10/20: Chocolate

I've been back in New York thirteen days, nine hours, twenty-four minutes. One would think, in that time, that I would have gotten some stuff done. Read a book, maybe. Or gotten myself to a ballet class. But no. Perhaps I'm selling myself short; I've purchased and assembled a couch, dresser, coffee table and desk (and as of yesterday, a queen-sized bed) - and considering they came from IKEA that's no small feat. But aside from that I've not done much, and the sloth was beginning to wear on me when I woke up on Wednesday. This day would be different, I decided, rolling out of bed. This would be the day I finished all those little things. Beginning with the garbage. I gathered up a massive pile of plastic and paper scraps left over from my furniture-assmbling marathons and forced it into the only thing that would hold it; a leftover IKEA bag. It was somehow fitting, I thought, trudging to the other end of the hall in my sweats and bare feet. Complete the IKEA circle. The garbage, the massive bundle, wouldn't fit down the chute all at once - I was forced to take it out, bit by bit, crammed as I was in the tiny garbage closet. I kept the IKEA bag. No need to throw it away. I left the garbage closet, ambled (still groggy) back to my apartment, stood in front of the door. I was in my XXL sweats reserved for comfy mornings. My feet were bare. And I'd forgotten my key.

I stared at the door. Just stared.

My sister and I often joke about the face my mom made once when she was given an information overload. Her eyes got big, her head tilted back, she stared at us from behind her nose, as though processing from the lee side of it. I'm sure I looked much the same at this particular moment. My phone, wallet, shoes and - of course - keys were on the other side of the door. I stared at it and stared at it, willed a plan to form, some solution to the problem. There's always a solution. Always.

The solution, this time, was waiting. Having locked myself out over the weekend, I knew the door was impervious to credit cards; I had the beat up Duane Reade card and cuts on my fingers to prove it. Also: I had no credit cards: they were locked inside. Had I pliers and a safety pin I could pick the lock. Once again, I was out of luck. Sweatpants and an empty IKEA bag aren't really conducive to breaking and entering.

I sat, back to the wall. Here I would sit, I decided, till my roommate Viktor came home.

That lasted about a minute. No way I could just sit that long. Viktor might return at one for lunch or he might not. He might not come home until after rehearsal, at seven. I had no idea what Viktor's number was and my cell was barred by my massive green apartment door. So I had no way of knowing what he was up to. No way, no how, was I sitting there. Staring down the hall I saw one of the doors ajar. One of our neighbors, I remembered, had just moved out. Maybe he'd left something. Anything.

I tiptoed inside. Empty cardboard boxes and used rolls of tape dominated the small apartment. On the floor lied the sports section of the New York Times. It was a start. On the windowsill, a Hershey's chocolate bar. And hanging on the wall - a phone! I didn't know Viktor's number but I quickly realized that when my mom called and asked for it a couple weeks ago "for emergency purposes" she may have been on to something. I picked it up. No dial tone. Damn.

Barefoot or not, I decided I'd go enlist the help of the doorman. I knew he didn't have a key but he did have a phone. After explaining my situation (no, you DON'T have a spare, we tried this weekend, remember?) I was granted use of the phone. No luck. Tried a second time. Voicemail again. I'll be back, I said.

Upstairs again, I did a more thorough check of the empty apartment. Chips in the cupboard, paper still on the floor. Frozen cauliflower in the freezer. Eighteen beers in the fridge. Eighteen beers??? A knew plan involving eighteen downed beers and a one man dance party in the empty apartment was eager to form in my head. But I set it aside. Instead I stuffed the unopened groceries, canned goods and ice trays (I'd been meaning to get some) into my ikea bag, grabbed the paper and chocolate, and hunkered down outside my door.

I learned about sports. I learned more, perhaps, than the entire accumulation of my past knowledge of sports. The mets had gone through a cavalcade of pitchers during Tuesday's game. In football, athletes were making fashion out of sweatbands. There was soon to be a major golf shakeup in Kentucky. I embraced it. I owned it. I ate my chocolate. I relaxed. This day, I decided, would be the calm before the storm. Tomorrow I would get motivated. Tomorrow I'd clean every inch of the apartment. Organize the drawers. Dust the closet even. But today - today I would relax. I was content. I was sloth - and for once I loved it.

I did eventually get ahold of Viktor - and he eventually did come home. But it didn't matter really. I was the epitome of relaxation and of calm. I was Buddha. I was floating in a sea of tranquility. I could have done it all day.

There is always a solution. When that solution seems worse than the problem itself it goes overlooked - and the problem seems insolvable. We are then faced with two choices: live with the solution or live with the problem.

I escaped this. I made the problem a solution in itself. And it worked.

10/15: Shaking Angles

I woke up Friday with nothing on the agenda. This was hardly surprising, considering I'd been back in the city for four days with no job, no school, and hardly any money. While I was puttering around the apartment my phone went off - it was my friend Michael, a photographer who lives out in Brooklyn and seems to know half the population of New York. 

Sam, want to perform tonight? He said. 

Well... I... sure, why not?

And with that I was set to perform, at a place I'd never heard of, for a performance artist I'd never seen, doing god-only-knows what. I was only a little worried about what I'd gotten myself into. But nonetheless, I was excited. 

I arrived at the National Arts Club at 4:57 - three minutes early. From the outside, the club was nothing to speak of; a townhouse in a row of townhouses off Gramercy Park with an awning boasting it's name in an outdated font. A small woman (french - one of many foreigners I'd meet that night) met me inside the door and guided me through a maze of galleries and hallways, finally emerging not far from where we'd begun. She presented me to the choreographer (Canadian).

Ten minutes ago, he said, I'd have needed you.

Great. Just great. 

I wandered over to a bunch of normal-looking people. It seemed I was to be a "pusher," a pedestrian involved in the act the title would suggest - pushing. We stood in a back hallway like sheep. After awhile a man walked in: Bald, crazy glasses, high-wasted pants that seemed two inches too short at the ankles and (of course) sporting crazy shoes. He honed in on me. 

You, he said in a mild Russian accent, I have something else for you.

He guided me to the "backstage" area, which was really just the end of the gallery blocked off by a piano and already packed with dancers and other performers. 

So. Will you be naked or in your underpants.

Welcome back to New York.

Underpants, I said feebly. 

Let me see them. Quick, quick take off your pants. 

I decided to embrace the situation, and let fly my shoes, pants, shirt. 

Yes, those are good. His inflection was such that I couldn't discern whether it was a question or a statement. I didn't have time to ponder it though, because he'd grabbed me by the arm and led me over to a small white laundry basket with twelve hundred strands of white beads ziptied to the rim.

Sit, he said.

I did. As the laundry basket was lifted over my head I suddenly realized it was a costume. And it was mine. I was now standing, in my underwear, in front of twenty dancers, with a laundry basket over my head. 

I'd thought that was ridiculous. 

I was wrong. 

Andrey - as I later learned the artist's name to be - led me into the performance area - a long narrow gallery split lengthwise into stage and viewing area. 

So. You spin spin spin down the stage and then you dance here. Okay? That is what you do. Let me see. Good. More spinning. Like this. Then on the second show (we're doing this twice? Thanks for the heads up, sparky) you smash your costume like this. Don't do it now. Second time. Big Smashing. Like this. 

Come show time, I found myself packed into the back hallway with forty or fifty other performers. None of us was being paid and people seemed to have come from all reaches of the globe for it - A french dancer who'd worked with the choreographer more than a decade ago, a stocky russian woman wearing bags of shredded paper on her legs, a homeless guy in white go-go boots. Andrey came rushing through the crowd. He found me.

You! You! What is your name? Sam? Hi Sam. Come with me. Here put your costume on. Now. Stand here (He faced me toward the back wall) until it is time to go on you stand here.

My portion of the dance was the last, about half an hour into the show. So I stood. And stood. Facing a wall. With zipties sticking into my eyes. The things we do for art.

Apart from the whole zipties-in-the-eyes-thing the first show went off without a hitch. 

The audience went wild - but not half so wild as the second audience would get.

In show two, you'll remember, I'd been instructed to destroy my costume. At show time I stood facing the wall and waited obediently until it was my time to go on, spun down the performance space, and danced in place, waiting for a cue.

I heard the rip of the cardboard close by and in seconds things turned to mayhem. Beads, garbage, fabric and cardboard went flying as we destroyed our costumes. Screams and yells erupted from the audience as bits of everything - fly swatters, newspapers, shredded paper - flew at them. I engaged in a tug-of-war with the guy next to me, both of us in our underwear tearing up a giant foam and cardboard contraption he'd previously been wearing. This lasted for what couldn't have been more than three minutes but we milked every second of it for all it was worth. Exhilarated, scraped up, and tiptoeing among the remnants of the show we made our way back offstage. Next time I get an offer like that - no details, no idea what I'll be doing - I'll be saying yes without a second's pause and praying it's half as ridiculous as this was.