chapter 13: the ordinary

Before I close the year with one remaining follow-up post, I want to thank you for reading my stories every Monday about life and confusion and finding hope in it all. 

Holidays are a funny time, where we choose certain days to celebrate living and the lives of others – birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, the New Year. We festoon our homes and our meals and even our hearts with a little more ‘spirit’ than usual, which adds this velvety whimsy and magic to everything. It’s exciting. 

But what if we could bring this spirit with us to the other 350+ days that are just so ordinary. The ones that don’t yell, “Gifts! or “Light the menorah” or “But we need a turkey!” These are the days that are quiet and don’t ask for much. They’re just happy you show up to them. 

They’re the days filled with delayed subway rides, mail packages that arrive days late, small talk at parties where you don’t feel you fit in, bowls of pasta with ricotta cheese and parsley, blue skies that look like paintings, and music you blast when you’re alone. 

As I said in my very first post here, life is too long and too short to not take risks. And life’s also too long and too short to only be celebrated 10 percent of each year. 

Perhaps the risk lies in celebrating it all the time. What will happen if we do?  

Will we become all we hope to become? Will we fall short? Will we be happy?

I guess that’s the beauty of a risk. We have to live it and find out. 

– Doug

chapter 12: plot twist

When I suggested to Eleanor at 1am that we head to the top of the Empire State Building, it wasn’t Doug The Finance Guy speaking.

No, it was Doug The Filmmaker. Remember him? The guy who spent most of his life drafting, writing, filming short films that occasionally levitated to production status. I almost forgot about him.

But, like all good ‘plot twists,’ The Filmmaker emerged when I least expected it: at my most intoxicated state, on a pseudo-date with my neighbor, in the middle of the West Village street.

Eleanor: What are you doing?

Me: I’m getting into this cab.

Eleanor: Ha – what? Really? Are you kidding me right now? It’s 1am.

Me: It’s open.

Eleanor: How do you know?

Me: I wrote about it once, in a script. I had to look it up.

Eleanor: A script? What do you mean? You write?

Me: Get in the cab.

She scooted her way into the seat, and after I uttered the words of every tourist to the cab driver, she zoomed in on me.

Eleanor: Do you live a double life?

Me: No, I’m just, living something different right now.

Eleanor: What did you used to do?

Me: Write and direct films. I’ve done it for years.

Eleanor: Were any produced?

Me: A couple. Out of college and through my twenties. They were produced at festivals and such. But it started peetering out slowly, almost too slowly to tell. And then this year it finally hit me that nothing of mine had been produced in six years.

Eleanor: Where were you when all this was happening?

Me: At my parent’s house. In my bedroom. In New Jersey.

Alcohol: it’s a killer.

Me: So I made the decision at 40 to end it and take a stable job. So now I’m here.

Eleanor: Living across from me.

Me: Yes.

She looked at me with her eyes crunched slightly, and turned her head to look out the window. We were shuttling straight up 6th Ave., hitting every green light.

Eleanor: Funny.

Me: What.

Eleanor: Why are people always so afraid to share the most interesting things about themselves?

Me: It’s not interesting. I failed.

Eleanor: You didn’t fail. You’re on hiatus. Like a TV show.

Then she looked at me, and I watched the flicker in her eyes happen again.

Eleanor: Do you love it.

Me: Film?

Eleanor: Yeah.

Me: I thought I did. I really felt so happy in the making of it all. You know those moments? When you’re in it?

Eleanor: Yeah. ‘Flow,’ they call it.

Me: Yeah. But then you see what you’re up against, and I don’t know if I have what it takes to compete. There’s so much more training involved now, and complicated technology. I just like to write and film a good story, but I don’t think that’s enough anymore.

Eleanor: You mean, because everyone else is so trained in structure and the high-tech cameras and such?

Me: Yeah.

Eleanor: Hm.

Then she looked out the window again, and I felt that uncomfortable sobering that happens when you realize you’ve spewed forth a truth about your past life at 1am to your unsuspecting neighbor in a NYC cab.

Eleanor: But if everyone else, right now, is so focused on training and technology and formulaic structure, then who’s left to write the good stories?

The cab came to a halt outside the Empire State. I paid the fare and we got out and onto the sidewalk.

Eleanor: Do you know what I mean, Doug? While everyone’s running around like worker ants creating generic scripts that not even the state-of-the-art technology can make look good, then who’s writing the truly good stuff?

The cab driver drove away.

Eleanor: You.

She smiled at me. That was the most encouraging thing I’d heard in a long time.

Eleanor: It sounds like there’s a position open…

I laughed.

Me: Perhaps.

Eleanor: So what happens next in your film? The one about Empire State.

Me: Well, I was writing a modern-day take on “An Affair to Remember,” so…

She laughed.

Me: Kidding.

Eleanor: No, really though. What happens?

Me: They do what everyone does.

Eleanor: What.

Me: They go up.

And so, we went.

chapter 11: two words

When life picks you up and smacks you down, like flipping a waffle, it’s easy to forget one thing: you always get what you want.

And the question is: do you still want it when you finally get it?

Our wants take time to develop, developing in the early-morning or late-night hours, when our hopes arise. When I announced last week that it’s “time to make things interesting” – things actually got interesting. And like all wants, this one emerged in the very last, late-night hours of the final day of the week.

Saturday night, I had high hopes for a night of pizza-pie digestion and watching Elf. But when I emerged from my apartment to grab chips and a Pepsi at the bodega down the street, I ran into Eleanor.

Eleanor: Doug! It’s been ages.

Me: It’s good to see you. Welcome back.

Eleanor: I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other these past couple of weeks.

Me: I thought you were away?

Eleanor: Yeah, I got back about a week ago. Week and a half ago? It feels good.

This didn’t feel good to me. She’d been down the hall all this time and didn’t think to say hi?

Me: How was your Thanksgiving?

Eleanor: As good as it could be.

Me: I’m sorry about Gremlin.

Eleanor: If only dogs could stick around longer, you know?

A pause settled for a bit in the hallway, as I heard music blasting.

Eleanor: I’m actually having some friends over tonight. Want to join? Or were you headed out.

Me: Oh, no, I’m not going anywhere. Was just getting food.

Eleanor: Well, then come over.

So I went.

For a moment, I debated hanging out with a bunch of 25-year-olds all night, but I hadn’t seen Eleanor in weeks and, to my delight, her friends are mostly in their 30s. She actually cleaned up her place. It looked good – and so did she.

Her friends, definitely a good-looking bunch, were full of designers and accountants and strategists and some other finance folk. I avoided the small talk with those guys. I don’t know enough about it all.

And I watched Eleanor’s stare, who she settled on most, spoke the longest to, touched at all. There was one guy in particular who she lingered on and danced playfully with. Is he who she’s been spending the past two weeks with? What does this guy have that I don’t?

I imagined them grabbing coffees together at the shop across the street in the morning, sweat drying on their faces after hours of early-morning sex in her shower and on her couch. Then I imagined her naked, sprawled on her bed. Then I hated myself for it.

So, we all took shots of cinnamon whisky, igniting fiery pits of hell in our stomaches, and went to two loud bars, where we had disjointed conversations about the effects of Instagram on our social lives and the slushy snow outside. Basic stuff.

Eleanor checked in with me every now and then, and at times I watched her eyes flicker over to mine. I compared my hope – that she’d devote her whole night to laughing and drinking and catching up with me – to my reality (me standing in the corner, occasionally chiming in when I could hear the conversation), and it really sucked.

But as the night wore on, the circle of friends began to shed, and by 1am, it was just Eleanor, me, That Guy, and three other friends. I wanted to turn to That Guy and say, “I’m in it to win it. Scram.” But then he’d probably punch me and sleep with her on spite, so I stayed quiet.

Eleanor: What’s next?

Friend 1: Hookah bar.

Friend 2: Gay bar.

Friend 3: Pizza.

Gotta love New York.

That Guy: I have to wake up early. Think I’m gonna head home.

Good. The guy can’t handle a fun night out.

Eleanor: Aw, really? But it’s only one.

That Guy: Training for the triathlon.

Typical.

Eleanor: Get home safe.

She gave him a big hug and he squeezed her way too hard and too long, and I hated him for it.

Then, like a Jenga tower, all the friends followed suit, falling out of the late-night plans swiftly.

Moments later, it was just Eleanor and I.

We stepped out of the bar and into the slushy street, facing our building and the Hudson River mere blocks away. Her eyes flickered over to mine, and I felt my stomach do a small flip. Just like a waffle.

Eleanor: So.

Me: So.

We looked at each other and laughed. I was intoxicated.

Eleanor: Where to, Douglas?

I looked up at our building and the skyscrapers beyond. Then, two words popped out that had a life of their own.

Me: Empire State.

chapter 10: hit man

Ever since the holiday, it’s felt like a rippling, red-and-green-striped tidal wave has crashed through New York, and I’ve become swept up in it. My nights have been spent at work until 9pm, trying to stay focused and seemingly interested and capable in an industry I know nothing about, all while dusting remnants of nacho chips onto my keyboard every time I type.

Every time I think I’ve finally mastered something, the task suddenly gets harder and I’m proven wrong. It’s like thinking you’ve beat the boss at the final level of a video game, until he suddenly hurls a grenade you’ve got to learn how to dodge. Life stays interesting.

But does it really?

Sometimes I worry that I’m becoming this one-note person – someone who’s just his job, losing sight of his creative sensations and urges, who doesn’t look up – reach upwards – long enough to grasp what living is.

Why have I not seen Eleanor? I didn’t get her number. And I don’t have Facebook. In fact, I don’t even know if she’s back from the holidays. So now, we’re thrust into this 19th-century relationship where encounters are dictated by fate, not text. And since I’m working so much and hardly home to knock on her door, fate has yet to make its appearance. But why hasn’t she knocked on my door? Or maybe she has – and I’ll never know. “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it…”

The good news: there’s been an addition to the family.

Meet: Sir Hunter Green.

He’s a modest three-feet-tall, stocked with colorful lights and a stuffed reindeer ornament I got at the Union Square holiday market. The lights were too long so I laid the rest of it on my heating vent. I’m not very crafty.

Sir Hunter and I have been listening to Christmas music all day while I’ve laid in bed watching Damages. Have you seen it? It stars Glen Close and Rose Byrne as ruthless lawyers in New York doing illegal things to bring ‘justice’ to the world. The moral of the entire five-season story: trust no one.

And now the lesson has started rubbing off on me. Have you ever noticed that about TV shows? When you become so committed and attached to them, these people become your friends and their outlooks become your own. You’ve got to choose wisely, you know.

Now I’ve started questioning everyone’s intentions: is that guy with the love-struck girlfriend secretly texting her best friend? Did my friend leave last night’s party early to feed his fledgling drug addiction? Did the waiter steal my credit card number to pay off a hit man to kill a roommate who knows his darkest secret?

You see, I don’t want to question people’s motives. Navigating life is hard enough without having to dissect every moment like a Salinger book. But yet – there’s an air of ‘mystery’ that the questioning brings, like there’s some underground scandal I’ve discovered, and should be sitting in an oak-paneled room with a cigar, plotting how to avenge ‘the bad guy.’

I’ve lost it. Have I lost it? Has my life become so humdrum that I’m assuming the thoughts of TV characters? I don’t want to be someone who spends his nights and weekends escaping to a show because his own life isn’t fun enough to watch.

Time to make things interesting.

chapter nine: thanksgiving

Eleanor’s dog Gremlin died, and she had to head home early for the holidays. I ran into her on the way to the elevator, and her eyes looked empty, and I felt awful. I didn’t ask her how Gremlin died. I just said sorry. Our date can wait.

It’s tough when a dog dies. They don’t love like humans do. They crawl into your arms and look you in the eyes and love you, and when you come home late, they love you, and when you don’t get that job or lose some weight or pay your rent on time, they still love you. They’re perfect. And if they were flawed at all, they’d be human. 

With Eleanor gone early for the holidays and our first date postponed, I felt both a little more lonely and a little more free. I blasted some really bad rock music and walked around in an old pair of boxers and didn’t do my laundry.

Thanksgiving morning, I woke up and headed to the coffee shop across the street. I had three hours before Thanksgiving at my cousins in New Jersey – when my parents would pick me up and stuff me in the backseat of their Volvo like an eighth grader – and I was intent on cherishing these hours on my own, with a big coffee and the paper.

But I didn’t. Because when an older man with grey whiskers and a copy of the paper sat next to me, and a woman walking by asked, “Hey Mitchell, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?” I couldn’t help but listen to his answer.

Mitchell told a story about an orange-breasted robin that, for a year, perched on the window sill of a barn he lived near growing up. He said the robin was scrawny, but had a neck so long, it tilted its head, giving it the strained, striving look of always reaching upwards. Mitchell sang to it during the summer, and even pet it once during the fall, but in winter, it got scrawnier and scrawnier. Mitchell tried to feed it scraps, but it would hardly peck at them. Until one day, he found the robin lying cold and stiff on the sill, with his neck still long, and his head forever reaching upwards.

There was a sad silence after the story. It became clear that Mitchell had no plans for Thanksgiving. He didn’t know any better way to say it than to talk about the robin. It’s sad when someone could live life so long and still have no where to go on a holiday.

Me: Want to join me for Thanskgiving?

The question just popped out.

Mitchell: You? Where?

Me: New Jersey. 

An hour later, a 40-year-old and an 80-year-old were stuffed into the backseat of a Volvo like eight-graders, with my parents in the front trying to make conversation.

But with Mitchell, that’s not hard, because about two hours into Thanksgiving, I realized the reason he may not have had plans this holiday: he does not shut up.  

He told my family about growing up in Michigan, becoming a mechanic-turned-accountant, and falling in love with an equestrian. He waxed on about being in a jazz band, winning a soccer game, and eating his first meal (a bagel)  when he moved to New York in the ‘60s. 

But he never talked about family, and my family didn’t ask. Instead, we nodded our heads, stuffed ourselves with pie, and between his stories, every now and then asked, “And then what happened?”

When we left and dropped him off outside his apartment not too far away from mine, he thanked me for the company. He looked happy and exhausted, like it was the most social stimulation he’d had in months. Perhaps it was.

I took a walk that night toward the Hudson River, and down the curving West Village streets. I didn’t want to be in my apartment, watching TV. It felt good to be out on one of the city’s quietest nights.

What I love about winter is how bare everything is. The leaves are gone from the trees, and all that stands is their structure. You see them for the jagged, bent, scarred figures that they are.

It becomes clear: how they hold themselves up, how they survive the wind. And when you peer up at them, you realize they, too, are like the robin. They’re tall and thin and forever reaching upwards, striving to grow. I want to be like that, too.

chapter eight

Being in a woman’s apartment is a very peculiar thing. There are only three reasons a single, 40-year-old man would ever find himself in a single woman’s apartment: 1. he is going to sleep with her 2. he is hoping he’ll sleep with her or 3. he is plumbing her toilet.  

With the exception of number two, I am unsure which is happening between Eleanor and I. Sitting on her couch, with a view of the Empire State Building, it felt like we fast-forwarded several dates. And yet, glancing at her her unmade, ruffled bed, the tilted artwork, and the crumbs on her kitchen counter, I am pretty sure there’s a clogged drain somewhere in that studio that’s in need of cleaning. But you can never be too sure. 

Eleanor: What are you thinking about?

Me: What do you mean?

Eleanor: You just got quiet there.

Me: Oh. I got distracted by your art.

She smiled and looked up at the painting hanging above her bed. It’s of a woman with a very small head on a half-exposed body, sitting in a robe at a small kitchen table. She’s holding a glass of water with lemon, and peering out.

Me: Did you make this?

Eleanor: Yeah, last year. For a class.

Me: It’s beautiful.

Eleanor: Thanks.

Me: What is it of?

Eleanor: A woman, in a kitchen.

Me: What’s she thinking?

Eleanor: I don’t know. 

It surprised me that she didn’t know. Aren’t artists supposed to have intent? But then I thought of the Mona Lisa. Can Da Vinci explain her smile?

Me: She’s a mystery.

Eleanor: I guess. Or maybe she is just confused.

Me: Confusion is mysterious.

Eleanor: It is.

Then we sat in silence. It felt heavy, and I had to make it stop.

Me: Hey, have you been to that new Italian spot across the street?

Eleanor: The one with all the noise?

Me: Yeah.

Eleanor: Nope, I haven’t been yet.

Me: Want to go?

Eleanor: Now?

Me: Sometime. Next week? When I haven’t ordered Thai.

Eleanor: Yeah, let’s do that, that sounds fun.

She said it in a really nonchalant, very cool way that made me wonder if she was uninterested or trying to compensate for getting nervous. I do that, too, sometimes. I compensate.

Me: Great. Well, I’m glad I stopped by.

Eleanor: Me too.

Me: Have a good rest of the night, drying your clothes.

Eleanor: Good night.

Me: Good night. 

She closed the door, and I walked five steps and opened and closed my door. After drinking some water, I put on my pajamas, brushed my teeth, and got into bed. 

 And I thought about the woman at the kitchen table. How she sits there above Eleanor’s bed, day and night, clutching that glass of water, and peering out. Maybe she’s confused. Perhaps she is mysterious. Or maybe she’s the luckiest painting in all of New York.

this is my seventh chapter

So I knocked on her door.

It was Tuesday night and kind of rainy out and I started wondering what Eleanor could possibly be doing on this ordinary night in that apartment, in her place across the hall. Maybe she was also ordering in Thai food and watching mindless television. Or maybe she was cooking dinner or painting in her underwear. So I figured I’d find out.

After changing my shirt and putting on jeans, I knocked on her door. I heard some rummaging noises from inside, like the sound a mouse makes when it’s just discovered your garbage. I almost walked away until I heard a voice say “coming” and she opened the door.

I really think she was painting in her underwear before I knocked. It took a while for her to open the door. When she did, she was standing there wearing black leggings and a flowy shirt and looking kind of flushed. I tried not to check her out or look amused, but like I said before, it’s strange how you never know what your face looks like.

Me: Hi.

Eleanor: Hey. How’s it going?

Me: It’s going well. I thought I’d say hi and see how you’re doing.

Eleanor: Yeah, I’m doing well, just got off the phone with a friend. How are you?

Me: I’m good. Just got back from work, ordered Thai food.

Eleanor: What is it with guys and Thai?

Huh?

Me: What do you mean?

Eleanor: Guys always order Thai.

Me: Because it’s good.

Because it’s filling and cheap and good.

Eleanor: Is it the large portions of noodles and meat or something?

Me: Maybe. I like to get the pork pad thai and the spring rolls, and sometimes I order the noodle soup.

Eleanor: That sounds delicious.

Me: It is.

How did my attempt to see Eleanor transform into my food order at Go Go Thai?

Eleanor: Come inside.

Me: Okay.

I like to think of myself as a somewhat neat but moderate slob, but she really takes the cake. Her TV stand was cluttered with candles and paper clips and old magazines, and t-shirts and towels were lying all over her couches and chairs. Maybe she heard me knock and changed outfits several times before she opened the door, I thought. That would be nice.

Eleanor: Sorry, I did laundry tonight. My clothes are drying.

Alright, then.

Me: How was the abandoned warehouse party?

Eleanor: Trash.

Me: Really.

Eleanor: College students showed up. They were idiots.

Me: Did they drink all the alcohol?

Eleanor: No, they just bumped into it and spilled it all.

Me: Typical.

I tried to play it off like I remember parties in college, but I don’t really. That was a while ago for me, but not for her.

Eleanor: Did you have a good weekend?

Me: Yeah. My parents visited. They thought I was an alcoholic.

Eleanor: Are you?

Me: No.

Eleanor: Then why did they think that?

Me: They saw our two wine glasses in the sink and needed something to worry about.

Eleanor: Oh. That’s funny.

Me: Yeah.

Eleanor: Maybe it’s because you haven’t given them enough to worry about?

Me: What do you mean?

Eleanor: You have this great job, live in the West Village, wear a suit, make a good living. Parents would love a son like that.

When she said this, I started recalling those records my mom used to play in the kitchen that had the A-side and B-side. I felt like I was being turned over in a record player, to the B-side, and it felt so strange. Like the 40 tracks on the “40 Years of Doug” album were behind me.

And the way she described my life now, it made me feel like a glossy ad in a magazine. Or maybe a figure in a Monet landscape, and I couldn’t help but laugh. She really is a painter.

my sixth chapter

So after Eleanor left, I rinsed the wine glasses and worked out.

The gym I go to is on a corner, and the front of it is all windows, facing a busy avenue full of traffic and dimly-lit restaurants. Sometimes, when I’m lifting weights at night, I like to look out the window at the couples sitting in the restaurants, drinking cocktails and laughing over dishes of guacamole or bruschetta. I wonder how long they’ve known each other, what they’re talking about, if they’ve had sex, if they’re happy. And then, when I start to worry that they can see me watching, I turn and face the other way.

Yesterday, my mom and dad visited. They saw the wine glasses in the sink and asked if I’ve become an alcoholic. When I told them I had a friend over, they were skeptical. Sometimes my mom likes to rub it in that most of my friends are married with kids and, thereby, too busy to spend time with me. This was one of those times.

I debated telling them about Eleanor. About how nice and attractive I think she is. How she’s a graphic designer but also a painter, and how she takes the stairs on weekends.

But then I’d have to tell them that she lives across the hall, and then they’d probably call me ‘lazy.’ Because only the laziest person in the world dates the girl across the hall.

I’m really not lazy, though. I keep my eyes open for someone new. I like to observe people when I’m out to eat with friends, and when I’m at a party or other social function, I do talk to women. Sometimes they talk back.

When people ask why I haven’t met someone yet, I used to say that I’m too busy pursuing The Arts and living at home with my parents. But now that I’ve moved out and gotten a job, I think I’ve got to think of a new response.

Maybe I’ll say ‘chemistry.’

Chemistry is one of the hardest things to find. There’s a warmth to it, you know? I really believe the temperature rises between two people when they’re talking and have chemistry. It’s like all the molecules in the room sense what’s happening between these two people, and so they zoom over to witness and marvel at what’s taking place.

When I see couples embracing in the street, I smile, because I remember that warm feeling. Sometimes I want to tap them on the shoulder and tell them that this is what they’ll never forget. But that would be intrusive.

Most of all, I think I’d like to thank them. Because when they’re standing there together, I swear that, for a moment, that feeling that they feel passes along to me, and I feel it, too. It comes rushing back. And just when I’ve had a moment to savor it and let it really warm me up, it quickly disappears, and I keep on walking.

chapter five

She knocked on my door yesterday.

I had just gotten home from work and was putting my socks away when she arrived.

Eleanor: Hi.

Me: Hi.

Eleanor: How’s it going?

Me: You look really good.

She looked really good. She was wearing shoes with heels and a pair of jeans and it just came out. I felt really stupid, but then she started to laugh.

Eleanor: Thanks. I’m going out to a party with some friends. You look nice, too.

Me: Me?

Eleanor: Yeah, you’ve got a suit and a nice tie. Snazzy.

I forget that I’m now dressing the role of someone who looks put together, all the time. Like he has his life in order.

Me: Do you want to come in? For some wine?

Eleanor: No, I’ll be drinking enough tonight. Probably shouldn’t start too early.

Me: Okay.

But I guess I looked sad or something, because then she said:

Eleanor: Well, sure. Why not.

Which was good because I had bought a bottle of red wine the other day for moments like this. She showed up.

Me: So where is the party?

Eleanor: In an abandoned warehouse.

Me: That sounds artsy. Or like the beginning of a horror film.

Eleanor: Both?

Me: Where is it?

Eleanor: Brooklyn.

Me: Are you going there by yourself?

Eleanor: No, no, with friends.

Me: How are you getting there?

Eleanor: The subway.

Me: Oh.

A part of me wanted to pull a flashy “let me order you a car” comment because the man she knew would do that. But the person I’ve been for the past 40 years would laugh in his face, so I drank some wine and didn’t say anything more.

Eleanor: What are you doing tonight?

Me: Probably going to work out.

Eleanor: Do you work out a lot?

Me: Not a ton, but I try.

I know she couldn’t see my body or anything since I was wearing the suit, but I was kind of hoping she’d have assumed I work out a lot. Because I do. I don’t have much else to do, really.

Eleanor: Good for you. Sometimes I take the stairs.

Me: Yeah?

Eleanor: Yeah.

Me: Up or down?

Eleanor: Up, on weekends.

We sat like this for a little while, drinking red wine and talking about the building’s old age and the hefty landlord and the rooftop where, supposedly, people get caught having sex. It was all surface, but it was good surface. It was the best small talk I’ve had in a while.

And then her phone rang.

Eleanor: Sorry. Hold on.

She picked up the phone and I watched her laugh and talk in that way you do when you know you’re being watched, where you slightly suppress every expression for fear you won’t look good to the person watching. But she looked good.

Eleanor: Sorry, that was my friend. She’s on her way so I better get ready and go.

Me: Okay.

She handed me her half-finished glass, and I tried not to look her in the eye. I didn’t want to run the risk of looking disappointed like perhaps I did earlier, when I offered her the wine. It’s strange how you never know what your face looks like.

As we walked to the door, I noticed her behind in her jeans. I don’t think she saw.

Eleanor: Thanks again for the wine. It was really good.

Me: I’m glad you liked it.

Eleanor: It’ll be better than everything I drink tonight.

Me: Stay safe at that abandoned warehouse.

Eleanor: Famous last words.

Me: Goodnight.

Eleanor: Goodnight.

As she walked out, I shut the door and turned out toward the view. I saw myself in the window reflection, standing there in my suit and tie, holding a finished glass of red wine. And I thought about how she showed up tonight. How she knocked on my door unannounced, yet again. And I laughed, because this time, she didn’t even say why.

my fourth chapter

So I met Eleanor last week. Remember that? It was in chapter three and the one before that.

Her door is actually right next to mine, and I pass it on the way to the elevators. While I wait for the elevator to arrive, I like to wonder what she’s doing in her apartment at that moment. Like if she’s reading, cooking eggs, painting, or sitting around naked. Because that’s what people do when they are alone.

I think a lot about her, and have debated slipping a note under her door like, “hi neighbor,” or “are you having a good day? from, 8E.”

We left it open-ended as to when we’d hang out next, so I’m trying to find a way to approach this. As I do, life continues.

It’s strange wearing a suit and tie every morning, and going to an office with a security system, and riding a subway with so many other people wearing a suit and tie, who look just like me.

They tell you when you’re growing up that you’re destined to be special and do something great, but then you realize you’re on the same subway car as all these other people who thought they’d be special and do something great. And then you try to distinguish yourself by wearing a blazer or a bright blue messenger bag, but then you end up looking like all the other people wearing them, and then you’re back to the same place.

Have you ever tried pursuing what you love? Really doing it?

When I graduated college, my dad told me to spend a moment every year evaluating if I’ve got what it takes to become the major film director I’d always aspired to be. Then, when I hit 40-years-old this year and none of the festivals picked up the short film I made six years ago, my dad got sick of me evaluating myself and did it for me.

So he told his best friend, Dan, who founded a firm, that his son needs to make a living, so Dan got me this job making acquisitions.

The job pays well. Dan is a solid guy. And it’s nice showing up somewhere every morning. I like going to a place where people are expecting me. It feels good to be expected.

But there are days when I’m sitting at my desk after grabbing one of those cone-shaped paper cups of water from the dispenser, and I ask myself: “Did I give up? Did I even try?” And I panic a little bit, like I did this all wrong.

But then I think, “You know what, Doug? For now, you’re just a character, in your own original movie, learning some lines, and dressing the part.”

And then I take a sip of water, sit back in my chair, and watch as, suddenly, the credits roll.