CAUGHT ON

In the afternoon, JD comes over.

I called him because I have to redo my apartment.

It needs to work in a more integrated way. Right now, it's clumsily put together and confusing.

I can't find anything.

JD drives over after his (afternoon yoga class) in the west village. We pour through Ikea, Room and Board, and Crate & Barrel catalogues.

JD is a builder and just finished converting a (never touched) 19th century townhouse into three apartments. He took the top floor for himself and has spent the last year collecting new furniture, staring at paint chips, buying - installing (and then returning) fixtures, until he finds the fixtures that look just right.

His condo is about as nice as it gets.

It has a yoga room, fireplaces in the bathrooms, a new garden deck off the master bedroom (the wall facing this garden is all glass and has a theatrical curtain to pull across it, at night.   JD kept most of the original details. But on the parlor floor, there were original frescos painted directly on the walls over all the fireplaces. JD painted over them.

JD is fifteen years older than me and we're quite different. But, we're both romantics and we both like to make things. We're nerdishly fastidious about our projects.

JD is a bit of a hetero-nerd who at one time was soap opera handsome. He was on a lot of soap operas.
Maybe he was kind of a mean straight dude, but after years of therapy, and now couple therapy, he's in touch with himself, and opens up easily. (But) he can fall back to being a tough talking, (slick and/or sleazy) - real estate guy when it suits him - (I mean... who isn't in New York - it's a deal with the devil just to dwell here).

A month ago, an angry tenant - a tenant he went to court with - (a tenant he got rid of) - sent him a kit in the mail for increasing the size of his d*ck). JD (to his credit) genuinely found this hilarious.

JD is randy, always watching the women who cross his his path as he drives through the city.

He has this game. The game is this.

If he's stopped at a red-light, he must choose one of the pedestrians on the crosswalk to have sex (with*).

* I hate ending a sentence with a preposition but sometimes  can't figure a way (out).

Even, if there are only men, even if there are only old, handicapped hunched over men, he must choose which of the old hunched over men.  I guess this keeps him sane it the manic Manhattan traffic. He encourages others (in the car) to join in.

This juvenile game leave me tongue tied for reasons I won't go into here.

JD keeps himself in great form. He surfs every weekend and teaches yoga during the week. He gets his haircut often and it often looks good. At age 61 he just got a retainer to fix his bite.

JD is kind. He is self conscious. He can't read out loud without stumbling over the words.

JD is a good listener and hands out advice. Often this advice goes on forever.

(Sometimes) JD over does the helping thing, insisting I take his arm even when I don't want to.

It bugs me. Having to act out the role of the invalid. I feel like I'm putting on a show. I've never had tolerance for other people's physical weakness.

As we finish up my improvement list, JD insists I come over TONIGHT to see the improvements he has made on HIS startling gorgeous condominium.

The spotless wood floors, 19th century encasement windows, six panel wood doors with copper doorknobs, the very LATEST and best modern kitchen, make his home look like the kind of rooms you see as backdrops in Pottery Barn catalogues.

Susan picks me up and we drive through the Lincoln tunnel to Jersey City.

I climb the stairs as Susan and JD watch or (smoke).  My arms propel and my legs are lazy followers.

It can be done! ... the three flights of stairs. It just takes about 15 minutes to climb it.
(The next day I realize that I over did it. My left arm feels broken).

JD makes the natural mistake of flattering me for my progress. "You're doing amazing Charlie! I'm impressed!"-  (Like I'm getting better instead of worse). This is the same mistake my doorman make.

Earlier in the evening my doorman Spiro offers "Glad to see you walking sir, working it out.  Don't you worry, as long as you keep working on it , you'll be better in no time!"

This (of course) is not the case. I don't bother to explain why to Spiro,  but carry on my own withering conversation in the confines of my head.

Now on the third floor, I drink good wine (a Cabernet, Shiraz and Malbec mix) and watch Ross's newest commercial. (Ross is JD's wife and looks like the actress Catherine Ross of "Stepford Wives" and "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid"

It's an Osteoporosis commercial. It was shot in New Zealand. The  New Zealand mountains in the background- (they are camping in the commercial) - are glorious. And Ross is so good in it!
We watch it three of four times.

JD has a new big flat screen TV with hidden speakers through out the two floor condominium so that watching TV feels very important.

We have shrimp and pasta and salad for dinner. Mattie brought an organic wine.

The food is excellent. I skip the gluten pasta.

Being in JD's ritzy apartment is rubbing off on everyone. We're all feeling a bit successful.
I toast JD for creating this incredible home.

"This apartment is magnificent, as great as creating any play, independent film, as great as creating any first rate performance.... Congratulations JD!"

JD blushes.

(When I like something, I can really pull out the stops).

Whenever I speak during our dinner, the table stops to listen, like I'm channeling wisdom from another galaxy. d

"I think it's great that you live in all this physical perfection. When I was young(er) I thought it was kind of cool to live in a sort of ugly squalor or chipped furniture and found paintings. Because when you're young, you live with all this untapped energy and there is your own physical beauty and of those of your friends that surround you - so, you really don't need or crave clean pretty surroundings.

But when you get older, like your energy, you lose your beauty and you need to compensate and have the beauty and order around you.  And I think like viewing a painting, there is a metaphysical dialog going on between you and your surroundings. One needs to pay attention to this relationship and take care that the conversation is good, that your surrounding are making up for your lost energy and beauty. So really...  design is just as important as a healthy diet,  exercise and a positive outlook."

(I said something like that, only through the wine, I said it better).

"Hmm.. that's cool. I like that" nods Mattie.

JD says, "I'm glad you said that because I've been having doubts if all of this was worth it, if I really needed this... but you've given me something to think about."

I am a dying guru.

It's time to go. I climb down the stairs. Susan drives me home back through the Lincoln Tunnel.

We stop in the front driveway of my building and sit like teenagers not ready to go in (just yet).

Susan hates her life (right now). She teaches school and is getting her doctorate at the same time. I try to convince her that it's not the right choice, to be miserable. But I ramble and can't get my thoughts across.

Somehow, I find myself at this question.

"Do you think Christ rose from the dead?"

"No Charlie, it's just a big metaphor! The whole thing is just a big metaphor. Christ was probably some really great hippy with a lot of talent and insight and it caught on."

"Yeah, but it's got to be more than that, it can't be that simple, things don't just "catch on" and then stay caught on for two thousand years!" My brow is furrowed and my mouth is open and I'm making an upside down smile. I rebel against this tiny view of the world.

"I just think we're all living in this very limited consciousness and no-one is willing to believe in anything outside the scope of their own boxed-in reality and I think it ruins your life. Your success, your happiness? ... is based on some (agreed upon) - some (made-up)  reality, where you're either winning or losing!"

(and why should I agree to this reality? Why should I hang around or live with people of limited vision? It certainly won't make my life, my present situation, any better).

Susan is driving to Vermont in the morning.  She needs to get going.
I get myself out of the car and weave to the lobby door. It's always a gamble.

She waits until I'm inside, like a concerned parent, and drives back into the dark city.

I stand frozen at the lobby entrance. It's just me and the doorman, Spriro.

Spiro looks up from the big marble reception desk and sees me pinned to the entrance.

"You wanna hand, sir?"

"No... I'm good... I'm fine."

(pause)

"You wanna use the luggage cart to get across the lobby."

(pause)

"Um.... sure, thank you.  Sure! I'd like that, thanks Spiro."

Spiro brings me the cart over to me and I use it to steady myself, to roll myself safely across the vast, shiny lobby.

I take the elevator home to the 9th floor, discarding the rolling cart as I go.

When I get home, I write this blog entry.