this is my 16th chapter

It came at the strangest of times: a note, pushed swiftly under my door.

On Thursday, having returned from work around midnight  – my head spinning with numbers and emails and traffic lights – I sat awake on my bed, eyes glazed and staring at the ceiling. I considered masturbating, but was too tired. You know how it goes.

And then I heard a “swoosh” coming from 10-feet-away, a tiny pocket of white by the door.

Eleanor. It’d been weeks. I could even hear her say “Douglas.” The one moment I wasn’t thinking of her, she swoops right in. Isn’t that how it always works.

So then I considered ignoring the note, but then I thought of Doug ’14, and how it would be such a better “show” to actually see what was going on next-door.

So I went.

Eleanor: Wow. You’re actually awake.

Me: You’re actually alive.

Eleanor: I’ve been busy. You could have just knocked on my door, you know.

Me: Well, I’ve been busy, too. Really busy.

Eleanor: Good. How’s work and everything?

Me: It’s fine, the same. Just working a lot.

Eleanor: Yeah, same.

Me: So this is what you wanted to talk about at 3am?

Then she got quiet for a moment, and I wondered if she was going to shut the door or shutdown again.

Eleanor: I wanted to see how you are. It’s been a while since we hung out, and I was looking at the Empire State from my window tonight and thinking, “Douglas, I wonder how he is.”

Then she turned around and invited me in, and I realized she was wearing a scarf, and her jacket was splayed on the couch. We sat.

Me: Did you just get back from somewhere?

Eleanor: Yeah, I went to a friend’s art exhibit and then we went for drinks after.

Me: How was it?

Eleanor: Just bad, really bad stuff. But I told her it was great, of course. That’s what friends do.

Me: When’s your exhibit?

Eleanor: Mine? Who knows. When I’m dead, maybe? Posthumously hanging at the Guggenheim, like all great works of art.

Me: Don’t say that. Your stuff is really good, really different. You could go somewhere.

Eleanor: Blah, blah, blah, so could you, if you believed it yourself.

Then she got up and walked the two feet to her kitchen counter, unwrapping an aluminum-covered dish. Three brownies were inside.

Eleanor: Want one?

Me: You made these?

Eleanor: No, but my friend said they’re delicious. Have one.

She gave me a long stare as I reached for the brownie, like I, too, was an art exhibit.

Me: What.

Eleanor: Nothing, just eat it. They’re organic, you’re fine.

Me: Aren’t you gonna have one?

She grabs for one and keeps staring at me.

Me: Go ahead.

Eleanor: You first.

And that’s when it hit me.

Me: I’m not doing this right now. No way.

Eleanor: Oh, come on, it’ll be fun.

Me: Have you ever had one of these? You’re gonna feel like you died and the ground is spaghetti. You won’t even be able to recognize me.

Eleanor: Yeah, right. I’ll be fine.

She pops an entire brownie in her mouth.

Me: Are you crazy? You know how strong that’s gonna be?

Eleanor: It’s only one, calm down.

Me: You don’t know what you’re doing.

Eleanor: Who are you, my dad? I know, I’m “so young and stupid” etcetera etcetera. You’re only, what, 10 years older than me?

Me: 15, actually.

Eleanor: You’re 40? Really? Did you tell me that? You look a lot younger. Maybe because you don’t have a wife or kids or anything.

Me: And are you my parents? Maybe I’ll just go back to bed, or hang myself, or something.

Eleanor: That’s not what I meant. It was a compliment, come on.

Me: Well I just meant that half is all you need.

Eleanor: You’re an expert at weed. Weed and movie-writing, aren’t you. What else don’t I know about you.

Me: I’m not a stoner, and I’m not really a writer, either. I don’t know what I am.

Eleanor: Doug the mystery neighbor.

Me: You’re the one who disappears for weeks and shuts down on a date.

Eleanor: A date, really? Surprise. It was a date.

Me: Or something like it. You knew what it was.

Eleanor: How would I know? You don’t make a move.

Me: You’re confusing…really confusing. I don’t know what you want.

Eleanor: I want you to eat this brownie.

And then she smirked a little bit, in that way women do when they’re tipsy and very sure of themselves.

Eleanor: You really don’t know what you are?

Me: Do you?

Eleanor: No. But if you eat this brownie, I’ll tell you what you are. To me, at least.

We locked eyes and I felt that chemistry I saw between a couple months ago. That warmth, when all the molecules start moving and slowly raising the temperature.

Me: Deal.

And so, I ate it.

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 14: the new year

Every year, around the end of December, I spend a good deal of time looking out the window. Like a house dog. “Reflection” is what they call it, but it might as well be coined “Digging A Hole To China With A Utensil,” because once I start “reflecting,” I don’t stop, and I don’t really get anywhere, and my mind and back starts to hurt.

I’m not where I was last year, which is a good thing, I suppose.

Last year, I was toiling with the fourth draft of a short film, doing some freelance film-editing jobs, and cleaning the kitchen for my mom after dinner.

This year, I have my own kitchen. And I haven’t touched a script in months, but I paid for this sandwich I’m eating.

How do I feel?

I feel pretty afraid, actually.

I am looking at my life and feeling kind of frightened by how easy it is to succeed at the things you don’t care about, and how hard it is to thrive at the things you do.

They like me at my job, and they pay me for it and they think I do it well.

But if my salary was connected like an IV to my heart, I’d be banking zero at the job and millions at the script.

But that’s not how life works. It rewards you in the places you least expect it to, and it’s frightening to think that life doesn’t notice if your “heart’s not in it.” In fact, the only one who notices is you.

When Eleanor and I went up to the Empire State Building at 1am, we didn’t speak. We ran out to the freezing observation deck and looked out at the skyscrapers and traffic lights and rooftops and bridges. We reflected in our own quiet way.

In the cab back, we still didn’t speak. And when we went up the elevator to our floor, there was silence.

Eleanor: Goodnight, Doug.

Me: Goodnight.

I walked the five steps to my apartment and shut the door and looked out the window. I considered Digging The Hole again, but passed. Instead, I put on my pajamas and laid in bed and looked up at the ceiling.

Maybe Eleanor felt the same way I did that night above the city: small. 

But in a good way. Because if we’re really that small, imagine how tiny our thoughts are.

And if our thoughts are tiny, our fears are, too.

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 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.