chapter 15: the blizzard

Two days into the new year, and we got hit with a blizzard.

It looked like this.

And I swear that, for a moment, the city that never sleeps actually slept – and so did I.

Thankfully, emails were sent to everyone at work, urging us not to come in, just in case our “lives were in peril.”

Mine certainly was, as I stayed home watching two seasons of Breaking Bad, ordering in lukewarm pizza, and importing the colossal amounts of photos and videos from my phone to my computer.

Have you ever done this before? You watch your life literally flash before your eyes, moment by moment, as each memory impresses itself into the hard drive of your computer. It is pretty jarring.

I’ve had stuff on there for a good two years, and witnessed the snapshots just fly by: the time I chopped a pine tree down in my parents’  backyard and felt accomplished, the latest draft of my short film – crisp and printed out on my desk, going snowshoeing with my best friend and getting lost in the woods, and my first glance at my own tiny, barren NYC apartment.

I also took a photo from when I went to the top of the Empire State Building with Eleanor.

It looked like this.

We haven’t spoken or seen each other since our trip to the top. It’s like someone’s pressed ‘pause’ on whatever relationship we’ve been building, and has hidden the remote control under several very large blankets so I can’t switch it back to ‘play.’

Normally, I’d spend most of my subway rides, dish-washing, walks through the grocery store, and workouts wondering how she’s doing in that apartment of hers across the hall, and if she’s even thinking of me.

But now that we’re nearly a week into the new year, it’s time you meet the new Doug:

Doug ’14 (version 2.0.)

Unlike Doug ’13, Doug ’14 doesn’t enjoy grazing on muddy, doubt-ridden, insecure, and anxious thoughts many times throughout the day.

Instead, the new Doug molds these thoughts into sunnier ones, like the changing of a channel.

Don’t like the “Was The Empire State Visit Too Much” show?

Don’t worry, there’s a good program on “But It’s An Experience She’ll Never Forget.”

You see? If I don’t focus on this process, then Doug ’13 will succeed at cramming these anxious thoughts back into my head, and the two Dougs will have to duke it out.

It sounds like a sci-fi film, right? And it really could be, because with the might of Skywalker, I actually have to push the thoughts out of my mind. It’s like pushing a U-Haul up a ski slope.

Supposedly, a habit takes 21 days to form, so every day through the 21st, this is what I’m doing: mentally pushing a U-Haul up a ski slope.

May the best Doug survive.

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.