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

/ fightmasterwrites / 1 Comment

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

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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.

They like me, I think they’re swell. Isn’t it remarkable, How things work out so well?

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I’ve debated whether to write this story, as I generally don’t write stories about my current job.  

But this one is about me so I think it’s fair.  

On Wednesday, I got home from work early.  

4:00 early.  

I had one thing on my mind. 

A nap.  A two-hour nap.  Before Adam got home to make dinner.  

Seriously, it’s been a while since I’ve napped.  

As I was getting settled on the couch, I get a text from my boss, asking me to take a look and see if I can find an opening for a 7-top on Friday night.  

I open up the Open Table app and I take a look.  We were already busy from the guest count.  Chelsea Handler was going to be in town at our big auditorium, and that always drives business.

I look at all the options.

He reached out to me, because I pride myself on never saying no.  My job is to always get a butt in seat.  

I look, and look to no avail.  

However, as I’m looking at tables I can move, I click on reservations with notes.  

It’s my husband’s birthday can we get a candle.

Quiet table in the back. 

We’d like to be inside if anything opens up.  

Coming from work, might be a few minutes late.

If Jeff Fightmaster is working, please cancel the reservations.  

URRRRRKKKKKK!!!!

What the fucking fuck???? 

I read it again.  Surely, it’s someone I know joking.  

I don’t recognize the name. 

I google them.  Nada.

I look for them on social media.  Nada.

I screen shot the reservation and reach out to Adam to see what he thinks.  

I do the same to my friend Laura.  

Both say to ignore it.    

I delete the comment. 

And decide I’ll ignore them.    

To be honest.  

It’s not the way life works. 

There are lots of people who don’t like me in the world.  There are daresay LOTS of people in Maine who don’t like me.  

However, you need to keep that dislike in your lane.  

Not mine.  

If I’ve done something to offend you, confront me.  Or ignore me.  Or just don’t come to where I work. 

But you don’t get to be a mean girl.  

I did not cancel the reservation.

I did not call them.

I ignored them.  

The reservation time came tonight and five minutes after they should have been there, the phone rings.  It’s them.  I don’t answer.  I give the phone to the host.  

She answers and they tell her they need to cancel.  

Good for them.  

She hangs up and says they were nice, but they weren’t coming.  

The night ended without incident.

I will say, that I was anxious all night.  And I hated that I was letting them get to me.  In the nine months I’ve been at my new job, I haven’t had an issue with anyone. 

At my old job, everyone hated me, but they kept coming back.  

I don’t suppose we’ll ever know who this was.  

But I do know it was not COOL.

NOT COOL AT ALL.  

Oh, it makes you stronger. It makes you you

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I did something last night I VERY, VERY, VERY rarely do.  

I met employees out for a drink.  

We were closed for cleaning, and when I checked in on them, they invited me to meet them at a bar for a drink.  

I arrived late, and joined them at the bar.  

I ordered a boulevardier and he knew what it was and made it excellently.  

I hung out with my team, chatted, learned that the bartender and I had mutual friends and talked for a while.  

I ordered my employees two more drinks, asked for the check and paid it.  

I didn’t pay attention and the bartender was busy when I leaving.  

I said my goodbyes and headed home.  

About an hour later, my phone rings and it’s a Los Angeles number.  

I don’t answer.  

A few minutes later, my phone pings and it’s the bartender from the bar, saying that the transaction timed out and my payment didn’t go through.  

OH NO!!!

I call him back and he asks if it’s okay to take my credit card number over the phone.   

I say of course and give him the number.  

I tell him to make sure that he adds the tip that I left in as well.

He says that he doesn’t feel comfortable doing so, because it was his fault the transaction didn’t go through.  

I tell him of course you’ll add the tip, it’s not that big of a deal, we are both in the industry and it’s how he makes his money.  

He is very gracious.  Adds the tip and we say goodbye.  

It felt good to do the right thing.  

I’m gonna make him say my name. (Make him say your name)

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I don’t have a nickname at the moment.

It’s actually been a while since I’ve had one.

I’ve always appreciated them when I did have them.

Here is a history of my nicknames.

In college I was Fight.

It started when I pledged a fraternity.

Now that you’ve all wiped up the liquid you just spit across the room.

Yes. I was in a fraternity.

I attended a very small. Very conservative college. And if you wanted to have fun on campus you joined a fraternity or sorority. By the time I graduated most of my friends were in frats or sororities.

It was also not very expensive to do so.

It was a couple of hundred bucks in dues. You room and board for the college paid for you to live in the frat house. And to be honest. It was a lot of fun.

It’s the only thing I will ever have in common with Mitch McConnell. Same frat. Different colleges. Different political beliefs.

My fraternity brothers started calling me Fight when I pledged, and it continued till I graduated.

I loved it and it was the name on all of my fraternity gear.

Then I moved to Atlanta and became Jeff Ann.

It started when another server named Clay Boye got hired. He was quirky and weird, in all the best ways.

He was a visual artist and is the person who told me that if you buy your art to match your sofa, you should hang your sofa on the wall and sit on the floor.

Buy ART that speaks to you.

He was called Clay Boye and he started calling me Jeff Ann. It stuck. And I was Jeff Ann until I moved back to Kentucky.

When I moved back to Kentucky, I went to grad school at the University of Kentucky, getting an MA in theater.

One day, my design professor and I were in the the McDonald’s drive through and I saw a friend from work. I rolled down the window and said hello to Lisa Larmour and she said What’s up Maddog?”

It stuck.

No one had ever called me that before.

But from that moment, everyone called me Maddog.

When I went to the department graduation, the chair of the department called me Maddog.

PS. Lisa would have had no idea, that it ever happened and that the name stuck.

When I left Kentucky to go to NYC, the Maddog name was lost in the move.

I haven’t really had a nickname since.

I do sometimes add Anne to the name of the person I’m talking to at work. Less so now, but when I started managing I did it all the time. Kimberly Ann. Laura Ann. Brian Ann. So, there are a few people called it back to me calling me Jeff Ann.

It does make me smile when someone from my pasts calls me by a nickname.

Lights. Camera. Action!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment
I’d like to speak to the manager!!!
Two weeks ago I spoke at a Portland City Council meeting.
We were there to speak about the elimination of the tip credit. The tip credit is the provision that allows servers to be tipped half of the Portland minimum wage.
Three outliers on the city council felt that we should allow voters to vote on the again when it was overwhelmingly voted down in 2022.
Here is the speech I gave off the cuff.

So keep right to the end. You’ll find your goal my friend. Find your friend. Then the prize you won’t fail find your grail! Find your grail!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s the day after Labor Day!!!

I met two employees at a bar tonight for a post cleaning cocktail and the bartender said, “Cheers to local’s summer!”  It’s the time of year when you begin to see the winter locals come out of hibernation. 

They are splotchy white, from lack of sunshine, as they’ve been hiding in their homes, counting down the days to Labor Day when it’s safe to come out into the light.  

It’s a miracle of miracle every year when we get to the date.  

Trust me, we MUST have the summer.  It’s how, my staff pays their rent in January.  

It’s how the restaurant pays its labor in the depths of the winter.  

As manager’s we preach to our staff, save your pennies, because Winter IS coming.  

Although, since Covid, winter has not been as deserted as before.  There are still people in town.  There are more people traveling north.  There are just more people in general.  So it’s not as bleak as it was in 2013, when I had January nights, with a bartender and two servers, and we did 4 guests.  2 two tops.  

And you must never, ever close early.  

My restaurants were closed today for cleaning.  Twice a year, we shut down and power wash the shit out of everything.  Every nook and cranny gets a wipe down, or a coat of paint.  We’ll finish up tomorrow, have a staff meeting, and reopen on Thursday.  

You could sense a difference in the team today as everyone was happy and fun.  We had the music pumping and most everyone was in a good mood. 

We now turn to cruise ship season and leaf peeper season.  

These are NOT the same people who vacation in the summer.  It takes money to summer in Maine.  Hotels are upwards of 600+ dollars, even more if you have a view.  

The people we get now, are retirees, and families, who come to Maine to see the leaves change and enjoy the cooler weather.  

Speaking of cooler weather, it dropped to 48 last night in Portland.  

We still have the a/c on.  

We also start to get a plethora of cruise ships and tour buses.  These are 100% retirees, who have come to Maine to see the leaves.  They come off the ship and buses and go to the closest restaurant selling chowder and lobster rolls for the cheapest price.  We are a little bit too far away from the wharfs to see them, but occasionally they venture up to us.  They are in a hurry, and are not known for tipping.  When I worked in KPT during the teens we saw them, and because we didn’t offer them a discount they often didn’t stay. 

Oh. And they need the whole process to take less than 30 minutes.

The whole point of this post is to say, we made it to Labor Day.  

I 100% guarantee you every hospitality worker in Portland has had this conversation in the last two days. 

 I guarantee you.  

It’s a conquest every year. 

Like passing the bar exam. 

Like killing the Night King. 

Like melting the Wicked Witch.   

Like pulling the sword from the stone?  

Like finding the Holy Grail. 

Like winning gold at the Olympics.  

It’s that.  

Without the fame and fortune.  

But give it to me every hour, Forty hours every week, And that’s enough for me to be living like a king!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s Labor Day tomorrow.  (It’s currently Sunday night).  

The unofficial end to summer.  

For most of you, that means school is back in session, the days are getting shorter, and you can no longer wear white.  

For those of us in the hospitality industry, in a tourist town in the northeast, its the official end of the craziness.  

Tomorrow will be significantly slower than last Monday.  There will still be business, but for those who track these things, the slowdown happens.  If a stranger walked in, they’d think I’m crazy, but a 20% decrease is just enough to breathe.  Sigh.  Know, that for the most part, the worst is behind us.   

When I worked in Kennebunkport, 10 years ago, it was the countdown we did to the end of the summer. The Friday, Saturday, Sunday of Labor Day were insane.  The last big weekend of the year.  On Sunday, we’d keep the whole staff until we were done.  When the last guests were out of the building, we pour beer and wine for the team.  And I’d toast the great job they’d all done to get us where we were.  

Summer there was insane.  Summer at my current restaurant is busy but not like Kennebunkport.  10 years ago, we were doing 600 people for lunch and 600 people for dinner.  We’d open the doors at 11:30 and we wouldn’t stop until around 10:00 when we locked the doors.  It was intense.    

We’d have close to 175 employees for the summer.  That’s a lot of food prepped, a lot of silver rolled, a lot of glasses polished.  We’d push for that first weekend in September. 

Then we’d toast.  We’d breath.  

And we’d come back the next day, to start the count down to Indigenous People’s Day.  

That’s when we could really breathe.  

I hadn’t thought about the end of summer toast for a long time, but I talked to my friend Laura tonight, and she asked if we had toasted to the end of summer tonight.  

We did not.  

We cleaned up, moved some furniture around, so our floors can be refinished tomorrow, and we all said goodbye.  

Happy Labor Day.