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Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

ROOMMATES (part 13)

Aroo has changed (or my perception of him has). Because he's near death, he seems nobler, wiser. I forget how he annoys me.

My friend Mattie refers to me as the father of Aroo but I tell her, it's not like that.

"Our relationship is kind of adversarial, actually... we're more like roommates except I cover all the expenses and have to wait on him."

Sometimes when I have a friend over (say my neighbor Jackie) and we're sitting at the computer, Aroo will decide he wants in on the action and walk (back and forth) over the keyboard. I wine (the way children wine to their mothers, "A-ROO-oo," to which my friend will probably say, "it's okay, let him stay," to which I reply, "NO! It's not alright, he always does this. Whatever. Play with Aroo if you want."

The cat craves attention. He looks to people for sustenance. This is the opposite of me.

But now that Aroo is all weak and feeble, I feel teary eyed around him.

I'm leaving in an hour to go to a recording studio to digitalize some cassette tapes of my last voice lessons. But before I go I need to do a little exercise.

I sit on my theracyle and as I get it going, the cat comes over to sit in my lap. This is unusual. He's been sleeping in the closet facing the wall for the last couple of days. I stop cycling and let him nest. I slowly pat him.

It occurs to me (and I mean it's just crazy) that just a little over two years ago, we were both perfectly healthy and now we're fighting for our lives. (I cry a little for the both of us).

Aroo can only sit in my lap so long because it hurts. He moves to the bed and lies down as near to the edge as possible, so we are still quite close. (I wonder if Aroo is trying to say goodbye).

PROJECTING (PART 12)

Aroo, the cat, is flat.
He's aware, he's observing, you can sense he wants to play but that he's too nauseous (and he's not sure why).

He blinks at my mother and me cautiously.

We (humans) babble around him senselessly -(like in the Pixar cartoons where adults are feckless and inane but the main characters, the toy cowboy, the race-car or rat, are insightful and grounded.

Perhaps we made the cat worse by forcing pills down his throat.
Maybe the cat understands this.

I call my sister.
"If the cat's not drinking or eating you'll have to put him down" she says.
(Today, Aroo can't even look at water. He gags).

So after coffee, I text Jackie to come over and say hello to the cat, but what I really mean is goodbye.

Jackie texts back, "in a while." I can tell she's reluctant to come over and when she does come over, she says,

"I can't do this! I've lost too many people. I'm 73 years old" (here she slips, normally she only admits to 70) "I've lost fathers, ex-husbands, brothers to Alsheimer's!- cats, you name it. I'm done feeling. It's OVAH!"

This cracks me up.

"Charlie, you're laughing but I mean it. It's OVAH. I'm done. I can't take this anymore!"

My mother jumps in to placate Jackie.

(It's strange having my mother and Jackie in the same room, at the same time - not unlike having Bette Davis and Joan Crawford over for lunch. You'd think they're competing luminescence would snuff the other one out, but my mother and Jackie get along well. Jackie's comic rants crack my mother up.

So, my mother tries to calm Jackie with a wacky scheme to save the cat by giving him a baby enema.

"The cat looked oddly at peace when the Oriental veterinarian used the rectal thermometer on him. He liked it. I'm going to go to CVS and get a baby enema kit. Aroo needs a baby enema."

"Do you think you could do that Nancy?" Jackie brightens, finding nothing unusual with my mother's suggestion

I sit on the couch wan and powerless.

PATTI ON NEW YORK

Musician and author Patti Smith had some sound advice for fledgling artists thinking of moving to New York: don't.

According to Vanishing New York, in a discussion with writer Jonathan Lethem at Cooper Union on Saturday, Smith was asked if it was possible for young artists to come to the city and find the path to stardom that she did.

In response, Smith told the crowd, "New York has closed itself off to the young and the struggling. But there are other cities. Detroit. Poughkeepsie. New York City has been taken away from you. So my advice is: Find a new city."

HERE IS A BLOG ABOUT NEW YORK DISAPPEARING

http://vanishingnewyork.blogspot.com/2010/05/find-new-city.html

WEST 30th

PARADE (part 11)

The cat looks better in the morning.

My mother and I smile and stare at the cat as we sip our coffee.

We make plans.
My mother leaves tomorrow and we need to finish up my taxes.
(For the last two years, I've failed to do my taxes). 

But I've got to get out of the apartment. I haven't left it in days.

I list the possibilities: Central Park, the MOMA, Battery or Bryant Park.

She picks Bryant Park, but then she goes back to the taxes. 

"Daylight mother" I tell her. "We don't want to miss the daylight."

Finally I use passive aggression, a family tradition.

"I'm going alone, will you get my coat and bag for me?"

"Let me get my bag," she says.

__________________________

We sit by a stone banister overlooking the bright green lawn.

The park is packed (like a state fair).

Everyone looks great, monied and fashionable.

Swanky business types.

Self conscious men who know they're dressed too well.

There is one well dressed man directly in front of us, his head near his knees.

He holds a cup of ice water in each hand.

A tour guide leads a group of bird watcher's.
The guide stops in front of me and points to a bird beneath me in the dusty brush.

_________________

My mother calls someone on her cellphone.

"Everyone is drunk and no one seems to care" she tells someone.

"Just ONE person" I interrupt, "and I'd guess he's hung-over not drunk." 

"Charlie says he hungover, that he's not drunk."

I spot the film-maker Michael Moore.

"Mom, there's Michael Moore!"

"Oh! Charlie says there's Michael Moore. Oh, there he is! in an orange baseball cap!

Michael Moore floats by disheveled and heavy. Tourists grab for their digital cameras.

In fact, everyone is taking pictures, myself included.

What will humanity do with all these digital images, I wonder (faintly)?

How will the trillions of jpegs be sorted, dated, and rated in significance? 

My mother circles the park but I stay put.

I listen to two young men talking at a nearby table.

I assume they're boyfriends,
but as I listen, I hear the bigger one telling the skinnier one that... 

"G-d's will is not always so clear." 

(and)

"Here are some simple ways to help the congregation" 

(and)

"As much as I think I know you, I feel like you're holding back, you're not presenting yourself, your TRUE self.  You want to seem gregarious and outgoing, but I'm not buying it, that's not really who you are. I'm not sure if YOU know who you really are."

The skinnier one looks away and nods. His placid expression hiding tricky feelings.

_________________

Mom is back. She tells me half the women are wearing very high heels, and the other half are wearing flats. She says she used to be an expert at wearing heels.

"I could run. Dance. I could HOP in high heels. But then I went to a party at the Bickley's."

(The Bickley Estate in New Canaan. The Bickley Estate is owned by Harry Connick Junior now).

"Someone was loading my drinks and I fell in a hole. So after that, I never let anyone load my drinks and I never wore high heels."
______

The park restores me. It's time to meet Susan. Susan's brother died today (of cancer) and she wants to be with friends.

"Did you talk to Susan? Should we go out to dinner? I'll pay!" Mom says.

We can't get a cab so we take a pedicab home.

The pedicab driver bikes down on 42nd street with gusto and strength. He sweats.
We zip down the bus lane, past commuters, past tourists, past police horses and shiny limousines.

I feel exposed and giddy.
I'm in a parade.

At Times Square, we barely make a light.

"I thought that we'd all end up in the Metropolitan section of the Times. All three of us squashed!" My mother says. But I'm wearing my bike helmet (I wear it everywhere) and so (I quickly realize)  I would be the sole survivor.

I consider taking it off.

We bike through the nadir of Time Square, through the neon razzmatazz.

Two blocks from home, Mom has the pedicab stop at a liquor store. She needs her nightly thimble of Grey Goose and she's out. I go the rest of the way by myself.

AROO (not so well)

CAMP FIRE (# 10)

My mother and I stay in my apartment the next day and clean out the front closet. I give orders and my mother complies.  I'm quite dictatorial. (I forget this side of me). My mother has the same domineering quality but I realize (now) it's even more pronounced in me.

I'm often impatient with her.

"MOTHER! Please don't pet the cat! I'M WAITING HERE. Hello? LET'S GO.  Shall we FOCUS?"

____________________

After we're done cleaning out the closet, Mattie and Susan come over to make dinner.
My mother tells Mattie and Susan that I've been heartless and cruel. I boss her around, savagely.

I want to defend myself, but she's right.  I have. And it's clear to me (now) I might have a problem.

__________________________

Susan prepares fish and artichokes for dinner. The artichokes are delicious. I dip the artichoke leaves in organic Mayonnaise. The slow process of eating the artichokes gives us time to ruminate and then leisurely converse.

We eat near the cat.

The cat's demise has become the campfire around which we gather.

We talk about Susan's brother, Pete.

Pete is (suddenly) dying of cancer and is going, soon. Susan is flying out to West Virginia this weekend to say goodbye. Pete is only 59. He was a health nut. He went to Yale. He once lived in a commune. He has two kids.

"Is your brother hot?" I ask inanely.

"Oh my G-d, YES. Or he was. I think I had crushes on ALL my brothers."

We talk about the cat. The cat lies docile and seemingly doped up in the recliner. The cat, even in ill health, enjoys being near the action, taking in the sounds of conversation. He sneaks a weak glimpse ofus through furry hooded eyes. We stare back at the cat.

"Look Charlie! He's licking his paw!"

"Oh my gosh, I think he's going to use his scratch pad!"

We revere the cat. We praise the cat. We're ancient Egyptians preparing Aroo for mummification.

DREAM (part 9)

That night, after the movie,  I have a dream about the actor Philip Seymour Hoffman. 

I dream that I tell him about watching him during the filming of the movie "Scent of a Woman". 

(I did extra-work on that movie. I played one of the prep school students in the final court room scene). 

I tell Philip Seymour Hoffman how envious I was of him during the shooting of that scene. 

In my dream, Philip Seymour Hoffman and I are now friends and I feel compelled to tell him that, at the time, I thought he was "a little upstart". I want to confess to him, I need for him to know, that at one point, before we were friends, I didn't like him.

IVORY (Part 8)

After the Pad Thai, my mother and I cab to the Paris Theater (near the Plaza) to see the latest Merchant Ivory movie (sans Merchant), "The City of Your Final Destination". We choose the movie because it's at the Paris. It's easy for me to get into the theater.

This movie barely raises a pulse.  We enjoy it however, because it follows my mother's dictum; the movie doesn't have to be good as long as the scenery is exotic. This movie takes place on in old-world mansion in Uruguay. The movie doubles as a travelogue!

After we find our seats, I watch a woman (my mothers age with blown out blond hair and a panicky way of fussing at her shirt collar) greet another woman (inscrutable from plastic surgery).

The blond woman tells the plastic surgery woman that she just had drinks at the Plaza.

"I had to see the Palm Court. I'm dating myself here, but my uncle used to own the Plaza. It's all changed, of course, with this new developer. But they're bringing the ferns back next week, so that's something, I guess. Change. I don't like it. But of course in New York, EVERYTHING has changed. And you know what, that's fine, that's good. You have to let it go. Change is fine."

The blond woman comforts me (somehow). If she can relinquish a world where her uncle owned the Plaza, I can let go of the dark, dirty city I've known.

PAD THAI (part 7)

I hand my mother a recipe for Pad Thai from the New York Times' food section.

The recipe calls for special ingredients, different from your average Pad Thai.
Seasonings and oils will have to be gathered at the Food Emporium down the street.

I decide this will be a fun project for my mother and my mother happily takes it on. When she leaves for the the grocery store however, she doesn't take the recipe.  My mother (an independent contrarian) isn't going to take directions from the The Times.

__________________

Later that evening we have mom's Pad Thai. 

My mother worked hard on it.

When she asks me how it is (I know she flouted the recipe - she made it with olive oil instead of peanut) I can't bring myself to be enthusiastic.

I measure, "Well... it's okay. It doesn't taste like Pad Thai though."

"Really, because I've made it a million times for your father."

"Yeah, but you didn't follow the recipe. That was the whole point! The fun was in trying out this specific recipe. It doesn't taste like Pad Thai."

"How do you know?" she asks. "Have you ever been to Thailand? I have."

"Mother, I've ordered out for Pad Thai, at least one a month since I've lived in New York and this simply doesn't taste like Pad Thai!"

My mother hides her hurt in her drink.

"Well" she sighs, "I'll try again tomorrow."

I feel rotten. 

I make a mental note to apologize to my mother, but I never do.

-------------------------------------------------------------

RECIPE FOR PAD THAI

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/22/dining/21minirex.html?scp=1&sq=pad%20thai&st=cse

SMALL INVISIBLE (part 6)

JD comes over to set up my new stationary bike (the bike peddles for you - it's geared for people with MS and Parkinson's). 

Before he leaves, JD corners the cat in the living-room and forces one pill down the cat's throat (an antioxidant). The cat moans. When JD leaves, the cat makes himself small and invisible beneath the air conditioning unit. 

GADFLY (part 5)

The next morning my mother and I get up for coffee and the paper but the New York Times is missing.

"Who would take the G.D paper?" my mother asks, now resigned to her Kindle.

I grit my teeth. "It's Bruce, my neighbor across the hall."

"How do you know?"

"He's producing a Broadway play. There must be a review." (There was).

My neighbor Bruce often pinches my New York Times. He takes them on big news days (or) when there are articles about a show he's working on.

Bruce is a flamboyant, driven, gadfly; an ex-Broadway dancer, I think he did "CATS" for years. 

I admire Bruce, but he sets my teeth on edge.

For instance, he tells his friends when we pass in the hall that I do cartoon voices for Disney. He made this curious leap when I told him that I do voice-overs. I try to correct him but he just keeps talking over me. I can't get a word in.

(or)

I took pictures of the twin towers on 9/11 from the roof of our building. Bruce (who I didn't know at the time) is in many of the shots. Later, I tried to give him some of these photos. I knocked on his door and told him I had pictures of him he might be interested in.

He answered (through the door),

 "NOT the ones kicking around on the web!!"

Apparently there are graphic pictures of Bruce on the Internet. I tried to explain that no, these were different pictures, but Bruce (again) just talked over me. I never gave him the pictures.

(and)

Right after we moved into the building, Bruce would stop me in the hall and ask me if I was gay. This was invasive. I didn't know him at all.  I offered various answers but none of my answers stuck, including - yes, set me up. He'd ask me again,  every few months, completely forgetting our last conversation like he was suffering from the early stages of Alzheimer's.

(so)

I become the level-headed lunk when I'm around Bruce.

I don't mind when he takes my paper. I can read the paper on the Internet. It's his impetuous (can't wait -must have now - ebullience) that makes me retreat when I encounter him in the lobby or hallways. 

They sell the New York Times downstairs. Can't he wait five minutes?

Bruce's show http://www.mytripdownthepinkcarpet.com/

BURIED IN MY PSYCHE (Part 4)

But by evening we notice Aroo's decline.  He won't move. His eyes are filmy. His ears are yellow. 

(I'm reminded of the worst kind of hangover). We decide Mattie will have to come back and offer her opinion.

Mattie, a positivist, has made it part of her daily purpose to save Aroo.  (I'm skeptical). 

I know the cat has kitty leukemia. I've read (and been told) his life would be shortened. 

It bothers me to pay out thousands of dollars to a vet. (Mattie takes Aroo to a pricey veterinarian in West Chelsea. They're excellent but expensive). If Aroo doesn't improve, her next suggestion is an animal homeopath in New Jersey. The homeopath charges $400 for the initial visit, but then it's much cheaper after that, Mattie explains.

"We've already spent thousands! It's too expensive."

"I spent thousands" my mother chimes in.

Mattie looks flushed. I feel a stingy cold connection to my mother as we face off with pure hearted Mattie.  Mattie (an ardent animal advocate) has been vigilant about Aroo's recovery (and my own for that matter). Money is no issue (to her). She spares no expense for the care of her own animals. Animals are one of her passions.

But I read articles (daily on the web) about snake oil being sold to vulnerable ALS patients. 

I read about vast amounts of money wasted on dubious treatments. People take advantage of dying people... (and emotional pet owners too).

If Aroo is dying, let him die in peace (I think). 

(Buried in my psyche, safely hidden from my rotting motor neurons - I'm making unconscious decisions about my own life.

At some point (I'm told) I won't be able to breath on my own. I will be asked if I want life support. This will take financial resources, and what will the quality of my life be?

"We'll watch the cat" I tell Mattie.  "No more pills. Let's leave him alone for a few days and see how he does."