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 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 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.