MUSEUM FOR THE CITY OF NEW YORK

A commercial I made twenty years ago is going to be part of an exhibit at the Museum for the City of New York. It was shot by a British production company. We shot all over the city. There are two shots of the Twin Towers.

The exhibit is called "Cars, Culture, and the City".

http://www.mcny.org/exhibitions/future/Cars-Culture-and-the-City.html

This is the spot.

CHANGES

a patient on "Patients Like Me" posts:

"to my surprise, my toes started moving on my left foot and my fingers are moving again. What is happening?"

BIG BALL IN THE SKY

Jackie is doing the dishes. It's three in the afternoon and I'm still with coffee. I haven't eaten. I'm still undressed.

I'm reluctant to leave my apartment since I broke my tooth. So I sit on the couch and drink cold coffee and read Jackie the headlines from Yahoo News.

"Simon Cowell is getting married."

"Oh she's beautiful Charlie, Simon chose well, she's a very beautiful woman. That's a good match. That Simon - he knows what he's doing."

Jackie finds an empty wine bottle and tosses it into my recycling.

"... a dead solider."

"Says here Chile had an earth quake."

"You know what? We had one in Jersey last weekend. My daughter laughed at me and said it was probably just a low flying plane. Next day it was on the news, earthquake in Jersey!"

"And they're expecting a tsunami in Hawaii?!"

"Charlie, I tell you I don't sleep at night. And you know why? Because we're just a big ball in the sky. Why are there so many disasters? I know it's depressing. But that's what's happening... disasters! Ice burgs floating away, the penguins don't know where to go, big waves washing away islands, and... earthquakes in Jersey!

I'm telling you, we're just a big ball in the sky.

snow

NUMBER EIGHT

On Wednesday I fall in the lobby of my building and break my front tooth.

(# 8)

I put my tooth in my pocket.

An ambulance takes me to Beth Israel.

I have my bottom lip sewn up and go home.

On Thursday I go to my dentist on West 68th and Broadway.

It's snowing and slushy.

Instead of canes, I use the rollator.

The dentist bonds a new tip for the tooth. It takes a half hour.

There is no nerve damage.

It looks amazing. I feel no pain.

I sleep.

BELLA

It's around eleven in the morning and Jackie decides that she'll get me a new printer.

My new printer died yesterday. I've had it three months? I spent a couple of hours with tech support in India. They won't fix it or send me a new one because there is no record of my purchase.

Jackie's not having it. Jackie gets a "don't f-ck with me" thing going - like she's psyching herself up for a gang fight.

I tell Jackie not to worry about it. I'll throw it out and buy a new one (add to the e-waste) or I'll just cab to Staples to make copies. I can't spend my days on the phone with tech support in India.

"Well I can."

Jackie won't be stopped. She gathers pertinent information, date of purchase, model number, credit card used, and leaves without saying goodbye to me or the cat.

Two hours later I'm making lunch - she pops her head in the kitchen and says "I've been on the phone with CBS news. They have a consumer reporter there. I told them about you. They're all over it."

I sigh, "Jackie, I don't want to be on TV."

"Don't YOU worry about it. I'll be on TV!"

She shakes her head and keeps her voice strong and loud -like she's channeling Bella Abzug,

"You think they're gonna get away with this? You think that the CEO of Kodak isn't out for drinks right this very minute with some girl friend? Avoiding calls? You thinks he cares if he's stealing money from people ... daily? No. This has got to stop. I won't let it happen. We'll have CBS over there at their offices on Park Avenue. This is going to be on the news!"

Jackie leaves and I smirk and wonder what have I done.

And then I begin my own tirade. I try to get my medication.

My rage button is pushed when I call my insurance company. I can't help but hate the people I talk to on the phone. I try to remind myself that they're just making a living.

But the system is so sadistic I despise them for working for there.

I am an a--hole on the phone. And, it's justified. I rant. And because of my invective wrath, I get the medication. And for some reason, this time? It's cheaper. (Shouldn't there be a set price?)

I've been without my medication for weeks because they said (again) I lacked proper paper work. I said "I can't possibly understand what more you need. I've been getting it for a year. You have all my paper work. You gave it to me last month. I got you the paper work (again) last month, and now this month, the paper work is no good? Do I need to hire a lawyer to get this medication?

The representative has a script. At the end of the call she asks,

"Mr Roberts. Would you like me to put you in touch with a pharmacist who could explain to you the ramifications of not taking your medication?"

"You have been denying me this medication off and on for months. It is the only medication available to me. I know what will happen when I don't take this medication. I will die sooner. "

When I get off the phone, I feel hungover from rage. I'm spent. I feel seedy for revealing my emotional range to a stranger with a southern accent in an unknown state.

I sit with my head in my hands.

And then Jackie struts into my bedroom office, triumphant and high on life.

"You'll have a new printer and two new ink cartridges in five business days! Now I gotta go have a cigarette."

A YEAR AGO TODAY

So I sit and wait for a call from Doctor Ranjan.
I don’t want the call. I want to continue in the warm bath of ambiguity. If I don’t know, it’s not really happening. Mostly I feel like it’s not really happening.

When I see those doctors (doctors like Dr. Ranjan) there is some private, stubborn, proud part of me, telling me that they are wrong, I am fine, I have been in scrapes before and it’s worked out. I am a loner, a survivor, self reliant even if it hurts me. It feels better (in the end) to be able to be bitter if I choose. No studied gratefullness here.

Dr. Ranjan and the other doctors seem to be almost excited by my symptoms, like I’m a rare species that a graduate student in anthropology has the opportunity to witness... at last! (Or) like I’m a lazy participant on "the Antiques Road Show" with a unique piece of pottery worth thousands, yet it has no interest for me. Kindly take if off my hands and let me get out of here.

When I visit Dr. Ranjan (up at Columbia Presbertian on 168th Street in upper Manhattan) the building is tired and smelly and depressing. There is a support staff of irritable African American New York City girls who take zero pity on me, which I enjoy. The white middle aged doctors that walk by give me a solemn warm closed lip smile that offers, I know why you’re here, I’m sorry you’re here, but… welcome youngish victim.

I think... (I have no interest in your kind politeness).

Like naive criminals on their first day in jail I think, (you don’t know me. You think I’m going to be sticking around here? I live to be unstuck).

My brain. My spirit? My ethos. Whatever is that makes me, believes all of this will go away.

I want to make plans. I'm of course. overwhelmed. If I was confused about my life before, I am now so puzzled all I can think to do is... pick up after myself, read novels, and eat.

I had been drinking wine (nightly) but I realized that it was exhausting me. I always drink too much.
It used to be the hang overs. Now, I just can’t seem to get out of a funk of sleepiness. So wine is not a good choice.


I went to see "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" last night. It was enjoyably dopey, hollywood clichés and derivative, especially apparent when you look at the original short story (I skimmed it online late last night). But Brad Pitt is gorgeous sometimes. And all those millions of dollars to make pretty pictures. (The old age make-up just kills the purity of the film and story telling).

This is a movie that may find an appreciative audience, years later.

I did relate to the Benjamin Button. I feel like an outsider who is aging the wrong way and is doomed to a sad and lonely ending. (And like the character of Benjamin I like a good adventure). I loved seeing Brad Pitt get better and better looking, and the love scenes on the beaches of Key West were hot. Brad is appealing because he is gorgeous and so available to women. He is a cute, manly, charmer that only a girl could truly appreciate. He represents the best of the fantasy of having (a sexy boyish available boyfriend). He can’t help how well he moves, or how his expression might contain just the right amount of manliness, vulnerability, cool charm and sweet sexiness. He's channeling Paul Newman, Robert Redford AND Steve McQueen.

I think that Brad Pitt is a bit studied in his behavior, if he hadn’t become a movie star, he might have been just a cute, twinkly eyed dad. But maybe ALL those stars are making up that super, cool, handsome behavior.

As I sit in the movie theatre watching Brad (who I met once before he became a big star... he was nice) I have the foolish idea that I could be him with just the right diet, work-out guru, and glamorous circumstances. In a rough hewn cottage in the Keys, my shoulders would widen, my smile would charm, MY FEET would slip over a motor cycle just like Brad's.

I have to remind myself, I have to REPEAT to myself that I have a disease.
And it’s a terrible disease.


I might go to the Keys and act like Brad Pitt, but then (later) my life will be shit.

Maybe that's why the movie was giving me comfort, the idea of seizing adventure and living for the moment because (after all) we ALL end up reduced to diapers. In my case, my aging is speeded up not going backwards like it did for Benjamin Button.

Still, there IS the doom, the feeling of knowing that it will be difficult.


For now, thinking about it doesn't much move me, because I still have to figure out a way to pay the rent, to enjoy my surroundings, to nurse my resentments. To figure out... what?

I guess I could call Dr. Ranjan to make an appointment to see them.
They must have the results from my spinal tap, it’s been over two weeks.
But I want to deny this thing.


I have a problem taking on stressful confrontations because the results seem so finite to me.
And because the results may be stuck in my head (running round and round) for years.

Months?

So I wait for them to call me. As if it is an act of aggression on their part.
And what’s the big idea anyway? There's no treatment so why is there an entire floor devoted to it at Columbia Presbyterian? I guess there are other diseases they work on, but still, who are these people that want to study it?

I wonder if they must be a tad gleeful to get new clients into their empty offices.

When I go to their offices on 168th street, I'm the only patient in the hallways, their shabby examing rooms... for hours. And Dr. Ranjan seems to have this terribly, flexible schedule. These hyper special neurologists seem to have the opposite problems of other doctors, time on their hands.

A friend suggests it's because the disease is so rare.

I am a rare bird.
A rare bird who is "not to get down or despondent".

G-D's FAVORITE

It's sunny. It's 45 degrees. It's two in the afternoon. I decide to see if I can ride my bike.

Spiro (my doorman) greets me in the lobby. Spiro is crazily over attentive to me. He is - to everyone. There has been tragedy in his life. He's from Albania. He has decided something about life. I'm not sure what it is but it translates into unceasing kindness and attention to others that often rubs me the wrong way.

"Spiro! - I'm off on a bike ride. Do you think I'm crazy?"

And then I fall... I feel my back legs give out in a way that they never have before. I fall backwards and lie on the cool marble lobby floor comfortable and cozy like I fell into a snow bank.

Spiro tries to lift me up, but it's not possible (now). So he rolls a luggage cart over to me and I manage to right myself.

"I guess that's not a good sign."

"Well sir, at least you had the warning, yes?"

But this warning doesn't stop me. I go to the bike room and get my bike and bring it outside.

I notice that it is much harder for me to do than the last time. It feels like... it's not you (exactly) but a storm around you. Your mind is convinced you can do what you need to do- but it's such an enormous struggle, a struggle that is outside of you... so you persist, you perspire, you groan, waiting for the winds to die.

Mounting my bike takes all the concentration and energy and hope and strength that I own.

But I do it. And once I am on my bike, my body and mind chemically change. It's worth it.

The wind, the cold, the aggressive runners, the scenery speeding by, gives cues to my body.

It's GOOD for the body to shiver. It's GOOD to feel light and wind. Its' GOOD to face the elements. My brain and nervous system re-jiggers. It is about as healing as it gets.

I bike down to Battery Park. There are people out with babies. Fathers playing lacrosse with their sons. Runners and die hard tennis players.

I turn a corner and notice the Statue of Liberty. There is a clump of six or seven people taking it in. All six stare into electronic devices. It is a windy vigorous sunny day on the Hudson River and all six are enveloped in the digital view of the world. It is more compelling to see the statue of liberty though their cannon kickback or talk about it on their SONY PDA than to simply be there in the moment. (There is fear here). The fear is that the moment isn't enough (or) I don't understand the moment but my electronic device will make sense of the moment for me later.

And maybe they are right.

I bike back up town and pass my building. It's cold. I shiver. But it's sunny and clear.

I get to around 6oth and decide to turn back.

My battery runs out.

I call JD. I wait by fence on 59th and the river. JD picks me up in his big huge car.

When I call JD, my fingers don't work. The cold messes with muscle articulation.

And because I am dehydrated I am frighteningly inarticulate. My tongue doesn't work.

JD drives me home and when we get to my apartment building - Spiro (the doorman) pulls me out of the car and tells JD, " G-D truly loves this one".

Up in my apartment JD cleans for a little bit, changes a light bulb, and advises me on the miracles of Chi-Gong.

After he leaves, I feel good - like I spent the day ski-ing.

Town car to La Guardia

THE WELL AND THE UNWELL

At the last minute I book a town car to Laguardia.

It will be in front of my building in twenty minutes.

Jackie (my 74 year old neighbor, a native of the west village- her nearly extinct New York accent gloriously intact) carries my bags down to the lobby and runs to a nearby deli for singles and fives for tips for skycaps and porters.

The town- car pulls up and the driver pokes his head out the car window.

"Roberts, Charlie Roberts?"

"Yup, that's me."

The driver is dark and tall and funny and familiar. He has the easy smile of a popular uncle or teacher. He takes charge of my one single piece of luggage as I ply myself and my two canes into the back of the car - a fresh New York Times tucked into a back seat pocket.

"Wait!"

Jackie rushes back to the car. My exit from the apartment complex is exciting to Jackie, like I’m Dorothy going home in the big balloon. She’s absolutely breathless.

"I got you two fives and ten singles.” She focuses on the handsome car and driver. “Well, Hello there! You mean if I cawl the numbuh Chawlie used, you'll show up fuh me?"

The driver likes Jackie right away. "That's right."

"What's your caw numbah? Do you have a pen? I wanna write your numbuh down."

(Jackie once told me she's afraid to take taxis because she's worried she’ll be kidnapped).

_______________

We drive east through midtown. The limo it tired. But it feels padded enough to experience that lovely feeling of gliding through the city as a soft voyeur instead of a hastled member. I feel free. I feel relief. This isn't so hard. I should travel! (I think). I relax.

I release a deep breath and look around the car.

"Is the New York Times for me?"

"Of course. And I have the Post up here too.”

The driver responds immediately like he’d been waiting for me to talk.

“The cover of the post has that fashion designer on the cover.

....t he fashion designer who killed himself."

(He means Alexander McQueen).

"This is unbelievable to me. These rich Americans. They have everything, money, freedom, a good life. They need for nothing and yet they are miserable. They're sad and depressed! I don't understand this."

I know what’s he’s saying, spoiled pathetic americans - but I ask,

"Don't you have any rich people where you're from?"

(I mean to me, being rich and famous dictates depression and ruin).

"Rich people? In Morocco? Yes. We have plenty of rich people.

But they aren't unhappy. Not like here. I guess this fashion designer was sad about his mother death? Everyone's mother dies. Maybe he felt alone. I don't know if he was married or had children."

"I don't think Alexander McQueen had kids. But I know he was married. To a man."

"Oh. He was “a gay".

"And he was British, he wasn't American. I think he lived in London."

"London, New York, it's really the same city."

This has occurred to me before. I studied in London. I did a commercial in London recently. So I agree.

"I guess that's kind of true. They are kind of the same. They're sister cities." I enjoy sizing up European cities - makes it sound like I fly to London periodically. I enjoy the the pretense.

"And Paris?" I add with delight, "Paris is a distant cousin!"

"Yes, this is true!" I can see the driver smile in the rearview mirror . "I like that... New York and Paris are second cousins. That’s right!"

"But my feeling" I go on, "My feeling about that designer, actually about suicide, my feeling is ... is that there must have been booze or drugs involved. I mean it's the fashion world. Don't all those glam super-rich designer types do drugs? Drugs and alcohol mess you up!”

I’m on a roll. Being driven around gives me a voice, so I go on.

You know what I think? YOU KNOW WHAT I REALLY THINK IS THE TRUTH OF IT? I think that to deal with the stress of life - of this life we're all forced to live every day - I think it's all about balance. If you mess up the balance of your life with alcohol or drugs... you're doomed. Everyone's life is held in the balance. We're all tightrope walkers, and we all have to watch it. Even good things can ruin the balance, too much money, too much success. Balance! - from what I've been reading, is the key to everything. Alexander McQueen messed up his balance."

The driver drives and considers my opinions.

"UNLESS?" I say, "Unless this guy was lost in his own ego. Maybe he thought his world was terribly important. That HE was terribly important. But you know, I believe we're all playing on the same level, everything that life has to offer can be enjoyed by everyone and it has nothing to do with your scene or status or money, it truly is about enjoying this moment, nature - the earth... equally available to everyone, and people lose sight of that. With all his money... why didn't he just get away?!"

"Go some where warm!" the driver says.

"Or even Iceland!” I say nonsensically.

“See nature. See something different from his suffocating designer world. Get away and go to Iceland!"

"That's right. That's RIGHT! I agree!" my driver is totally on my page. With my pale voice, and my frail sincerity, I gain his trust without a hitch.

We drive in vague discomfort waiting to think of something to say that can add and escalate our position.

I can’t think of anything so I offer,

"I'm on my way to Florida. My dad died."

"Oh. I am sorry."

"Yeah, so this trip is pretty much last minute."

"Oh, I see. I'm sorry. May I ask, how old was your father?"

"Eighty- two."

"That's old! He lived a long life!"

"Yeah, he did. I guess that's right."

"What did your father do?"

"He was an advertising executive with TIME magazine. He traveled the world. He got to eat in the best restaurants in New York."

"That's nice, he was lucky."

“Yeah, he was lucky. My father was lucky.”

"What was he like?"

"My dad?"

"Yeah what was he like? Was he funny? Did he tell stories or jokes? What was he like?"

"Well, he wasn't funny, I guess. He was actually pretty moody."

"Moody!" the driver grins and repeats the word moody as if being moody were a good thing. But his elation doesn’t dent the look of remorse on my face.

"Yeah, he was moody. And he occasionally drank too much. He didn't like to exercise, which drove me crazy. He liked to sit in his chair and read papers all day."

"Ah. .... What did you do together?"

"My father and me?”

“When you were young.”

“Well, when I was kid, my Dad used to take me to boat shows. We would spend the day at a nearby marina getting in and out of glamorous motor boats and sail boats, some of them with elaborate cabins, some of them bleak and spare. My dad had an old VW bug that sputtered. I remember driving to these boats shows on cold October weekends in the noisy VW bug.

We camped.

My father liked to camp, we camped a lot together. My father forced me to partake in boyish outdoor activity, boy scouts, winter camping, hiking in state parks. I couldn't quite figure out what the point was when I was a kid. I remember asking him why we couldn't get a camper with a bathroom and a working kitchen... and a TV! Watching TV in a camper in the woods was about as good at it could get - for me - as a kid. I couldn't understand why my dad didn't see it that way. I’m sure it was a sad disappointment to my dad that he ended up with a kid that couldn’t embrace ll bean blucher moccasins and fishing.

But Now, I don't watch TV and I love to sleep outdoors - I ended up doing a lot of camping on my own. I have my own tents, foul weather gear, I’ve tented on my own near glaciers -like I'd always loved it -like I'd always been a scrubby little outdoorsy type. Not true. My dad forced it on me and it worked. Freezing in a canvas tent by a lake and a mountain is ideal to me, now.

Is your Dad still alive?"

"No he died twelve years ago. He died young. He was sixty four."

"Oh, I ‘s sorry. What did he die of?"

"He died of Alzheimer's."

"Hmm.... so it was neurological."

"Yes, that's right... neurological. My father was a great man. My father was a very important man in our city. He was the head of the police... very well respected. Everyone loved him. I revered him. But once he retired, he got lost. He objected to retiring- didn't want to retire - And once he did, he got sick. He died just a few years later."

"Do you still think about him?"

"Every day, many times a day, not a day goes by that I don't think about my father. But you and I, we can be different. We don't have to die that way. You and I, we can keep busy, stay busy, doing things we love."

"Yeah, I mean if you're aware. I mean now we're all aware that it's not a good idea to retire and then just sit at home. How long was your Dad sick?"

"Oh. A long time. Maybe two years."

"Did you try to stop it? I mean the disease. Did you try to help him?"

The driver shakes his head and winces, sadly, defensively. "No, I couldn't. When your time is up, it's over. There is nothing to be done. There is nothing left to do."

"Right. I see.”

But I can’t let this go. Because if I do, I’m hurting myself, maybe even cursing myself in some way.

“But I guess for me... for me I'll keep trying. "

"Are you getting help?"

"Sort of."

"Are you getting well?"

"I'm not sure."

"How long have you had this? How long have you needed help walking?"

"Oh, the canes? My gosh. Less than year. Actually it's only been three or four months."

"Oh!"

"Yeah, this is all new. So... I see a lot of therapists. And I changed my diet and I swim."

"Do you go to church?"

"I do. My grandparents were christian scientists, so I go to their church. I mean, I just started going this year. Christian Scientists don't believe in illness. They ask Christ to help them see themselves as they truly are, perfect creations, perfect reflections of G-d... it's hard to explain."

My driver looks worried. He takes some time and then risks,

"I am Muslim."

He says it with breath and bravery like he's not sure how it's going to sound until it comes out.

"Oh cool!" I coo like we're comparing music on ipods.

"Please" he says, “Please”,

He sounds very concerned so I scrunch up my brow and lean in closer to the front seat to hear him better.

"Please. When you pray? Please, I recommend that you pray directly to G-d, don't pray to Jesus... don't pray to the middle man... I recommend that you pray directly to G-d.

Have you read the Koran?"

"No I haven't."

"As Muslims, we know about Jesus. Jesus is mentioned in the Koran in many places"

The driver is talking to me carefully like I am a born again christian he doesn't want to offend.

"We believe Jesus existed. Mohammed... you know Mohammed, right?"

"Sure. Of course" I answer unsteadily.

"Mohammed mentions Jesus in the Koran many times. But we don't think he is ... what you say... the father?"

"The son of G-d?"

"Right. We don't see him as the son of G-d. And (he adds casually) he never died."

"On the cross? No resurrection?"

"Right. It was someone else on the cross. Not Jesus."

"Got it."

"Also we believe there was a chapter about Mohammed in the bible that was removed."

"Oh. Interesting.” I’m playing it very smooth here because in all honesty I’m just a curious spiritual type looking to save myself. And I don’t want to come off as prejudiced. But if I’m too relaxed, then what kind of g-d fearing Christian am I? I’m feeling fake. So I focus on the practical.

“So do YOU pray to G-d for guidance or say, health? Does G-d help YOU?"

"Yes. G-d helps me. But we believe that one should not look up to the heavens. When you look up to the heavens you become overwhelmed and dizzy. We look down, because when you look down you see there are people that are worse off than you. G-d created the rich and the poor, the well and the unwell. If I pray with my face down, I will understand where I fit in and I will realize that there are people who are worse than I am, and for this... I can be grateful."

I'm feeling a little queasy about the Koran. Doesn't seem like Mohammed will offer me much help.

"Did Muhammad create miracles?"

"Yes" he measures, "Muhammad made miracles"

"Because you know Jesus was pretty impressive when it comes to miracles."

"Well... Mohammed couldn't read or write and THAT was his first miracle"

Not exactly walking on water but I offer, "Wow!"

"Would you like to know more about the Koran."

"I'd love it. To be honest, I never thought much about Muslims until 9/11. In fact that's the only reason I know about Muslims. Sufis and Shia... right? Are you a Sufi?"

"Yes I am."

"The Sufis are more conservative?"

They're pretty much the same. We don't go to graves to pray to the dead and the Shias do."

“Right.”

I can't think of anything else to say so I nod and say, "Mecca".

"Yes... Mecca" my driver agrees to be polite.

And then I remember " There's a temple on East 88th. I've walked past it a few times. Ever been there?"

"I know there is one on East 96th. But it's not new."

"Oh yeah, 96th. That's the one I was thinking of.'

"You should visit on a Friday. You worship on Sunday, the Jews on Saturday, and we worship on Friday. Pick up a copy or the Koran. It's very similar to the bible. Has all the same things."

We arrive at Delta. My driver retrieves my one bag from the trunk and I try to hoist myself from the passenger seat onto the sidewalk. But I can't do it.

"I think I'm going to need some help."

The driver holds the passenger door steady. I grab the top of the door and pull myself up to a standing position.

"Good. I made it. Thank you."

"Can’t I help you check in?"

"No, I'm good. I got it. The sky caps will take care of me.”

My driver looks uneasy. My driver doesn't want to leave me. My driver feels responsible for me now because we’ve shared about the importance of enjoying life, we shared about our fathers, we openened up about prayer and G-d.

So I tell him,

"I'm fine. I'll be fine.” I smile. “And I promise to read the Koran."

The driver smiles back.

"Good. Stay Well".

And he drives away.

New York Cab Ride
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

CABBING

New York City
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

TAXI NYC

DSC_7917
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts