Time Flies When You're Being Evicted

Goodness. It's been two months since I spoke a word here at all. I have indeed been pushed out of two places to live in the meantime, so if anyone was wondering where I've been, I've been itinerant.

Today I'm sitting in a ghost world.

I work with a law firm - I fill in for secretaries when they aren't here, among other tasks. I dislike it, and I dislike the firm more and more as time passes. When first started here, I was full-time, and I worked for two lawyers, mainly, with some extra tasks thrown in by other people. One of them was the reason I was hired here. I temped for Ric for two days in December of 2001, and as I hadn't done much legal work, I kept my mouth shut and tried to follow his corrections. He was an graying, bespectacled man given to wearing bow ties and his fedora, and his bookcases were full of Best Short Story collections or philosophy books or new fiction like The Life of Pi. Not law books. I thought he was very business-like and serious but couldn't help making a sidelong comment about the case we were drafting documents for - two brothers in an all-out fight for control of the family company. Ric was at the marble counter by this desk, and he stopped for a second and looked at me, with an impish grin, and said, "Oh, yes, the furniture is FLYING."

And eventually, months later, he talked me into coming to work for him, which I never did like, not even a little. But he turned out to be a very interesting guy - well-read and interested in people, and taking all of life with that wry sense of humor that a man who wears bow-ties must have. I quit a years or so into it, but needed the money enough to keep working at the firm on a part-time, flexible basis.

I never missed his frantic pace or his incessant waste of paper or his occasional stress blowups, but I missed chatting with him day to day, and he always had a sly smile and a joke for me when we crossed paths in the office. He was one of the few lawyers who was truly good to his secretary on a daily basis, even if he rarely put much effort into secretaries day or Christmas. He spent time on pro bono cases, did favors for friends, threw a surprise birthday party for his wife, doted on his only son. He had a sense of humor, and a feeling that the world was much much bigger than his law office. He did not compromise who he was but he was willing to learn and grow and experience something new.

A year ago, he died of a heart attack, quite suddenly, while on vacation with his family. He was 57, I think. His son was 21. The partners of the firm called us into the conference room and told us what they knew, and a week later we all went to the visitation and funeral. He'd been cremated and his signet ring and glasses were on the table behind his wife. I told her I used to work for Ric and she immediately exclaimed, "Oh, you're the actress!" The idea that he'd gone home and told his wife about the secretary who was really an actress was touching.

I find it much harder to work here without him. But today, of all days, I'm back at my "old" desk, which is right outside his old office. His elegant, tasteful furniture is gone, and the room is piled with extra files and chairs and cabinets that the office doesn't have any other place for, but from here I can only see the edge of the door, like always. I want him to be in that office, and come out with yet another draft for me. No, I don't, not really. Because I don't like working here and if I were to wish him alive, I'd give him the option of retiring. But I do wish that he could be here on earth somewhere, so that when I spy a fedora or a bow tie, it might be him after all.

Strange to see your story end

I rode the el train last night from Harlem to the city sitting in the front seat looking through the window. It was beautiful - dark patches of unpopulated streets intermittently punctuated with sparkly Christmas frippery. I used to ride the front seat of the top layer of the London buses in the same way - walkman plugged in, unwinding a soundtrack of love and loss and all the while, riding the sound, riding the streets, I was high above it, myself and everyman. London is doing away with doubledecker buses, so I won't be able to do that again.

But last night I was blissfully alone. The Green Line out to the west is nearly a straight line, and using it to inch closer and closer to the city you can feel the activity of the Loop like a homing device, or a planet drawing you into its orbit.

I love that the tracks are elevated. It lends a superiority to mass transit, that as you wait, you stand above the milling, confused commuters in cars. It's far better than being plunged deep in the earth for having the temerity to use public transportation.

Now if it weren't so dishearteningly cold, it might have been a perfect evening.

Polygraph

I ran out of things to read on the train the other night, and the only thing I had instead was a journal. (Those of you who know it can insert the Oscar Wilde quote for themselves - it's Make Your Own Allusion Day here at t&t) I keep an exceedingly fitful journal, sometimes months or even years pass with nothing making it onto a page.

The bit I read the other night started in April of 2004, and so much has shifted since then. But here's the strange thing - it's like opening a series of Russian dolls, as I move farther along, I discover the things that I seek, and yet the real need is just beyond that discovery. Or maybe it's more like Super Mario Bros. - when you master a level, there's a new level just beyond that, with completely new quirks and secrets and skills to gain.

In keeping with the simile, I have jumped up to a new level, and there is hardly time to celebrate without realizing that this level has a brand new set of issues and goals. It's exciting, though, because in making discernible progress, I suddenly feel all goals are achievable with time.

What makes me Miss Pollyanna all of a sudden? In the midst of realizing I don't want an acting career at the expense of having a family I care about (and I use the definition of family loosely - pets, boyfriends, friends, stray relatives, etc.), I booked my first national voice over commercial and was asked to be in a show in the fall without an audition, strictly on the merit of my recent performance. I feel...and I hesitate to call it this, because pride goeth before a fall...I feel...successful. It's euphoric.

Success is in the eye of the beholder, and I have a lot farther to go, but this is still a big step forward for me. I'd love to make more of my money from commercial work. You have to start somewhere and I have finally started.

That's how I described it yesterday. I can start living the next part of my life, the part where I am doing more of what I want and less of what I don't want.

Acting is a strange business, and there is no job security, so I may book this and then go straight back to obscurity - that's possible. But I feel the power of what I can do, and I believe I have enough work ethic to get more work. I'm not sure I'll ever win a Tony but I hope to be a dependable actor, a journeyman.

So I read my journal from April 2004. A lot of the things I longed for then are now part of my life. Time to set up a whole new set of goals. And this time, I know achieving them is a matter of time, not talent.