Author: fightmasterwrites

Look I made a hat, where there never was a hat.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

32, 013 words.

23 Chapters.

A million miles to go.

I called my Aunt Debbie yesterday, just to check in. She is the last of my mom’s siblings. We’ve been close my whole life. Well since her parents passed, and my mother became her guardian.

That was 59.5 years ago.

I check in every so often to see how she is doing. What’s up with the family I never hear from and to have a connection back to Kentucky and home.

Yesterday she asked me if I was still writing.

I assured her I was.

We talked about what I was writing. How it was going. And how much longer till I was done.

It felt nice to be asked. To have someone in my family be interested in what I’m doing.

I had told her about my writing about 6 or 8 months ago, as I needed her help. I needed facts, stories, folk lore about my family. I confessed to her that I was writing a book about my mom’s passing. Of course, that was just the way in to the rest of the story. It’s actually a book about me, my family, and where I come from.

I like to think of it as Hillbilly Eulogy without the eyeliner and hate.

Thing is, most of the people I’m connected to, that know the truth are all gone. This is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because there is no one to yell at me for the telling the truth. A curse because there is no one to confirm that it is the truth.

A while back, I reached out to Debbie to ask questions about something I was including. The death of my mother’s father. The details of which I knew with broad strokes, but did not know the exact details. I had written a chapter about his death and wanted to know how close I was to reality.

The facts were there, but I’d invented a good portion of it. Which is fine. It’s far from non-fiction. I was never an astronaut, but when the books starts, I’ve just gotten back from Mars. I kid, I kid.

When we talked 6 or so months ago we talked for about an hour. I was typing notes as she filled me in on the truth about his death, but also the stories of a million other things that I wanted to know.

My mom’s best friends? Who she dated? Where she worked? What kind of car did she drive?

I now have about 10 pages of notes that I took that night.

After we talked, I realized that most of my details of my grandfather’s death were far from factual. The question became, do I make it real? Or do I let it play out in my way?

Anyway.

I talked to Debbie yesterday. And she asked if I was still writing. It felt good to know she cared.

Someday, I’ll let her read it, reminding her that it’s my version of what I remember hearing around the dinner table.

Now on to Chapter 24.

Dear Pen Pal.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!

Last night I started out to write a post about my freshman year at Georgetown College.  

Perhaps this will be that post.  

In late summer of 1983, I attended a freshman orientation.  I remember two things about it.  

The first person who saw me on campus that day, walked up and said, and I quote, “Hi, my name is Karen. Are you saved?”

I should have immediately taken a gap year, transferred to EKU, and attended the state of Kentucky’s party school.  

I did not do that.  

I do not remember my response, but I do remember to this day, thinking what an odd way of making friends.  

At some point during the day, I met a guy named Gary.  Without looking through a yearbook, I have no idea what his last name is.  

We instantly hit it off and by the end of the day, had agreed to be roommates.  

Fun fact:  I was told when filling out paperwork to live on campus, that if you said you had asthma you would not be put in the freshman dorm and instead would be in the new dorms on the other side of campus.  Dorms that had air conditioning.  Turns out this was absolutely true.  

In mid-August, I put all of my worldly belongings into my 1971 Ford Galaxy and drove it to campus.  This consisted of clothes.  A few books.  And not much else.  

However, we were determined to have a cool room, so by the end of August we’d bought a cool couch and a recliner at the local thrift store.  The recliner was bright green and the vinyl covering had seen far better days.  Somewhere I have photos of all of this. 

Gary was from St. Louis, was in the ROTC and LOVED Christian rock music.  Petra was his favorite band, and by the end of the first semester, it was a favorite of mine as well.  

Funny, how you get caught up in what everyone else is doing.  The only reason I attended church as long as I did, was because I loved the music.  In fact, long after I stopped believeing I’d attend church, just to sing the hymns I grew up with.  By the end of my first year at Georgetown, I had bought albums by Sandy Patty and Amy Grant and of course Petra.  El Shaddai.

About halfway thru the fall semester, Gary was talking with a friend of his on the phone.  Attached to the wall.  With a cord.  (Remind me to tell you about having an answering machine).  He was talking to his friend Valerie who he went to high school with.  She wanted to know if he wanted cookies or brownies in a care package.  He asked me my preference, and I said brownies, and a few days later a package arrived with brownies.  

We were excited to get them because getting packages at college was fun.  This went on for a few more weeks and eventually, I sent Valerie a thank you letter.  She wrote me back.  I wrote her back.  And thus began the back and forth of letters between Valerie and Jeff.   

The letters were silly.  Lists of questions we had for the other person.  Thoughts about school.  Thoughts about the world.  At the time her favorite perfume was Lauren, by Ralph Lauren, and she’d spritz the letters. She’d send boxes.  I’d send boxes.  

This continued into the spring semester.  With both of us sending three, four, five letters a week.  Multiple letters at a time.  Numbered of course.  

Sometime in mid-February, and I don’t know how it came up, it was suggested that I go visit her over spring break.  And I did.  My Aunt, and her boyfriend at the time, drove me to St. Louis.  With her kids.  We went up in the St. Louis Arch.  We toured the church beneath it.  And on a Sunday afternoon, Val and her parents picked me up and took me to their home. 

It was a perfectly lovely week.  We laughed.  We had fun.  And the ONLY thing I remember about the whole week is that we saw Footloose at the movie theater, with her friends.  It was on Friday night, the last night I’d be there.  Footloose will always be the movie of my freshman year of college.  Let’s hear it for the boys.  

On Saturday, my aunt came back to pick me up.  

On Monday, school started again.  

And I think I got one or two more letters after I visited.  

She stopped writing.  I stopped writing.  

And that was the end of that.  Never to be heard from again.

But. 

Here’s the fun part.  

Every letter that I ever, ever, ever received from the time I was eight or nine until well into my late 20’s, is in a box in my office.  Including every letter I ever received from Val.  

Part of me thinks I should toss them.  

Part of me thinks I should look her up and see what happened to her.

Part of me thinks I should open up ALL the letters and reminiscence.  

Part of me says, wait till I’m dead and let Adam deal with them.  

Gary, didn’t return for our sophomore year.  And I never heard from him again either.  

Fun story about Gary.  One day his alarm went off, he got up, showered, dressed and left for ROTC stuff, only to find out someone (NOT ME) had fucked with his alarm and set it two hours early.  He arrived at 4:00 a.m. instead of 6:00.  We had a good laugh about that.  

In the meantime, I haven’t written a letter in 20 years.  But if in fact, you were one of the people I corresponded with in my 20’s, Jayne Sadlon, and Julia Roberts then I still have those letters. 

Rocky Horror Picture Show

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Picture this. Sicily 1902.

Actually, the date is summer, 1983. I have just graduated from high school. I’m working at Wendy’s and mowing a friend’s lawn to make money.

The weekends are spend going to Rocky Horror in Lexington, to a dollar cinema in Chevy Chase that ceased to exist around a million years ago.

A typical Saturday night involved, picking up my friends. Stephanie. Scott. Kendra. The list goes on. I would drive until I wrecked my car. Actually, Stephanie wrecked my car, as I was teaching her to drive.

We’d drive to Lexington, and then stop at the drive thru liquor store on the way into Lexington. We’d ask for a bottle of cheap vodka and was never, ever carded. The glory of drive through liquor stores and friends who looked over 21. Actually, I don’t think they cared.

The truth was, the county I grew up in was dry. No liquor sales. Not ever. Period.

In college we’d talk about going West which was the name of the liquor store just over the county line, West Liquors. It also had a drive thru.

We’d drive thru the liquor store, and then stop for orange juice at a convenience store.

We’d find parking near the theater, and then pour the vodka into the orange juice. We’d pass it around and it only took a sip or two for most of us to swear we were tipsy.

Finally, at 11:50 we get out of my 1971 Ford Galaxy and walk toward the Chevy Chase Cinema.

The movie is The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I saw that move 50+ times ove the course of the last year. I know all of the lines. I know all of the actors.

We take a seat and then at exactly 12:01, the movie starts.

Michael Rennie was ill
The Day the Earth Stood Still
But he told us where we stand
And Flash Gordon was there
In silver underwear
Claude Rains was The Invisible Man
Then something went wrong
For Fay Wray and King Kong
They got caught in a celluloid jam
Then at a deadly pace
It Came From Outer Space
And this is how the message ran

We brought all the props. We screamed out all of the added dialogue.

We were far from virgins. By the end of summer, I’d seen the movie more than 50 times.

Sometime in the middle of the summer, on a rainy night, my friend Stephanie was driving. She pulled onto the street, skidded and ended up hitting a truck.

It’s when I learned that auto insurance goes with the car, not the driver, her father could pay for the damage, and it was the end of a car that I would give a million bucks to still be driving today.

A 1971 Ford Galaxy, with red leather interior and a creamy off-white exterior. 15,000 miles, only driven by my mom’s bosses, wife.

At the end of the movie, we’d stand and celebrate the success that was our attendance at the movie.

Then we’d find my. The small bottle of vodka, properly disposed of in the trash barrel on the street. Any hope of tipsiness long gone.
We’d laugh about how awesome we were to know all the feedback.
And I’d drive us home.

In Georgetown, I’d drop everyone off at their cars, or their homes.

Then I’d drive Stephanie and me, to Sadieville.

The ritual, repeated itself until we all left to go our separate ways at the end of the summer.

In August, I’d start Georgetown College. Baptist College. No drinking. No girls in your dorm room. Only having had dancing for the past 4 years.

Fun fact. This was a post about my Freshman year at Georgetown, and ended up being about the summer after my senior year of high school.

More to come later.

Go Apes!!!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

A friend of mine, who I’ve known since elementary school, just celebrated her 60th birthday.  This means that I’ve known her for 4,786 years.  

We met in elementary school at Great Crossing Elementary.  GO APES!!!

The school is so old, that they’ve closed it, turned it into an office building and built a great big new high school with the name Great Crossing High School.  PS.  I’m about 99% sure that my elementary school was a first through twelfth grade school when it was built in 1583.  

It was called Great Crossing, because our indigenous friends, we stole the land from, called it that, because buffalo, before we killed them all, used to cross the creek near the location of our school.  

I digress.  

My friend turned 60.  

Which reminded me that I’m about to turn 60.  (Shop early.  Shop often!)

How the fuck am I about to turn 60?

The point is, that for her birthday, and because the world is a great big dumpster fire at the moment, she decided to do 30 days of questions about books, authors, reading habits etc.  

What is your favorite non-fiction book?

Who is your favorite author?

What is the first book you read as a child?

What’s your favorite book series?  

It’s been fun.  It’s been distracting.  

Today’s question and I quote:  Your preferred way to read, with percentages.

Meaning do you read an actual book?  Do you read a digital copy?  Audio books?  Books on tape?  Etc.  

I answered:

Books.  Actual real live books.  Always. 

Except:

In my life I have listened to one audio book.  Actually 2.  I listened to a murder mystery in the 90’s on my cassette player, and I hated it.  And.  I listed to an Audible recording of a book in 2014.  The Talented Mister Ripley.  Didn’t like that either.  

Then.  

In the summer of 2003, my friend Michelle read East of Eden by John Steinbeck, aloud to me, as we drove cross country from NYC to San Diego.  

The back story.  

I was accepted into grad school in the spring of 2003.  And being me, that was full of drama that I should share here, because to my knowledge most everyone who knows me would have had no idea.  And all of you would love to hear the story.  

I was going to attend the University of California, in San Diego, to FINALLY get my MFA in lighting.  I say FINALLY, because I’d attempted this two other times before I got to San Diego and finished it.  

In July of 2003, I flew to San Diego and found an apartment.  Fun fact.  Do NOT go to San Diego during Comic Con and hope to find a hotel under a million dollars, that is clean, safe, and livable. The hotel I stayed in was questionable at best. 

By the end of the weekend, I’d seen a production of Falsettos at Diversionary Theater, and signed a lease on an apartment.  And somehow lost a friend, and I still have no idea why.  

A month later, I put my shit in a 24’ U-Haul and started the trek cross country.  I was driving and my friend Michelle was riding shotgun navigating.   

The first day, we got to Kentucky.  Lexington.  Michelle was there to see her mom.  I was there to see my mom.  A 10 hour stop to hug some necks and say hello.  I also picked up two pieces of antique furniture for my friend Jay from high school and college, who lived in L.A. and I was cheaper than a shipping company. 

Day 2.  We get in the truck and continue our drive west.  

Fun fact.  

As you drive west in a U-Haul truck, there aren’t a lot of music choices.  You are constantly hitting the search button on the radio or you have static.  There was no Sirius.  There was no attaching the phone to the truck.  It was FM all the way baby.  

Fun fact:  As you drive toward the middle of the country, sliding into the south, there are two types of stations available.  Country.  Jesus.  Nothing else.  You might find Billy Joel on a station long enough to hear half of Uptown Girl, before the static kicked in, or it was replaced by country or Jesus.  

By the end of the first third of the second day, we were tired, hungry, and annoyed with the radio.  

I don’t know how it came to happen, but somehow, Michelle ended up opening the copy of East of Eden I’d bought before the trip because it was Oprah’s book of the month.  

She turned to page one, and opened it and read: 


THE SALINAS VALLEY is in Northern California. It is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the Salinas River winds and twists up the center until it falls at last into Monterey Bay.

I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer—and what trees and seasons smelled like—how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.

For three and a half days she read aloud to me, as I drove across the American dessert.  I couldn’t take a turn as I get violently car sick when I read in a car.  And she didn’t mind that I was driving the big truck.  

She read.  I drove. 

We only took breaks when we were in a city that I had to navigate.  

There were times when we’d pull into a gas station and she’d continue to read to the end of the chapter.  We’d stop for food once, and she’d read another 15 minutes, becaue we were engrossed in the book.  

She got us to the end of Part 3 about 90 minutes before we got to San Diego. 

I have to say it is the best way to enjoy a book ever.  We were able to talk about it while we were stopped for food.  We got excited for cliff hangers when we stopped for gas.  And we were disappointed we wouldn’t finish the book together.

I still hate that I had to read part 4 on my own like a regular person, when she flew off to Michigan after our trip cross country. (Ask me about that story). 

So.  

I highly recommend the book.  It’s awesome.  

I highly recommend letting your best friend read it to you.  

And I highly recommend having your best friend read it to you as you drive across the American Southwest avoiding Jesus.  

New Kid In Town

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I haven’t written publicly in a while.  

Privately I’m 30,000 words into a novel about…well something.  

However, I do miss writing for an audience.  Actually, I miss it a lot.  

I have a million ideas.  Seriously.  If I was more motivated.  More driven.  More focused.  I’d have probably already signed a trillion-dollar book deal.  Or at least have published a pamphlet I leave on people’s cars.  I enjoy it a lot.  

So to back up, on Sunday, I worked a very long shift.  And I mean very long.  It was very busy.  It was crazy. We are at the end of restaurant week and to be honest, it’s been a great help to an otherwise boring spring.  

When I came upstairs from the office at 4:00 to check in on the staff, make sure the doors were open and inspect the dining room Cher was playing on the speakers.  I smiled to myself.  Who doesn’t love Cher.  Although, it did make me remember that my 23 year old host from Norway has no idea who Cher is but that’s another story.  

As the night started at 4:00, the music continued.  I learned that the station was a Cher station on Pandora.  The music continued and as it did, the songs I knew continued.  One right after another.  And every song that played had a story.  Dolly, Journey, Billy, The Bee Gee’s, even Elvis.  

My young host and servers were all hanging out waiting for the night to begin and as the songs played I kept them entertained with a story about each one.  And is always the case, I thought to myself, this would be a great writing exercise.  Sharing music stories with all of you.  

This is the first.  It might be my last and only one.  But it IS my first. 

New Kid in Town:  Eagles.  1976/1977. 

For me it’s January 1977. 

It’s snowing.  It’s been snowing for 12 months.  

We missed the last day of school before Christmas break, which was supposed to be the day of our Christmas party.  It’s now the middle of January.  It’s still snowing.  It’s been almost a month, and we have still not been back to school.  For almost 8 days we didn’t leave our house.  Our road, Carrick Road, has not been plowed in a week.  Our yard, stretches out for a 100-yards, even though, 50 feet from our house, it’s supposed to drop 5 feet to the road.  It is snowy.  

When the plows finally clear a one lane path, my parents need to go back to work.  I’m in 6th grade and my mom the worrier won’t let my brother and I stay home by ourselves.  

On the first day of clear roads, we get up at 6:30, get dressed and by 7:00 are on our way to Lexington with our parents.  We’ll stay at my mom’s office with her, while my dad goes to his job.  

It is snowing.  Hard.  The snow in the headlights looks like a scene from some space movie.  There is snow on both sides of the road.  My father has both hands tight on the steering wheel.  He is hunched over, paying attention.  You can tell he knows it’s his job to drive, to get us to our destination in one piece.    

A song plays on the radio station WLAP, 630 am.  New Kid In Town by the Eagles.   The song wraps up and a DJ tells us about the weather.  The news.  They continue to talk as my dad slowly maneuvers the slippery roads in his pick up truck

There is no talking. 

We drive.    

My mother lights another cigarette, she hates traveling in the snow.  She will smoke non-stop until we arrive at her office. 

After what seems like 6 hours we finally arrive in Lexington on Newtown Pike.  The roads clear.  There is a collective sigh of relief as the worst of our trip is behind us.  Finally, we arrive at 200 Cox Street.  A tile and carpet subcontracting building.  

We have made it alive.  My mother is happy.  

We get out of the truck, and climb the icy concrete steps to the cold aluminum sided building she works in. She unlocks the door.  We are the only ones there.  She flips on the over head fluorescent lights and turns on the heat.  There is no plumbing in her office so they keep the heat off when no one is there.  It’s about 4* and won’t be warm till around the time we eat lunch. 

She is a bookkeeper.  She has been a bookkeeper for years.  She started this job, working for my uncle three years ago.  Her office is wood paneled, covered in maps.  There are sample books of carpet and tile everywhere.  The walls, the “art”, the maps on the all are all yellowed from years of smoking in the office.  The office smells of damp cold air and cigarette smoke.  

My brother and I will spend the day here.  I’m 11 but my mother doesn’t trust my brother and I to spend the day alone at home.  We will go to her office every day.  We sit on the floor if anyone else is there, as she only has one chair and it’s hers.  There are two offices behind hers is occupied by the man who runs the business.  The back office, the owner of the company, I haven’t seen in weeks.  We get settled and we countdown the 8 hours wait until we can go home again.  This pattern repeats itself, every day till the second week of February.

I wander around the office.  Looking at calendars.  A map of Lexington.  The blueprints of a school they have been hired to carpet and tile.  I go through drawers.  I open boxes.  It’s 8:45 and I’m bored out of my mind.    My one consolation is that I can read.  Once I figure out where to plant myself, I’ll pull out a book and get settled.  

Today I am reading a book called Today I Am a Ham.  I love reading.  It’s saved me from my life more times than I can count.  

My mom turns on her radio, pours a cup of coffee, lights a cigarette and starts to work.  I can hear the sound of the adding machine and typewriter.  The phone rings, Good Morning, L. Standafer Company.  My mother has a phone voice.  She is a different person when she answers the phone.  Calm.  Kind.  Relaxed.   Not at all how she talks to us.   

She answers the questions.  Takes notes.  Say’s goodbye and hangs up.  She goes back to work.  

I wander around the building.  Into the warehouse, which is not heated.  I can see my breath as I walk around looking at rolls of carpet and boxes of tiles.  I eventually find myself in her boss’s office.  It is filled with blueprints.  Even to this day, I’ve been fascinated by floor plans.  I look through them, thinking one day I might like to be an architect. 

I seat myself in her boss’s empty chair. I pretend to be the boss, picking up the phone.  Opening and shutting drawers.  Finally, I pull out my book to read.  The time goes by faster when I am reading.  I open the book to the first page.   I’m a little old for it, but I had it at home and it’s been a favorite for years.  I read, and read, and read, and read, and read.  I start to get drowsy. I close my eyes for a second, and I’m asleep.  

When I open my eyes, it’s time for lunch.  We eat boloney sandwiches, with potato chips and dessert is a Little Debbie oatmeal pie.  After lunch the day repeats itself, with my mom answering the phone, me reading and my brother doing who knows what. 

At 4:30 my father arrives, to start the drive back home.  It’s as treacherous as the morning drive.  

Everyday for 6 weeks I hear the song New Kid In Town.  And to this day, when it plays, I can see myself squeezed in to the middle of the pick up truck, listening to the lyrics, followed by the news on WLAP.  

I have a love hate relationship with this song.  It’s a lovely song, but the music, the lyrics, take me back to the winter of 1977 and my long trek to the 200 Cox Street.  

Blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Tonight was busy at work.  

Very, very busy.  

We were fully staffed, and ready to go, so I actually stayed out of the way and let the team do their thing.  I was able to get payroll started for the week and catch up on a few things that I’d not done since being back from NYC.  

Around 7:30 I went upstairs, to check in with the FOH manager, who likes to call her kids around 7:30.  While we were at the host stand talking a three top walked in.  I explained that we did not have room for them, and wouldn’t have room for them for about an hour.  

The manager, tapped me on the shoulder and told me I should seat them at table 13, because the reservation for the table was already 15 minutes late and she didn’t think they were going to show.  

I looked at the three top, said what the hell, let’s gamble and roll the dice and I gave them the table. 

At this point the manager took a break from the door and I took over.  

30 seconds after she left, the reservation we thought wouldn’t show appeared in front of me.  

Fuckity, FUCK, FUCK.  

I explained that because they were late, we no longer had a table for them.  They were indignant for about 3 seconds, and then pivoted to the nice routine.  They were so suite and nice about it, that I made it work.  By giving them a table we were going to need in 20 minutes.  

I call this kicking it down the road, hoping against hope that someone along the way, will skp dessert and just pay the check and leave.  

When I told them I could get them seated, the woman I’d been speaking with asked me if I wanted a hug and a kiss.  I jokingly said, I’m not easy, you have to at least buy me dinner and a drink first.  They all laughed, and I got them seated.

5 minutes later their server appeared to let me know they had bought me a bourbon drink, as I’d explained that was my drink of my choice.  They were so sweet.  

Meanwhile, the kitchen calls for hands and I go to the window and pick up the appetizer for table 13.  I approach them and drop off the baked brie and jokingly say, you’ll never guess who walked through the door 5 minutes after I sat you.  The reservation we didn’t think would show.  

They immediately became apologetic and I assured them I didn’t tell them this to upset them, I thought it was par for the course, and that sometimes you gamble and you win and sometimes you gamble and you lose.  

The father asked me three or four times, if I was sure I didn’t need the table.  I repeatedly said, absolutely not, I only wanted them to enjoy dinner.  That’s all I needed.  

He introduced himself and then asked me to join them for dinner.  I laughed and said I had to get back to work.  We shook hands and I casually asked if they were local.  

The father and mother lived in Massachusetts and their daughter explained that she lived in Pennsylvania.  In the blue part of the state.  

I took a deep breath.  Do I respond?  Or do I let it pass.  Never, ever talk politics at work.  

However, It suddenly felt like that she’d shared the secret code word.  

I said that it was awesome that she lived in the blue part of the state and that it was a shame it wasn’t bigger this year.  She agreed and said that she had done her part.  

I replied, “So you understood the assignment.”

She said, “Not only did I understand the assignment but my in laws, who are life long Republicans also understood the assignment and voted blue for the first time in their life.  

I felt goosebumps rise on my arm.  

I told them that they were exactly who I needed to meet tonight after the week that we had.  

She also went on to say, that in her neighborhood on Monday, she had no less that 10 door knockers ring her door bell, and ask who she was voting for all canvasing for Harris.  Not one Republican came to her door, and that she’d been shocked by the results.  

I told her that I was going to tell this story on Facebook tonight, as I think it’s important for all of us to know that we are not alone.  

I thanked them again for being so nice, the father asked me again to join them for dinner, I shook his hand one more time.  Told them to keep up the good work and took my leave.  

I really did get goosebumps talking to them and it really made me smile that they thought that they could trust me and shared this with me.  

Spread the word folks. 

Kiss today goodbye. And point me toward tomorrow. We did what we had to do

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I’d like to speak to a helper.

Mr. Rodger’s taught me that there always people looking to help.

It’s November 8, 2024.

At least it was when I started writing this post. It might be tomorrow when I finish. It might be Christmas Eve.

You’ll know when you read this.

November 8, 2024 is three days after the presidential election. It won’t come as a surprise to any of you that I was not happy with the outcome. I wasn’t surprised with the outcome. But I was not happy.

To say that I was devastated, is an understatement. I truly had hope that the national nightmare that is the electee would be over on Tuesday. I mean, seriously, the American people had to realize that he was a horrible human being.

Alas, I was proven wrong.

I’m writing, because at least 80% of my friends are artists. That estimate might actually be low. They might not all call themselves artists but they are. My friends consist of scenery designers, costume designers, sound designers, lighting designers, actors, screenwriters, novelists, playwrights, academic writers, painters, singers, guitarists, pianists, drummers, knitters, dancers, film makers, wood workers, teachers, chefs, bakers, cake decorators, directors, bartenders, barbers, hair dressers, makeup artists, photographers, costume construction, craftsmen, florists, landscapers, and poets, to name a few.

Even more of my friends are in roles that support the arts, as artistic directors, professors, teachers, fund raising, ushers, librarians, event planners, box office employees, and my favorite which is actually more artist than they are given credit for stage managers.

I have about 6 people I know who aren’t artists. Yet.

And whenever, things get difficult, whether it’s personal, professional, academic etc, they all insist that the best way through the situation is to turn to art. I’ve seen post after post on Facebook, reminding people who are artists to keep making and sharing art, because it is a coping tool and reminds us all that we are not alone.

I started calling myself a writer about a year ago. There are probably a few people out there that would argue that point, but I don’t listen to them.

I’m a writer.

I’m turning to my art to help me understand the emotions that I’m feeling.

Adam and I went to NYC on Monday. We returned home yesterday afternoon. I went to work today for the first time since Sunday. When I sat down at my desk, turned on my computer, I noticed that my text message notifications showed over 100 texts.

I knew it was a lot, but to be honest I hadn’t really looked at texts since Tuesday afternoon.

I checked out Tuesday night around 11:00 as the results of the election started to come in. I needed to process. I needed to mourn. I needed to pull my thoughts together. Except for show posts, I’ve only posted a couple of things on social media. I didn’t respond to texts, and I didn’t engage on Facebook.

Adam and I had gone to NYC to see Ragtime at City Center. It is my favorite show, and if it’s not Adam’s it’s a close second. It was the last show we would see on our trip.

Wednesday, Adam and I went about our day, relatively quietly. We held hands, but we didn’t spend a lot of time talking. It wasn’t until after we saw Our Town at 2:00 that we started to come out of the funk. It was a nice reminder that life is short, and that the best you can do is appreciate it while you can.

After the show, we had dinner, then walked to a restaurant near City Center, found a spot in the bar, and had a cocktail and dessert. We were able to relax and start to feel better. We were both looking forward to Ragtime.

At 7:15, we walked across the street to the theater, found our seats and got comfortable.

At 7:35 the house lights dimmed, leaving only a piano center stage lit by a single spotlight.

The first notes of music played, and energy coursed through the theater. There was immediate applause.

To back up a little:

Ragtime is a musical with music by Stephen Flaherty, lyrics by Lynne Ahrens, and a book by Terrence McNally. (Fun Fact: Lynn Ahrens wrote the lyrics to a number of your favorite Schoolhouse Rock Songs). The show is more than a musical. It is operettic in scale and its message is life changing.

I have told this story before, but the first time I saw Ragtime was a Sunday afternoon in 1998. I was at TKTS trying to find a show to see. Nothing interested me. A man approached me with a ticket to Ragtime for 100 bucks. I said no. I kept looking. He approached me two more times and the last time I said, sure I’ll take it for 50 bucks. It was 2:50. The show started at 3:00. He said no, and I said, take the 50 now, or get nothing for it in ten minutes. He said okay, I handed him the money and sprinted (this was back when I still ran) and got to the theater to discover the ticket was third row center in the orchestra. I was dressed in cargo shorts and a t-shirt, and I still remember the girl I sat next to me, judging me for my attire.

The house lights dimmed, the orchestra started, and when Audra McDonald sang a song about why she buried her baby in a garden I started crying.

ONLY DARKNESS AND PAIN, THE ANGER AND PAIN,

THE BLOOD AND THE PAIN! I BURIED MY HEART IN THE GROUND!

IN THE GROUND.

WHEN I BURIED YOU IN THE GROUND.

I didn’t stop till the company bowed two hours later. I was hooked.

For those of you who don’t know, Ragtime is based on the book by E. L. Doctorow. It tells the story of an upperclass white family who live in New Rochelle, NY. A black couple, Coalhouse Walker, Jr, and Sarah, who have just had a baby, although they are not married, and an immigrant family consisting of Tateh and his daughter who’ve just come through Ellis Island from Latvia.

It probably goes without saying that its message might have a lot to say about the current state of America.

Halfway through the opening number you hear these lyrics:

Ladies with parasols,

Fellows with tennis balls.

There were no negroes

And there were no immigrants.

Five minutes into the show, the three families become intertwined and the story plays out from there. There is racism front and center with the use of the “n” word sounding like nails on a chalkboard.

COALHOUSE Let me pass.

CONKLIN Gladly. That will be twenty-five dollars. This is a private toll road.

COALHOUSE Since when?

CONKLIN Since some high-falutin’ ni**er and his whore and his whore’s baby thought they could drive that goddamn car of theirs any place they pleased, that’s since when.

Running away, ni**er?

COALHOUSE

I am going to find a policeman. If anyone touches my car before I return, he will answer to Coalhouse.

CONKLIN

Tell him Fire Chief Will Conklin sends his regards!

Two scenes later the immigrant father is offered money…for the sale of his daughter.

Meanwhile, the well to do father, is off traversing the world, while his wife, who he thinks knows her place is at home tending to the family.

As the father leaves for his trip Mother sings:

You have places to discover,

Oceans to conquer,

You need to know

I’ll be there at the window

While you go on your way.

I accept that.

I won’t bore you with the rest of the plot. I will say, if you get the chance to see it, do so. The music is truly sensational.

It’s Wednesday night, the house lights have lowered, the music starts, with just a piano playing the melody of the opening song. The audience shouted their approval.

There was applause a dozen times in the opening number. Applause for actors, but more importantly applause for message.

It didn’t stop there. There were two standing ovations in act one that brought the show to a halt.

First for Wheels of a Dream:

Yes, the wheels are turning for us, girl.

And the times are starting to roll.

Any man can get where he wants to

If he’s got some fire in his soul.

We’ll see justice, Sarah,

And plenty of men

Who will stand up

And give us our due.

Oh, Sarah, it’s more that promises.

Sarah, it must be true.

A country that let’s a man like me

Own a car, raise a child, build a life with you…

Then the end of Act One when a woman with an ungodly voice sang:

Give the people

A day of peace.

A day of pride.

A day of justice

We have been denied.

Let the new day dawn,

Oh, Lord, I pray…

We’ll never get to heaven

Till we reach that day.

There were another two standing ovations during act two.

You were my sky,

My moon and my stars and my ocean.

We can never go back to before.

We can never go back to before!

We aren’t going back!!!

And included a prolonged ovation for the 11 o’clock number of Make Them Hear You.

Your sword can be a sermon

or the power of the pen

Teach every child to raise his voice

and then my brothers, then

Will justice be demanded

By ten million righteous men.

Make them hear you.

When they hear you

I’ll be near you, again.

The song is written to hold the last note a long time. On Wednesday, he held it, and held it, and held it, and held it. When he finally let it go, the audience rose in unison, and stopped the show. The conductor turned to the audience and waited for permission to move on.

You might get a sense from the lyrics I shared that the show was a perfect antidote to the Tuesday election. And everyone in the theater knew it.

City Center in NYC seats 2,257 people. The show has been sold out for weeks. Every seat was taken. You have not experienced live theater until you are a part of an audience that stands in unison, in the middle of a show. When the collective is moved in such a way that they know they are experiencing something special.

That was the feeling Wednesday night.

2,257 people needed love. They needed support. They more than anything needed to know that they were not alone in their mourning.

My favorite part of the evening, was in act 2 when Mother’s younger brother (fun fact, the white people don’t have names, they are referred to as Mother, Father, Grandfather, Younger Brother) yells at Father.

YOUNGER BROTHER: I did not hear such a eulogy at Sarah’s funeral. I did not hear you say then that death and the destruction of property were inexcusable. You are a complacent man with no thought of history. You have traveled everywhere and learned nothing. I despise you.

The audience erupted into cheers. Applause halting the show.

I cried multiple times throughout the show. Because of the music. The performances. The message.

I cried because my emotions were on my sleeve.

I cried because I thought better of my fellow Americans.

I cried not because we lost the election, but because more than 50% of Americans thought a convicted rapist, felon, insurrectionist, adulter was a better choice.

I cried for my female friends who are now subject to laws and regulations that could kill them.

I cried for my trans friends who if they aren’t killed by their neighbors are going to be subject to even worse laws.

I cried for my LGBT friends who live in the wrong parts of the country or are terrified that marriage equality will be over turned with the new administration.

I cried for my friends who suffer from pre-existing conditions who will suffer the consequences when the ACA is repealed.

I cried for my friends raising children who’s access to public education is going to be affected. Who have to find a way to explain to their 9year-old that the man who will be president is NOT a nice man.

I cried for the embarrassment it is to be an American in the world standing when most of the civilized world can see the man who would be president for what and who he is.

I cried because one party offered to help you buy your first home and the other party promised to remove fluoride from water and Americans chose the fluoride party.

I cried because Americans are so afraid of people who aren’t white that they’ll do anything to keep them out of their neighborhood.

I cried because young white men overwhelmingly supported the man who would be president, saying he says what they are thinking, which scares the fuck out of me.

I cried because more than 50% of the country thinks I’m exaggerating as I write these things, even though the man who would be president, ran on a platform supporting these platforms, but we are supposed to know that he doesn’t mean what he says.

I cried that the man who would be president speaks on a 5th grade level, and yet much of America says he speaks for them, and it’s not wrong about the 5th grade level.

I cried because they ran on a platform of America is for Americans and Americans only.

I cried because they want to destroy the American educational system and replace it with a program of vouchers that only helps rich, mostly white, kids.

I cried because I worry that my love of Adam will be used to cause harm to the two of us.

I cried, because it hurts.

Beyond that road,

Beyond this lifetime,

That car full of hope

Will always gleam

With the promise of happiness

And the freedom we’ll live to know

We’ll travel with heads held high

Just as far as our hearts can go

And we will ride,

Each child will ride

On the wheels of a dream!

The audience rose again in unison. The actors bowed. The applause went on and on.

The house lights came up.

And the orchestra played us out.

Adam and I sat in our seats, for the five or six minutes the orchestra played. In silence. Our hands grasped together.

Finally, we stood for the last time, and exited the theater.

As we walked into the unseasonably warm evening and turned right to head home I realized I felt better.

Sitting with 2,257 other people, who were all crying. All for variations of the same reason.

When we sat at the beginning of the show, to get to our seats, the woman next to us had to stand. She was very old, and was none too happy to let us by. But about half way thru act two I looked over, and she was wiping tears from her eyes. She was as moved as we were.

On Wednesday night, art made me feel better. Art made me realize that we have work to do. Art made me realize that I can do my part. Art made me know that the first thing I need to do is to take care of myself.

I’ve been gentle with myself since then. I have avoided text messages. I have mostly avoided social media. And I have reached out to multiple friends to see how they are doing.

They all respond the same, and yet as I said, they are all artists and they are all starting to grasp that reality. My friend Michelle reminded me she had rehearsal for her band on Monday night. Another friend is starting rehearsal for a play with teenagers. Another friend just opened a show that has an equaling compelling message. Another friend just threw out their proposed theater season, and is exploring shows that will offer both a message and comfort to their patrons.

The artists I know are protesting. Slowly at first, but their message is loud and clear.

We have work to do. Get out of our way and watch us create change in the world.

Whether you like it or not.

But something was missing, I never quite knew, That something was someone, But who?

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

More than a year ago, I posted that I’d finally found a photo of my biological father.  I didn’t know anything about him, but I did know what he looked like, thanks to a friend of mine from college

Meanwhile, during 2020, I’d tested on Ancestry hoping to match.  

Unfortunately, everyone was a 2nd or 3rd or 4th cousin.

So imagine my surprise when I logged on today for the first time in forever, and discovered a new match.  A sister.  With a name.  To be honest it knocked the wind out of me.  I knew that she existed but I’d always been hesitant to reach out on Social Media until I knew for sure.

Finally, there was proof. 

So I took a deep breath.  I took a drink of bourbon and I wrote the following:  

Hi.  My name is Jeff Fightmaster.  I was born in Paris, Kentucky in 1965.  My mother was from Paris and had lived in the area her whole life.  My mother was not married when I was born and I’ve spent my life not knowing who my father was.  Years ago, after a huge argument she finally gave me a name.  That name was ____________.  She would tell me nothing more.  She died 6 years ago, and took to her grave whatever the truth was concerning my birth.  I did ancestry during COVID but the matches were vague.  I reached out to a few people, but to be honest I think they thought I was trying to scam them.  Which is far from the truth.    Imagine my surprise when I logged in today for the first time in months and saw that you had tested and were listed as my half-sister.  I had done a little sleuthing and knew you existed, but I was hesitant to reach out to you without knowing for sure if it was true.  I have wondered my whole life about my father.  What he was like? Was he happy?  Was he smart?  Was he kind?  These things mattered very much to 12-year-old Jeff.    I live in Maine now, with my partner Adam.  I have had a great life, and don’t expect anything from you.  However, if you were open to it, I’d love to know about the man who was my father.  I’d love to know more about you and your family.  And I think from a little checking, I also might have a brother. I know this is probably shocking to you.  It would be to me as well.  If you are open to chatting let me know and I’ll reach out with my number.  I looked you up on Facebook, and I saw that you are friends with _____ and _____  ______.  ______ was one of my best friends when I was in grad school at the University of Kentucky, and I’m sure if you reached out to them they’d assure you I’m an okay guy.  I hope I haven’t shocked you too much.  And I do hope to hear back from you.  Best Wishes.  

I read through the message a couple of times.  Then took another deep breath and a drink of bourbon and hit send.  

I’m in full anxiety mode right now.  

But the deed is done.  As with everything else in my life.  I’ll keep you posted.  

September 11th Remembered

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

When I rolled over and looked at the clock it was 6:45 a.m.  I didn’t need to be out of bed for two more hours. I adjusted the pillows, pulled the blanket over my head and willed myself back to sleep. After another 45 minutes of this I gave up. Jet lag is a bitch. I’d flown home from Barcelona two days earlier and in spite of my trying I was not going back to sleep. I was wide awake and I didn’t need to be at work until at least 9:00. I crawled to the end of the bed, switched on my computer and checked the weather. It was going to be a perfect day, and since it was clear that I was not going back to sleep, I might as well get it started.

At 8:15 a.m. I locked the door of my apartment and headed out into the day. My commute to work was insane. It required me to walk one city block to the south, and one half block to the east. Even after stopping at the grocery store for milk, cereal, and cream for my coffee, I was at work by 8:30. I unlocked the door, turned on the lights, started my computer and then performed the most important task of the day, making coffee. While the coffee was brewing, I sorted through the mail that had collected over the three weeks I’d been in Europe on a “business” trip. Finally, the coffee pot was full and I poured a bowl of Kellogg’s Raisin Bran (it’s funny the things you remember), filled my coffee cup and planted myself at my desk. The time was 8:45 a.m. 

I took a sip of my coffee. I dipped my spoon into the bowl and as I took the first bite of cereal my desk moved about six inches. I had no idea what had happened. I sat there. I rolled my chair to the window, opened the window. My office was on the 25th floor of a non-descript office building. It had no view but if I leaned out the window about a foot,  I had a clear view of the World Trade Center 4 blocks up the street. 

I leaned out the window and gasped as I realized that the North Tower of the World Trade Center was on fire. Think Towering Inferno fire. There were flames shooting into the air. I was stunned. I ran down the hall to the office next to ours and shouted, the World Trade Tower is on fire! The women from that office ran to my office and we all stared out the windows. By now it looked as if there were a ticker tape parade occurring. The air was filled with 8.5 x 11 sheets of white paper floating through the sky.  

I immediately picked up the phone and called home. My mother is a worrier.  She is from a long line of worriers.  Even though NYC is a huge place, if it happens here, it happens on my block. In this particular instance she was right. She and my father had visited NYC in May from Lexington, KY and she was VERY aware of my location. She picked up the phone on the second ring. This was a habit from years of working as a bookkeeper. She NEVER answered the phone on the first ring. She was cheery, I suspect because she thought I was calling to wish her a happy birthday. Yes, September 11th is her birthday. Instead, I said, “I have no idea what’s going on, but the World Trade Center is on fire. I’m fine, but I wanted to let you know before you saw the news and got scared. I’ll keep you posted on what’s going on here.” 

I had barely replaced the receiver when the phone rang. It was my boss. He was calling to check on me. He told me a small plane had crashed into the WTC and reports were differing on what had happened. I assured him I was fine. He told me he would see me later in the morning and we hung up. I turned, stuck my head out the window again and looked back up the street just in time to see the top of the South Tower explode.

It is 9:03 a.m.

I had no idea what was happening. I did not have a TV or radio in my office and the online sources couldn’t tell me any more than I knew first hand. My boss called back and said that it is now being reported that it was two passenger jets that crashed into the buildings and that from all accounts it is a terrorist attack. I assure him once again that I’m fine. He tells me that he’ll see me later. I’m staring out the window at the fires when a voice comes over the PA system telling us our office building is being evacuated. I immediately call him back and tell him what is happening. I also tell him that since I have to leave the building I might try and work my way closer to see what’s really going on. He tells me to be careful and I hang up once again. By this time the announcement has been made several more times that there is a mandatory evacuation for our office building.

I grab my cell phone, lock the door, and head downstairs. My cereal and coffee are still on my desk. My computer is still on. The lights are still on. There was no doubt I would be back to the office in just a short while. I start the trek down the stairs from the 25th floor as the elevators had been turned off.   The stairwell was filled with people, calmly headed to the lobby.  At this time, things seemed calmer than they were about to be.  

The scene on the street is utter chaos. There are people everywhere. All of the office buildings are evacuating. No one knows what’s going on. People are pushing to get closer. People are pushing to get out of the mess. I start down the street toward the World Trade Center, fully wanting to get closer to see what is happening. By the time I get to the corner of my street, I give up and go home. There are too many people and it’s clear that I’m not getting anywhere near the action.

I get to my apartment, unlock the door, turn on the TV and FINALLY start piecing together the puzzle. Two passenger jets have crashed into the buildings. The idea that this was a freak accident has passed and now there are reports that it was a terrorist attack. I sit on my couch watching the TV in utter disbelief. My phone rings. It’s my mom wanting to know if I’m okay. I tell her that my office building has been evacuated and that I’ve gone home. I assure her that I’m fine.

My phone rings again. It’s my best friend Michelle. She wants to know if I’m okay. I assure her that I am. 

I’m sitting on my couch talking to her as the first tower begins to fall. 

The entire event is surreal. I am chatting with a good friend, while watching this horrible event happen on TV, all of this being accompanied by a tremor of around 2.3 on the Richter scale. My entire apartment was shaking. And just as soon as it started it was over. I was still sitting on my couch, on the phone, still watching TV.  Neither of us is speaking. The awe of the devastation we’d just witnessed is overwhelming.

I realize the air is filled with debris. I go to the window just in time to see the huge billowing smoke that is so often shown in the news footage. My apartment had three 10-foot tall windows facing the street. As I stood watching, the beautiful day with perfect blue skies was obliterated and replaced with the blackness of night created by the smoke and debris. 

I hear loud shouting in the hallway. I open the door to find 10 or 12 people covered in soot. They had been chased down the street by the cloud of smoke and had run into my building. The doorman is letting them use the vacant apartment across the hall to clean themselves. I gather up towels and wash cloths for them to use. 

Looking back, I’m amazed that I still had phone service. Both my cell and land lines continued to function. My phone continues to ring and ring. My boss. My parents. Michelle. Friends from around the country. I’m talking to Michelle again when the second tower falls.

The apartment shakes harder this time. Things falls. What little light that is left of the day is gone. 

My apartment is completely dark. 

I hear silence.  

The sirens have stopped.

The horns have stopped.  

The sounds of New York have stopped.  

There is absolute quiet.

Unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. 

There is a complete lack of sound. This is not our city. New York is always noisy.  There are always horns, and sirens and people yelling.  

There is always sound.  

This is the complete opposite of that.

I sat there speechless.  

Within minutes Mayor Giuliani issued a full evacuation of lower Manhattan. 

It’s 11:00.

I call my mom and tell her that I’m evacuating and that I will call her when I can. 

I call my boss and tell him that I am fine and that I’m evacuating. 

I call Michelle and assure her that I’m fine. 

I grab a backpack and fill it.  

There is little thought of what I need, or how long I will be gone.  

As I leave my building the sky is blue again.  The perfect blue sky of an early autumn day.  Deeper than a summer blue.  Not a cloud to be seen.

I cross the street and pass someone handing out face masks. I take on. 

I put it on and start to walk north and east toward city hall and the Brooklyn Bridge. 

My walk out of lower Manhattan still gives me chills.

There are tens of 1,000’s upon 1,000’s of people moving in mass. 

And again the sound of silence.  

No one is talking. 

There are no cell phones. No sirens. No helicopters. No planes. 

Just the silent movement of people in shock moving toward what they hope will be sanity.

I am forced north with the sea of people not knowing where I was going. I had no plan. I walked. Once I passed Canal Street it occurred to me that with the mass destruction that had just occurred surely there would be a need for volunteers. 

Although I really didn’t care for the Salvation Army’s politics, I thought it would be a good place to start, so I kept heading north, finally getting to the Salvation Army building on 14th street. There were 50 or 60 people there, and we were all told the same thing, you have to go through training to volunteer. 

I exit the building, lost again. 

I was on 14th street and remembered that St. Vincent’s hospital was just up the street. I could go there and see if they needed any help. 

I get within a block and a half of the hospital and find myself in a sea of people all hoping to do the same. There were people as far as the eye could see and they have all had the same thought: Be Helpful. They were there to give blood and volunteer. 

While I was standing there, I hear my phone ring. It was my friend Stacy, who was in town on business. She told me that she was at her hotel and that I could spend the night there if I needed a place to stay.  

Stacy was staying on the Upper West Side. At this point all traffic in Manhattan had been halted. The only way to get anywhere, would be to walk. I began my trek north and spent the next several hours walking to her hotel. 

When I got there, I was hoping they knew more than I knew. At this point, the news stations know very little.  We planted ourselves in front of the TV and didn’t move for what seemed like hours. At some point, we realized that none of us had eaten all day.  We go downstairs into the street.  There were no cars, not taxis, no buses.  In both directions, the street was empy. 

We stand in the middle of Madison Avenue, looking north and south and there are no cars to be seen.

We discovered a restaurant that was open. We ate dinner in silence. Not really sure at this point what was happening, or what to expect.   

I don’t return home for three days. 

When I do attempt to go home it was an adventure to say the least.  

It’s approaching 7:00 p.m..  The sun is setting.  The city is getting dark.  

I got to my first military checkpoint at Canal Street. I explained that I lived in the financial district and that I needed to get home to get more clothes etc. They wanted to see ID. Unfortunately, my driver’s license did not have my current address on it. Luckily, I had a prescription bottle in my back pack and they allowed me to pass. I passed through seven or eight more checkpoints before I got to my apartment building. 

It was dark. There was no electricity. No phone. No water. The entire apartment smelled as though it had been on fire for days. There was a fine dust of soot over everything. The windows were covered as well.  I did not want to stay there long.

As I exited my building, I asked one of the guards on my corner if there was a place in the area to volunteer. He told me that there was a few blocks from away. 

I head that way. People are everywhere. Volunteers were preparing food. Rescue crews on break. I asked about ten people what I could do to help before someone said to me, “You want to help. Go find bread. It doesn’t matter if it’s fucking hot dog buns. Find bread.” 

And that’s what I did. 

I walked several blocks north to a “real” grocery store and I bought all the bread they had. About 150 dollars’ worth. When I got back, the guy that had told me to get bread was in awe. I spent the rest of the afternoon making food, cleaning tables, etc. 

Around 10:00 p.m. they asked if I wanted to go to the site and help at St. Paul’s Chapel. I said that I would.

For those not in NYC, St. Paul’s Chapel is the oldest church in the city. The rear of the church faced the east side of the World Trade Center. It survived. Not even a broken window. It is believed that the large sycamore tree in the graveyard behind the church shielded it from destruction. 

I get to the church around midnight. The next eight hours were long and grueling. It was an endless parade of rescue workers coming in to rest, sleep, pray. Watching these people come in and spend as little as fifteen minutes resting before they went back to work was moving, it’s easy to understand why so many of them face post-traumatic stress disorder today. 

They were worked tirelessly at a job that would prove to be futile.

I spent the night making coffee, emptying trash and trying to be as quiet as I could. There were people everywhere, sleeping on the floor, in the pews, anywhere with a spare inch of floor. 

Once or twice, I wandered outside to look up the street. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and debris. There were huge industrial lights lighting the area where the two buildings once stood. 

It was breathtaking and overwhelming to see.  To think that less than a month ago I’d stood in the area between the buildings and basked in the peacefulness the square provided. At night there were very few people in that part of town and for me it was a quiet place to sit and think undisturbed.  It was me getting close to nature in a concrete city of 8 million people.  

Places like that in New York City are few and far between. 

Now.  It was a mound of destruction that words will never describe. 

Around 10:00 the next morning, I was shuttled back to the volunteer center and I said goodbye to everyone, and started my trek back up town. 

I can’t begin to describe how I felt that morning, once again walking north. 

It was three weeks before I returned home for good.

Jeff at the Psychiatrist, a three-part mini opera

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Once upon a time.

Way back before the internet. Before cell phones. Almost before electricity.

I was an asshole.

A raging, giant, not forgettable asshole.

I can hear all of you who know me now saying, well that tracks.

Seriously, I was.

I was once fired by an assistant principal from a lighting gig because I told him to close the fucking door.

I’ll tell that story another day.

I once threw a watch at a boyfriend, and broke the glass in our French doors.

Another day.

I once ripped up a photograph of a boyfriend’s childhood home, because he pissed me off.

Another day.

I once threw a tray, with four ice tea glasses filled with ice tea, at a manager. (He deserved it).

Another day.

I once rudely told a classmate of mine that he was off key, making fun of his song, because you know, that’s who I was.

Another day.

I once called a cousin a backwoods country fuck.

Another day. (This one might have been warranted, but probably not).

I have a few stories that I’m just too embarrassed to share with you.

But don’t you worry, these stories keep me awake at night several times a year.

Sometimes, I even took pride in being an asshole. Telling actors what I thought of their performances. Telling co-workers how bad they were. Telling family members what I thought of them.

I’m sure there are people in my current life that would assure you that I have not changed.

They are probably a little right.

Truth be told, the one thing that changed for me. That led me away from a life of assholery.

Was being medicated.

April 20, 2001.

I know this, because I started a new journal on the morning after my first dose of the medicine.

The journal was specific. It was detailed. The days that followed, I wrote about the pain and suffering. But it also detailed the changes that followed after I started the medicine.

I bring all of this up, because last night, going through a box, I found said journal.

And I read through it.

I don’t recognize the person who wrote in the journal. Not at all.

The pain. The suffering. The longing to be better.

I don’t recognize the person, but I remember writing the posts.

I don’t remember the pain, but I remember writing about it.

It’s been almost 25 years since I started taking the meds.

I went off of them once in 2012, ruined Thanksgiving, and swore to Adam, I’d never do that again.

Another day.

As I read through the journal, I put it in the trash pile. Along with a bunch of other stuff.

Luckily, the trash was full, and I was too lazy to change it so I kept the whole pile. I put it back in my office.

Today, I decided not to throw the journal away, as there is a whole story there to tell.

When I started taking the medicine, I also started seeing my psychiatrist for the therapy. He didn’t take insurance. He had a fancy 5th Avenue office. And it was a whole bunch of money each month. And more than any money I’ve ever spent on cars, tuition, vacation, this money changed my life.

I didn’t stop being an asshole overnight. But slowly, over the years it waned. And I became a better person. And more than not being an asshole, I learned to like the person that I’d become. After close to 50 years of really kind of hating myself, I realized that there was good guy in there all along.

I sometimes think that the reason I survived my asshole years is because along the way I found people who could see me for who I wanted to be and not who I was currently being. People who never gave up on me. Who knew that I’d find my way.

I had a few who didn’t make it. They gave up. Walked away. Decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

Looking back, I’m not sure I blame them, but for those that waited it out, I’m very thankful.

I’ve been lucky enough to let most of the people who stuck it out know how much I appreciate them. To others, there are amends to be made, eventually.

I tell people in my life now, that I don’t argue well. I listen to what’s being said, and I think about it. I’m great at responding in the shower 6 hours later.

It’s not that I don’t argue well. It’s just that if I say what comes to mind in the moment, I have to say I’m sorry later. So, I don’t speak. I shut down, to quote a few people. Listen to what the person is saying, then respond later. In a thoughtful, well-crafted way.

This can be frustrating to someone who is pushing for a response, but I prefer this to having to say I’m sorry later.

In the meantime, I take my medicine.

I think before I speak.

I breathe.

And the writing from the last three years has helped immensely. Should I share my deepest darkest secrets? I say absolutely.

The biggest gift I was ever given, was learning that I was not alone. That there are others who suffer from my diagnosis. There are people out there who are assholes that don’t want to be assholes. They want to be kind and giving and understanding.

So, I share my crap, so the friends I have on Facebook, and my friends who read my blog, will know that they’re not alone, and that there is hope.

I’ll end by saying, if you are struggling–seek help. Seek it everywhere. It might take a while for the right person to come along. I sought help for the first time in 1995. I didn’t find a solution until 2001. I saw a dozen therapists. At least four different psychiatrists. In fact, the doctor, who changed my life, was recommended by a guy I went out with three or four times.

He changed my life.

Keep looking. If you don’t connect. Try someone else. Try someone else. Someone else.

Just don’t give up.

The solution is out there.

If I could do it, then you can do it.