chapter 23: the plastic clock

I am writing to you from a train on my way back from Baltimore to New York.

Since the unexpected and unwarranted promotion happened, I’ve been taking on more clients, all the while wondering when everyone will finally figure out that I have no idea what I’m doing.

On Friday night I got to stay at the Marriott and get a $50 stipend for breakfast alone. So yeah, I went ahead and ordered the biscuits and the coffee and the smoked bacon and the steak and eggs, and ate them in my queen-sized bed overlooking a parking lot.

On Saturday night, I got to see Lucas and stay with him and his wife Sharon and their 1-year-old Cody for a night.

When Lucas first met Sharon, I knew he was a goner. Maybe it’s because before they met, he had spent a year and a half recovering from a bad break-up by hooking up with OKCupid matches and relapsing on cigarettes. Or maybe it’s because Sharon saw the considerate guy behind his cocky facade.

But when he told me he asked her out for a second date while still on their first, I knew he was hooked, and I’d need to find someone else to play squash with.

Normally, being the third wheel sucks – you sense the bond between the two other people and you feel lightyears away from also having something with such intensity. But with Lucas and Sharon, I don’t feel deficient and down at all. I actually like to watch them together, because it gives me hope that if Lucas can find it – well, damn – so can I eventually, right?

That night, after Cody was put to bed, the three of us rented a movie and Sharon cooked chili and we all just caught up. Around midnight, they offered me sheets and a quilt and pillows to make a bed on the sofa, we said goodnight.

Closing my eyes, I could hear all the sounds of their home – the creaks and the charged refrigerator and the tick of a plastic clock down the hall. In their bedroom just a couple of feet away, I could hear their quiet conversation.

They talked about little things, like the food they have to get Cody and where Lucas’ pajama pants are and if they should wash the pillowcases tomorrow.

But I could feel the comfort in their words, the closeness that just blanketed all these trivial little nothings and made them into very mighty somethings.

And I lied awake thinking how they lucky they are, how immense it is to find the one person out of billions who you can speak with in such a quiet, little, nothing-but-something way before bed.

I forgot what it was like.

I’ve always told myself that, only when my life gets figured out, can I finally really be with someone. Because how can I provide and give them a good life and really be emotionally there for them if my career isn’t completely on track?

But maybe that’s the kind of thinking that lands you, at the age of 40, lying on a couch in your best friend’s house in Baltimore, suddenly remembering what it’s like to love someone and feel secure.

We’re all confused and messed up and unsure of our way, but maybe it could be more fun having a partner to jostle around with through these ups and downs, instead of just you bumping up against your own crazy, morning and night after morning and night.

I want what they have. I want the house and the talk and the love and the kid and the plastic clock and the chili. And I’ve never really wanted that before.

I guess you could call this “growing up.”

Or maybe it’s simply clarity.

this is my 19th chapter

This week marked the commencement of winter hibernation: when I join the throngs of black bears, bats, and other cave-dwellers and avoid all social interaction and food-outings for a very long time.

Sir Hunter Green and I (oh yes, he’s still here) enjoy late-night Thai food delivery, jazz and classic rock, and many beers. He’s shedding like a dog but he still exists kind of.

However, this year is unlike others. Last year at this time, I was living at my parent’s home, and hibernation was an all-year thing.

Now that I’m living on my own, my hibernation needs a new excuse. It’s not depression or Seasonal Affective Disorder or even laziness.

Let’s call it “shock.”

Because when I sat in my boss’ leather seat and listened to him promote me and ask, “How do you feel?” – I felt Nothing, and instantly got the clarity I’ve been seeking. I realized that–

I just don’t give a shit.

I sat there like a really bad actor, feigning excitement and doling out dialogue like, “Wow, this is great news. I am very happy.”

I sounded like a customer in one of those cheesy car dealership commercials. But I was worse than that actually, because I was a person acting in my real life, and that just feels awful.

But I guess this is what happens when you try so hard to deny what you love  – when you veer off course in pursuit of a career and a life that sounds good on paper. You sacrifice feeling much of anything.

And is it worth it? It’s up to you decide. There’s really no wrong answer. Happiness is the only compass, I guess.

I left early that night, picking up a honey-glazed rotisserie chicken and a couple of rolls.

I made a mess of the rolls. I was so hungry, I couldn’t really wait to slice the bread in half, so I just tore them apart like a black bear and devoured them. I think there’s still crumbs by the freezer.

Whoops.

I looked out the window at the city that’s been my home these past couple of months. What a crazy place. Who are these people living in these buildings next to me? Are they as confused as I am, shocked, feigning excitement? Just not giving a shit? Do they slice their rolls in half before eating them?

Maybe they’re really happy. If they are, I’d like to ask them how they got there. And maybe if I’m lucky, they’ll begin their story with, “If you ever told me a year ago I’d be…” Those are the best stories. They’re kind of heroic, you know? They’re surprising.

After watching “American Beauty” and eating an ice pop, I went back into my bedroom and pulled the boxes out from under my bed.

There sat the piles of screenplays I’ve written over the years, inspired by so many different and extreme moments in my life: graduating college, moving back home, having moderate success in film, peaking at 28, facing rejection, depression, losing my dog, falling in love, losing her, writing again, doubting again, and finally getting kicked out.

But what about New York? Perhaps it deserves its moment. I sat on the floor against my bed, wondering what it is I could write. Part of me feels like I need to live a bit more and I can’t force the inspiration, but part of me feels it’s already there.

And then the biggest part of me of all realized that already I was feeling more than “Nothing.” And if happiness is the only compass, then I think I am finding my direction.

my 18th chapter: passing cars

Every morning when you wake up, you have those three golden seconds when you forget who you are, where you are and what you’re doing here. You’re just this free-floating unwritten page.

It feels like bliss.

When I woke up for work on Friday at 6:30am, these three seconds arrived. And naturally, I did my daily rundown.

– My name is Doug.

– I now live in New York.

– I work at a finance firm.

And then I continued:

– What did I do last night?

– The brownie.

– Alaska.

– She’s here.

I turned and saw Eleanor passed out next to me in bed, a little puddle of drool beside her cheek. I was partially stoned.

I knelt down next to her.

Me: Hey, I’ve gotta go to work, but you can stay as long as you’d like.

Eleanor: What time is it?

Me: 7am.

She looked at me for a moment, having her own three golden seconds of “blank page,” and then registering what happened. After a swift, sleepy hug and a “I’ll see you later,” she left, and that was that.

On the subway, I stood by the window, looking out as the car rolled through the tunnel.

One of the most fascinating things about a subway ride is the way two separate train cars pass one another on different tracks, moving parallel and and then continuing on their journey.

For 10 seconds, you get the voyeuristic thrill of literally staring into someone else’s life and daily routine – the way they lean up against the subway door, roll their eyes at the story in the paper, sneak a bite of a sandwich from their bag.

I like to wonder where they’re headed, if they want to go there, what they did last night.

People are so much more interesting than we ever imagine, you know? They’re like these walking Russian dolls where, if you take the time to open them, they keep unraveling into more and more pieces, filling up your shelves with stories and fears and quirks.

It’s moments like this – on these passing trains – when I think about my screenplays: all the pieces that are sitting in a box under my bed. And I want to capture these people, the same way a camera zooms in on an actor’s wrinkles and scars.

I feel something when I look into their lives for just a second. One day, I really hope that this feeling will be enough to stir me to write again and get back to my scripts.

Maybe even write something new.

When I got to work, there was an email in my inbox from my boss Greg.

Greg is a guy who takes what many perceive as stressful events, and turns them into breezy, charisma-filled moments, and I don’t know how he does it. Sometimes I sit there in my stiff suit, holding a miniature plastic cup filled with room-temperature water, and am in awe of him. He’s the personification of the “I think I can I think I can” Little Engine That Could.

Greg always emails me in the morning with updates, but this time the subject line said, “See me when you get in.”

What does he mean “see me when you get in?” What’s that about.

I froze and went to the bathroom and looked at myself. This was probably the worst morning to ever see him when I get in.

Not only were my eyes slightly red, but I realized my blue tie didn’t match my green shirt and my hair looked like that of a Tim Burton character. This is what happens when a 40-year-old eats a pot brownie and gets three hours of sleep.

But what are you going to do? The deed is done. Now is go time.

So I walked out and knocked on his door. He opened it.

Greg: Good morning.

Me: Good morning, I just got your email.

Greg: Of course, take a seat.

So I took a seat.

Greg: How’s it going, Doug? How are things going for you.

Me: Good, good, I’m enjoying it here. No complaints.

Greg: No? That’s great. I’m happy to hear.

We talked about our weekends, the workflow, etc.

And then there was a pause, and he looked at me for an unusually long time.

Greg: Well, I think you’re more than settling in. I think you’re doing a great job. Larry left, and I want you to fill his position.

My mind went blank. Wait, what? Who’s Larry?

Me: Really.

Greg: It means a bit of a raise and more responsibilities, so weekend business trips and stuff, but I think you’re ready for it. Bill agrees.

Wait, who’s Bill again? What the fuck is going on.

Greg: So what do you think of this? How do you feel.

How did I feel.

I sat there in my mismatched blue tie and green shirt and red eyes and dry mouth.

All I could imagine were the passing cars that rode through the tunnel, making stops and moving forward.

For three golden seconds,  I forgot who I was, where I was and what I was doing there.

And I felt nothing.