate and he just stood there staring at me without a word. I guess he was in the right place, but I certainly felt out of my element.
In the hospital you wear a gown and food is brought to your room. In the psych unit you wear regular clothes, either your own or clothes they give you, and you eat in a dining area. I didn't like wearing a gown in the hospital, but I did like having the food brought to me. In the psych unit I wore the clothes they gave me, but I didn't like eating in the dining area. When they transferred me from the hospital this time they didn't give me my clothes. I mentioned it to someone, but I should have mentioned it again, because I am still missing my shirt, pants, sneakers, and leather jacket. Thankfully, they did keep track of my wallet and watch, both of which I still have. The watch needs a battery, though.
Another difficulty I encountered involved the food menus. Each morning they gave us a bunch of menus and we had to sort through them to find the menu that had our name on it and then we had to circle what we wanted for breakfast, lunch, and dinner of the next day. With my OCD I had so much trouble deciding what to choose. I remember one time, right after finishing breakfast, I started to work on my menu, circling items with a borrowed pencil and then erasing them with a borrowed eraser and circling and erasing them again in a manic cycle of indecision. Hours later, still circling and erasing, lunch arrived. I was still deciding after I ate lunch. Don't remember when I stopped and finally handed my menu to someone.
I don't remember how long I was on the second floor, but one day a woman told me I was being moved to the third floor, another pyschiatric unit. Apparently, Dr. Accent was in charge of the second floor, while Dr. Glasses managed the third floor. But both of them had offices on the third floor and I frequently saw both of them. There was also a woman who people called Dr. R. She was always there. I remember her giving me a tour of the third floor.
I also remember one day Dr. Accent entered my room and gave me a very stern look, and said, with his accent, "Do you have something to say?" I said, "No." Then he stepped toward the door and, looking back, said, "I will see you later." It sounded like a threat. Both he and Dr. Glasses seemed very intense.
There were numerous activities on the third floor which I found kind of weird. The morning protocol is just like the second floor. A woman walks around, calling out, "Good morning, time for vitals," and then we get out of bed and form a line outside an office where people get weighed and have their vitals examined. About half an hour later, a woman calls, "Breakfast, breakfast," and we all go to the dining area for breakfast. And then we all fill out our menus for the next day, one of my least favorite activities.
Following breakfast, a woman called, "Room check," and everyone straightened out their beds for inspection and staff members went around asking people if they showered and brushed their teeth. After the inspection, a woman calls, "Walking club is starting now," and then we all get up and start walking around to get some exercise while someone plays music. After that there were numerous activities called "groups." Somebody would walk around, calling, "Group time," and we would go to the various groups. There was a news group in which people took turns reading aloud articles from newspapers. There was an art group in which people could draw or paint. Some nights there was karaoke, another activity I loathed. But I did get some laughs one time when a staff member was jokingly singing a love song to me, saying things like, "Do you love me?" and I responded with things like, "No," and "Don't think so," which got some laughs, especially from Brittany, a very lively girl who made my stay there a bit more tolerable. She was also very impressed when we played ring toss and I landed five out of seven rings in a row. Somehow, Dr. R. heard about the five in a row and mentioned it during one of her group talks. I think she was using it as an example of how to focus on something.
The third floor did some things differently. Each time you took part in a group or even a meal, you would get your card punched. If you had enough punches on your card you could purchase things, like a pair of eye glasses or clothes or even candy. I found this card punching protocol very strange.
Another unusual thing involved different levels with different perks. I'm not exactly sure how this system worked, but If you attended lots of groups and contributed significantly in other ways you earned a higher level. Some of those levels allowed you to go to lunch in the cafeteria donwstairs. Dr. R would gather a small group of us and take us to the cafeteria. We were each given some kind of coupon worth a few dollars. You couldn't buy much with it, but you could get things like pizza or cake or cookies. I recall going to the cafeteria about three times. I was always astounded that I had been granted a high enough level because I don't recall making any significant contributions. I should also note the cafeteria was not creepy.
Overall, I would have to say I preferred the third floor. There were a few altercations and I saw two people get restrained. One guy took a staff member's computer and threw it on the floor. A woman kicked another staff member. And one guy got into my face yelling and later "accidentally" poured hot coffee on me. It wasn't too hot, though, and I still prefer the third floor. The staff and residents just seemed somewhat less creepy than the second floor. But I still never want to go to either floor ever again.
This ends my Twilight Zone trilogy. Coming up next, my transfer to Hudson Hill, the same facility where my father passed. Can it get any weirder?
For a few weeks no one was certain where I should be sent. There was some talk of a rehab facility somewhere, and someone from a rehab actually came to speak to me and give me a brochure. I was scared that I might get sent to some far away place. Then I was told that I was being discharged and I could go back to the apartment with my mother. I remember when my mother called to give me the news. She asked me why I didn't sound happy about coming back and I said I was concerned because I had trouble there in the past. Basically, I was afraid that I was just going to end up in the hospital again. But something was different this time. My mother said that Medicaid refused to pay for this month in the hospital. She said they had informed her that we could appeal this decision and we had a few weeks to respond. She was very concerned about the hospital bill, thinking it could be about $50,000.
When I was discharged, Dr. Isaac (one of the few doctors who was not creepy) said that Dr. Accent (the creepiest one whom I dreaded the most) might be able to write a letter to Medicaid to resolve the financial issue. I really dreaded any dealings with Dr. Accent. I did not want him involved in my affairs.
I remember the day I was discharged from St. Joseph's Hospital for the second time. I took my hospital gown off and put my clothes on and a woman gave me some papers with a list of medications I was supposed to take. She told me after dinner I should just leave. So after spaghetti and meatballs I started on my way out. The driver escorting me said, "I remember you. One Van Der," referring to my address, 1 Van Der Donck. He had driven me back after my first hospitalization and recalled the address. Before we got in the elevator, I asked for some ensure to take with me, not knowing what the food situation in the apartment was like. I was given two bottles.
Downstairs, walking toward the exit of the hospital, I passed by Dr. Glasses (the second creepiest doctor) and felt like I would see him again in the very near future. Stepping outside, I could not enjoy the pleasant weather, thinking only of my seemingly inescapable, inevitable return to St. Joseph's Hospital. I was conflicted. I did not like the hospital, but I also did not like my situation in the apartment. I just did not know what to do.
Back in the apartment with my mother, I managed to shave the beard I had grown at the hospital with my two shavers, both of them not working properly. With the Remington I used the trimmer to cut the long hairs and then used the Braun to cut the short hairs. I really needed a new shaver.
My mother had been managing to order groceries from Cherry Valley and a close family friend who lives in Beverly Hills, Rita, after spending hours on the phone, finally got an agency that helps the elderly to deliver meals to my mother five days a week, one meal per day. Something I feel I should have done. I should have been going to the grocery store with a larger grocery bag and brought my mother everything she needed. I also should have taken her to her doctors appointments. But, as usual, I did nothing.
Each day I stayed in bed until the meal arrived around 1 PM. I would then get up to see what came and my mother would always tell me to have some or all of it. Throughout the day my mother would often tell me to eat something. Before my second hospitalization she would often threaten to call an ambulance if I didn't eat. But things were different this time because Medicaid said they would not cover my last visit. So she felt the hospital was no longer an option. At least, that's how she felt at first.
The next day after my return to the apartment, on a Friday, a social worker came to visit my mother and decided we should both be in a hospital. We told her we had both been to St. Joseph's Hospital and she said we should try St. John's Hospital. My mother and I did not want to go and the paramedics called their supervisor who came and said my mother should go to the hospital. She really felt coerced by the social worker and ended up going with the paramedics, but she said she would only go if I accompanied her. I insisted that I did not want to be admitted to another hospital and the supervisor told me I didn't have to be admitted, but he wanted me to come so that my mother would go with them. We went outside with my mother on a stretcher, and I suddenly decided I wanted to get my shaver, just in case I was placed in another hospital. I told them how long it had taken me to shave the beard I had grown at St. Joseph's Hospital, but the supervisor insisted that I come with them right now. Looking back on it, I think I should have insisted that I was not going, but my mother wanted me to accompany her so I did.
At St. John's Hospital my mother was admitted and we both ate dinner there. I had some kind of large fish and she had chicken. I spent many hours downstairs in a small waiting area, watching a movie, A Bronx Tale, on TV. At some point I got potato chips from a vending machine while debating whether I should wait there all night or go back to the apartment. But I needed a key to the apartment and I had given mine to my cousin Ingrid. Fortunately, my mother found my key in her purse.
Later, when she had been moved to a room upstairs, I took an elevator and went to her room and was told I had to go back downstairs. So I went downstairs and asked someone if I could possibly receive breakfast there in the morning if I stayed all night and she didn't seem to think I could, but she said I could wait there.
At some point the small waiting area was closed and I went to a larger area where I saw a few people sitting. But the TV in the smaller area was still on and I wanted to take a quick peek at what it was showing. As soon as I did that a security person told me I had to leave because visiting hours were over. It seemed strange because I saw people who looked like visitors sitting in a large area. I asked him if he could call a car service for me and he did. While waiting for the car I went to another vending machine and got some granola bars, knowing there wasn't much food in the apartment. I actually went up to the security officer and said, "This is personal, right?" And he insisted it was nothing personal, saying he was in charge and visiting hours were over, and I said, "I know, that's why I'm leaving."
In the car coming back to the apartment, I wasn't able to enjoy the music playing or the pleasant ride, I was just anxious about everything. But still no panic attacks. I got back to the apartment around 2 AM. It was the first night I was alone in the apartment. Soon after waking up on Saturday I called the hospital to talk to my mother. She was very concerned about me because there wasn't much food in the apartment. I told her I had an egg. Later, I went to the convenience store and bought some frozen meals, not realizing they were made for microwave ovens which I loathe because they kill all the vitamins in food, only the minerals survive the radiation. I also bought a Digiorno pizza and some granola bars. Not much nutrition. Again, I should have purchased a large grocery bag and made a trip to ShopRite and brought back all the food we needed like I did for years in Manhattan.
One of my mother's friends, Juan Bastos, an artist who has painted many portraits for celebrities, called and we talked for a while. He was concerned that now that my mother was in the hospital she might lose the meals that came five days a week. He told me Rita had spent hours on the phone arranging it and cautioned me not to lose it. Not sure what he expected me to do or say if they found out she was not in the apartment. Fortunately, on Monday when a woman came to deliver the meal she did not require my mother to sign for it. She signed it for my mother. This happened every day that my mother was in the hospital, but as soon as my mother returned, another woman would routinely enter the apartment to see that my mother was there. It was very fortunate that woman had not come earlier to inspect.
When my mother was finally discharged from the hospital, someone called me and asked who was coming to pick her up. Still somewhat agoraphobic, I didn't want to call a car service and spend more cash so I asked if she had money for a cab or if they had an ambulance that could take a card. They had to check and find out and called me back later and said she had a card and was going to pay an ambulance to transport her back to the apartment. I was relieved that I did not have to make a trip to the hospital, but I still felt ashamed that I was too disorganized to venture out and pick up my mother the way a son should.
My mother had a woman, Maria, who would come to help with cooking and laundry and cleaning. I remember one day I got out of bed and walked a few steps, then a moment later I found myself on the floor with Maria kneeling by me, trying to revive me. My mother said she almost called an ambulance, but did not do so because Medicaid would not cover it.
My mother urgently wanted to appeal Medicaid's refusal to cover my stay at the hospital. She wanted Jose, an attorney in Puerto Rico, the same Jose who visited me with his daughter Ingrid, my cousin, to review the papers from Medicaid. She also wanted Dr. Accent (the doctor I dreaded more than any other doctor on earth) to write a letter on my behalf, as Dr. Isaac had suggested he might do. I didn't want to involve Dr. Accent in any of my affairs. And for some reason I didn't want to involve my relatives either. Several times I sat in front of my laptop, trying to e-mail Jose the information he wanted, but each time I chose not to send it. I don't know why I was so reluctant to involve them. My mother and I had quite an altercation regarding the papers and the Medicaid deadline. She ended up talking to Dr. Accent on the phone and mailing him some papers. I have no idea what happened after that. Apparently Medicaid stopped bothering us and my mother stopped worrying about it.
At some point my mother was on the phone with Rita, the woman who got her the daily meals, and Rita decided to call an ambulance for both of us. A few minutes later we were talking to the same paramedic supervisor we had met before and we both refused to go to the hospital. He said he knew that we would, and told us if we ever need medical attention to call them and they could check us out for free.
In October 2018, I still wasn't eating very much, but I wasn't collapsing either. One night my mother told me to eat a banana and to have an ensure and I did. Then at some point I got in bed. She entered my room and when she saw that I wasn't asleep, she said, "Well at least you're in the sleeping position," and then went to call an ambulance. She said, "Do you want to go to St. Joseph's or St. John's," and I said, "St. Joseph's is closer." But I didn't understand why she was calling an ambulance after I had eaten some things that she told me to eat. Years later, even she cannot explain why she called. She said it was stupid to expect me to eat when there was so little in the apartment to eat.
But, for whatever reason, she called and paramedics arrived. One of them said, "We can't force him to go, but they can," and she indicated the police officers who had come with them. The police? Really? What episode of the Twilight Zone is this?
I was so nervous. Before leaving with my police escort, I had some peanuts and drank some milk. Waiting for the elevator, one officer asked me if I had any sharp objects. I said no. Then I was in an ambulance headed for my least favorite place on earth, St. Joseph's Hospital.
Sitting somewhere on the first floor of the hospital, I had to wait for more than ten hours before someone came to admit me. While I was waiting I saw two people "escape" the hospital. One guy with an IV in his arm, demanded that someone take out the IV so he could leave, and someone did as he requested, and he got on his phone and told someone to be waiting for him outside, then abruptly fled the premises. I mentioned this to the woman who had removed his IV, saying, "Why can't I leave like that," and she said, "You know better, Robert."
Another guy was just sitting on a chair for a moment, then suddenly sprang up and ran to the exit. Looking back, he saw a woman who said, "You don't want to be admitted?" And he shook his head and took off.
I considered doing the same thing, but was still conflicted about where I should be. I sat there for so many hours. Someone gave me a sandwich that was oddly marked, "Sandwich, Any Kind." I ate it.
Finally, someone came to ask me some questions. He found my answers were very vague so he called my mother and, despite how far away he was, I could hear what he was saying. First he said I had given him "the vaguest answers." Then he asked, "Is he suicidal?" and I heard him say, as if echoing, "He doesn't realize." When he got off the phone he went to another area and told them I was being admitted into the medical unit. Someone at some point congratulated me, saying I was being sent to the medical unit, as opposed to the psychiatric unit.
After being placed in a room by myself, I did something I never did in the hospital. I turned the TV on to catch the end of Saturday Night Live. Then I told myself I just had to eat the food they give me and then I'll get discharged and be fine.
That night a woman came into my room to adjust my bed and she just seemed weird, like myabe she had some OCD. As one with intimate knowledge of the disorder, I've found I can recognize the condition quite accurately in others.
The next morning I ate whatever they gave me and I was visited by the nutritionist I had seen several times before. She was impressed that I ate a banana, because I had avoided them before. I told her all that I had eaten and said my stomach felt a bit odd and she said that's because my body was not used to the amount I had ingested.
The woman who sometimes berated me as she sat outside my room watching me (I'll call her Ms. Nosey) was a bit friendlier this time, maybe because she saw me eating a bit more, not sure, because I still was not eating everything they gave me.
One day I saw Dr. Accent (the one I feared most) and Ms. Nosey said, "He's going to take you." I remember I was so afraid of being sent back to the second floor, the psychiatric unit. I also recall eating some good pasta while I dreaded the inevitable transfer that was about to occur. Then they came to get me. They took me in a wheelchair (unnecessary, but they were over cautious) and I was back on the second floor. As I was pushed forward in the wheelchair I remember saying, "No, no, no," and pressing my feet against the floor, like I was trying to hit the brakes. I could not believe I was going to the psych unit for a second time. I felt like my life was over.
Ms. Nosey apparently felt bad for me and accompanied me to the second floor. She sat with me in my new room for a while, trying to reassure me that I had been here before and I would come out again.
I was very upset about being back on the second floor, but I still wasn't having panic attacks. I remember saying something to my roommate and he just stood there staring at me without a word. I guess he was in the right place, but I certainly felt out of my element.
In the hospital you wear a gown and food is brought to your room. In the psych unit you wear regular clothes, either your own or clothes they give you, and you eat in a dining area. I didn't like wearing a gown in the hospital, but I did like having the food brought to me. In the psych unit I wore the clothes they gave me, but I didn't like eating in the dining area. When they transferred me from the hospital this time they didn't give me my clothes. I mentioned it to someone, but I should have mentioned it again, because I am still missing my shirt, pants, sneakers, and leather jacket. Thankfully, they did keep track of my wallet and watch, both of which I still have. The watch needs a battery, though.
Another difficulty I encountered involved the food menus. Each morning they gave us a bunch of menus and we had to sort through them to find the menu that had our name on it and then we had to circle what we wanted for breakfast, lunch, and dinner of the next day. With my OCD I had so much trouble deciding what to choose. I remember one time, right after finishing breakfast, I started to work on my menu, circling items with a borrowed pencil and then erasing them with a borrowed eraser and circling and erasing them again in a manic cycle of indecision. Hours later, still circling and erasing, lunch arrived. I was still deciding after I ate lunch. Don't remember when I stopped and finally handed my menu to someone.
I don't remember how long I was on the second floor, but one day a woman told me I was being moved to the third floor, another pyschiatric unit. Apparently, Dr. Accent was in charge of the second floor, while Dr. Glasses managed the third floor. But both of them had offices on the third floor and I frequently saw both of them. There was also a woman who people called Dr. R. She was always there. I remember her giving me a tour of the third floor.
I also remember one day Dr. Accent entered my room and gave me a very stern look, and said, with his accent, "Do you have something to say?" I said, "No." Then he stepped toward the door and, looking back, said, "I will see you later." It sounded like a threat. Both he and Dr. Glasses seemed very intense.
There were numerous activities on the third floor which I found kind of weird. The morning protocol is just like the second floor. A woman walks around, calling out, "Good morning, time for vitals," and then we get out of bed and form a line outside an office where people get weighed and have their vitals examined. About half an hour later, a woman calls, "Breakfast, breakfast," and we all go to the dining area for breakfast. And then we all fill out our menus for the next day, one of my least favorite activities.
Following breakfast, a woman called, "Room check," and everyone straightened out their beds for inspection and staff members went around asking people if they showered and brushed their teeth. After the inspection, a woman calls, "Walking club is starting now," and then we all get up and start walking around to get some exercise while someone plays music. After that there were numerous activities called "groups." Somebody would walk around, calling, "Group time," and we would go to the various groups. There was a news group in which people took turns reading aloud articles from newspapers. There was an art group in which people could draw or paint. Some nights there was karaoke, another activity I loathed. But I did get some laughs one time when a staff member was jokingly singing a love song to me, saying things like, "Do you love me?" and I responded with things like, "No," and "Don't think so," which got some laughs, especially from Brittany, a very lively girl who made my stay there a bit more tolerable. She was also very impressed when we played ring toss and I landed five out of seven rings in a row. Somehow, Dr. R. heard about the five in a row and mentioned it during one of her group talks. I think she was using it as an example of how to focus on something.
The third floor did some things differently. Each time you took part in a group or even a meal, you would get your card punched. If you had enough punches on your card you could purchase things, like a pair of eye glasses or clothes or even candy. I found this card punching protocol very strange.
Another unusual thing involved different levels with different perks. I'm not exactly sure how this system worked, but If you attended lots of groups and contributed significantly in other ways you earned a higher level. Some of those levels allowed you to go to lunch in the cafeteria donwstairs. Dr. R would gather a small group of us and take us to the cafeteria. We were each given some kind of coupon worth a few dollars. You couldn't buy much with it, but you could get things like pizza or cake or cookies. I recall going to the cafeteria about three times. I was always astounded that I had been granted a high enough level because I don't recall making any significant contributions. I should also note the cafeteria was not creepy.
Overall, I would have to say I preferred the third floor. There were a few altercations and I saw two people get restrained. One guy took a staff member's computer and threw it on the floor. A woman kicked another staff member. And one guy got into my face yelling and later "accidentally" poured hot coffee on me. It wasn't too hot, though, and I still prefer the third floor. The staff and residents just seemed somewhat less creepy than the second floor. But I still never want to go to either floor ever again.
This ends my Twilight Zone trilogy. Coming up next, my transfer to Hudson Hill, the same facility where my father passed. Can it get any weirder?
24. Hudson Hill
In May 2019, after 7 months in the hospital, I was transferred to Hudson Hill Extended Care, the same facility where my father received dialysis for several months when he didn't have Medicare Part B, and also where he passed in August 2016. I used to bring my father in his wheelchair three times a week, taking buses, taxis, and Metro-North trains, until Access-A-Ride finally agreed to take him.
I remember being brought into the facility laying on a stretcher. It was so weird coming back to this place where I used to bring my father. They would take him to dialysis and I would spend four hours on my laptop. I often avoided the waiting area because of the TV. I went to an area where the employees ate lunch. Then my father would ring my phone and I would go to pick him up. Many months later, after the amputations, I would bring him to Hudson Hill again. And about a week later he passed here, where I am now. Weird.
My first roommate here was an older fellow named Barry. He was also from Manhattan and had actually lived there longer than I have. He said one day, while he was hospitalized, his sister called to tell him she had sold the apartment he had been living in for decades. He obviously was not happy about that, but he was still on good terms with her when she would come to visit. She even brought me some chocolate cake. She seemed like a very nice person. And her son, Barry's nephew, would also visit.
Then one day, Barry fell and hurt himself. They sent him to the hospital and when he came back he seemed sluggish, staying in bed all day. Then one day he was gone and I asked where he was and was told, "He expired."
At some point I had another roommate, James, who stayed in bed and was a bit hostile. Then one night a bunch of people came in the room while he was hooked up to some kind of repiratory device. I think he passed too.
After that I shared a room with a man, Michael, who had spent time in prison for murder. A nice guy, actually, the son of a police officer, but still haunted by the man he killed. Mike was in a wheelchair and wanted to go back to the homeless shelter. A social worker tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted that he preferred the shelter and eventually they granted his wish. A few weeks later he came back to Hudson Hill.
For some months I had an elderly, wheelchair-bound roommate who didn't talk much. He spent the days reading mostly and always gave me his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and grapes when he got them on his tray. Then one night it was his turn to expire. I actually watched this man die in front of me. Some people came in the room and put an oxygen mask on him. Someone mentioned that he had a DNR (Do Not Rescuscitate) order and stood by watching him die. I saw fluid coming out of his mouth each time he exhaled, filling his oxygen mask. I didn't know he had died, though, until the next day when I saw his body covered with bed sheets.
My next roommate was kind of an a-hole, but I'm sure he has some mental issues he is dealing with, so who am I to judge. I remember he came out of the bathroom one day and looked at me and said in a low voice, "What the f_ are you looking at a-hole?" Nice. Thankfully, he left this facility with his sister at some point. I really should send that woman a thank you note.
Then I had a week with no roommate. And then they brought Juan, my current roommate. Juan, legally blind, stays in bed or stays in his wheelchair all day long with his eyes closed. People feed him and clean him. He basically does nothing all day. When they ask him in the morning how he feels he says he's fine. I doubt I will ever understand how Juan gets through his days without complaint while I often struggle with existence.
It really isn't bad here. I try to think of it as a writers colony where I am temporarily dwelling. I just wish I would pick up my second novel again and finish it. The weird thing is that even though I like this place much more than the hospital, the intensity of my panic attacks is much greater than what I experienced at the creepy hospital. I believe my first really big panic attack occured here in June 2022. I was in bed, trying to sleep, and suddenly I felt like I could not breathe. I tossed and turned, I stood up and walked around, I read something, finally I went to a nurse and asked her to check my oxygen. I knew it was going be 97 or 98 like it always is and I was correct. According to that score my oxygen was fine. Then she said my heart was beating fast and told me to calm down. I went back to my room and somehow managed to fall asleep. Most of the panic attacks put a strain on my breathing, but I believe I have had four attacks that really felt like breathing had stopped. I can't describe it.
To combat these attacks I keep reminding myself that if my breathing is regular I am not panicking. I distract myself with books, Internet, and TV. I look forward to finishing my second novel at this writers colony where I can write all day if I choose. I look forward to visiting my mother in the apartment and ordering some really great pizza. This last scenario has been made possible by my God-mother, Evangelina Colon. We call her Vangie. Her husband Jan had two strokes and is currently at Amsterdam House. She was in the process of transferring him here where I am at Hudson Hill, but now he might go elsewhere. Since we are not far from Amsterdam House, she has been staying with my mother in the apartment and is looking for her own place where she can be walking distance away from her husband so she can visit him easily. Her staying with us has been a blessing. She frequently signs me out so I can go to the apartment and hang out with her and my mother. And seriously, the pizza is so good.
By going on these trips to the apartment with my God-mother I am creating positive associations with the apartment, neighborhood, and residents. This is important because I had some very negative associations before that led to my very severe withdrawal and depresssion. I'm not dreading the apartment now. I look forward to watching videos of my father and I when we went to Puerto Rico in '93. I look forward to spending time with my mother and God-mother. And let's not forget the pizza.
I also like that my mother has some friends among the building employees, like the concierge staff and maintenance crew, and a helpful next door neighbor. It makes us feel less alone. Everyone keeps telling me how great the apartment is and what a great neighborhood we have. I still can't call it home, but it is a nice area by the Hudson. In terms of floor space there really was no other choice. The rooms are much bigger than anything I found in Manhattan or Queens.
This blog has covered my life since my birth up to my present circumstance. I find myself at a loss for words now. I seem to have covered everything I could think of. Of course, I did say at the beginning this blog is a sanitized version of my life and not the whole uncensored story, so I guess if I wanted to I could divulge even more personal information, but there are still things I don't feel comfortable sharing. I hope I can think of some more anecdotes or something to write about. But in the interim, feel free to read my novel, The Sylvan Horn, still only $1 on Kindle and Nook. The Sylvan Horn
I remember being brought into the facility laying on a stretcher. It was so weird coming back to this place where I used to bring my father. They would take him to dialysis and I would spend four hours on my laptop. I often avoided the waiting area because of the TV. I went to an area where the employees ate lunch. Then my father would ring my phone and I would go to pick him up. Many months later, after the amputations, I would bring him to Hudson Hill again. And about a week later he passed here, where I am now. Weird.
My first roommate here was an older fellow named Barry. He was also from Manhattan and had actually lived there longer than I have. He said one day, while he was hospitalized, his sister called to tell him she had sold the apartment he had been living in for decades. He obviously was not happy about that, but he was still on good terms with her when she would come to visit. She even brought me some chocolate cake. She seemed like a very nice person. And her son, Barry's nephew, would also visit.
Then one day, Barry fell and hurt himself. They sent him to the hospital and when he came back he seemed sluggish, staying in bed all day. Then one day he was gone and I asked where he was and was told, "He expired."
At some point I had another roommate, James, who stayed in bed and was a bit hostile. Then one night a bunch of people came in the room while he was hooked up to some kind of repiratory device. I think he passed too.
After that I shared a room with a man, Michael, who had spent time in prison for murder. A nice guy, actually, the son of a police officer, but still haunted by the man he killed. Mike was in a wheelchair and wanted to go back to the homeless shelter. A social worker tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted that he preferred the shelter and eventually they granted his wish. A few weeks later he came back to Hudson Hill.
For some months I had an elderly, wheelchair-bound roommate who didn't talk much. He spent the days reading mostly and always gave me his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and grapes when he got them on his tray. Then one night it was his turn to expire. I actually watched this man die in front of me. Some people came in the room and put an oxygen mask on him. Someone mentioned that he had a DNR (Do Not Rescuscitate) order and stood by watching him die. I saw fluid coming out of his mouth each time he exhaled, filling his oxygen mask. I didn't know he had died, though, until the next day when I saw his body covered with bed sheets.
My next roommate was kind of an a-hole, but I'm sure he has some mental issues he is dealing with, so who am I to judge. I remember he came out of the bathroom one day and looked at me and said in a low voice, "What the f_ are you looking at a-hole?" Nice. Thankfully, he left this facility with his sister at some point. I really should send that woman a thank you note.
Then I had a week with no roommate. And then they brought Juan, my current roommate. Juan, legally blind, stays in bed or stays in his wheelchair all day long with his eyes closed. People feed him and clean him. He basically does nothing all day. When they ask him in the morning how he feels he says he's fine. I doubt I will ever understand how Juan gets through his days without complaint while I often struggle with existence.
It really isn't bad here. I try to think of it as a writers colony where I am temporarily dwelling. I just wish I would pick up my second novel again and finish it. The weird thing is that even though I like this place much more than the hospital, the intensity of my panic attacks is much greater than what I experienced at the creepy hospital. I believe my first really big panic attack occured here in June 2022. I was in bed, trying to sleep, and suddenly I felt like I could not breathe. I tossed and turned, I stood up and walked around, I read something, finally I went to a nurse and asked her to check my oxygen. I knew it was going be 97 or 98 like it always is and I was correct. According to that score my oxygen was fine. Then she said my heart was beating fast and told me to calm down. I went back to my room and somehow managed to fall asleep. Most of the panic attacks put a strain on my breathing, but I believe I have had four attacks that really felt like breathing had stopped. I can't describe it.
To combat these attacks I keep reminding myself that if my breathing is regular I am not panicking. I distract myself with books, Internet, and TV. I look forward to finishing my second novel at this writers colony where I can write all day if I choose. I look forward to visiting my mother in the apartment and ordering some really great pizza. This last scenario has been made possible by my God-mother, Evangelina Colon. We call her Vangie. Her husband Jan had two strokes and is currently at Amsterdam House. She was in the process of transferring him here where I am at Hudson Hill, but now he might go elsewhere. Since we are not far from Amsterdam House, she has been staying with my mother in the apartment and is looking for her own place where she can be walking distance away from her husband so she can visit him easily. Her staying with us has been a blessing. She frequently signs me out so I can go to the apartment and hang out with her and my mother. And seriously, the pizza is so good.
By going on these trips to the apartment with my God-mother I am creating positive associations with the apartment, neighborhood, and residents. This is important because I had some very negative associations before that led to my very severe withdrawal and depresssion. I'm not dreading the apartment now. I look forward to watching videos of my father and I when we went to Puerto Rico in '93. I look forward to spending time with my mother and God-mother. And let's not forget the pizza.
I also like that my mother has some friends among the building employees, like the concierge staff and maintenance crew, and a helpful next door neighbor. It makes us feel less alone. Everyone keeps telling me how great the apartment is and what a great neighborhood we have. I still can't call it home, but it is a nice area by the Hudson. In terms of floor space there really was no other choice. The rooms are much bigger than anything I found in Manhattan or Queens.
This blog has covered my life since my birth up to my present circumstance. I find myself at a loss for words now. I seem to have covered everything I could think of. Of course, I did say at the beginning this blog is a sanitized version of my life and not the whole uncensored story, so I guess if I wanted to I could divulge even more personal information, but there are still things I don't feel comfortable sharing. I hope I can think of some more anecdotes or something to write about. But in the interim, feel free to read my novel, The Sylvan Horn, still only $1 on Kindle and Nook. The Sylvan Horn