WHAT HAPPENED TO NYC ?

Sellers Library Upper Darby 1978 a twelve year old boy is reading Albert Goldmans new book DISCO. He was entranced by the history of the new craze sweeping the nation. Disco was everywhere from the turntables to the movie theater to the network news. Studio 54 was on everyone's lips from Merv Griffin to Dinah Shore and reading this new book by Mr. Goldman this twelve year old made a promise that one day he would be under that moon on that dance floor dancing his ass off. 1983 and this boy now 17 was on that floor at 54 dancing . 54 had seen better days but goddamn he had a dream and he chased that rainbow right into Emerald city.

  I had a passion once that took me from the row homes of a Philadelphia suburb to the pastoral farmlands of Wisconsin to the dawn of the AIDS epidemic in mid 80's New York City. I dreamed of a day when I would be sitting in a beautiful mahogany chair sipping a glass of scotch in a public television studio discussing my new novel with the cerebral interviewer Charlie Rose. I would discuss with Charlie the new novel and how I feel the way the gay literary movement has declined over the years. I hear Charlie read the review from The New York Times Book Review and feign modesty at the critics praise. As a teen I would stand in front of a bathroom mirror and recite what my acceptance speech would be for the Pulitzer or Tony Award for my achievements . I would have those pretend conversations with Fran Lebowitz or Jay Mcinerey talking about New Yorks downtown scene over a scotch at Elaine's .
 
 I once had that drive that propelled me to hop on that New Jersey Transit bus into the belly of the city that never sleeps and now I am in a prison I have created all by my own doing . I am lucky if I open a blind now to let a ray of sunshine hit my pale skin. I am a shell of my former self and dreams have all but evaporated as I become more or less a lump of flesh that barely exists. These past three years I have become a recluse to my own self and forbid any risk or misstep outside the proven territory of self pity. My dreams of a literary life among the fabled streets of Manhattan has all but withered on the vine of possibilities that had once fueled my everyday routine. I had taken to heart the lyrics in New York,New York that if I had made it in New York City I could make it anywhere. I had not really achieved a great success in New York City in 1984 so for years I felt I could not really make it anywhere else . I had decided to settle instead of going for that brass ring that my Aunt Reggie said I had always deserved because I was special. I had that gleem in my eye that told her I had a big future ahead of me if I desired it. I had settled into a life of mediocrity and my once golden dreams had become fogged by the soft haze of crack smoke and emptiness of bathhouse sex. The words I so wanted to put on paper had dried in my mind like semen on a bathhouse floor. I had become what I always thought an amazing talent should be the proverbial tortured soul.

  I had desires at one time that I would achieve and not only be good at but go above and beyond my goals. I went out for track and field on a whim and I became a state champ at running the 440 and scouted by colleges in the ninth grade when I made varsity. I decided on a whim to do hair and my first job I had I was top colorist and was given the opportunity to go to Scotland to learn under the tutelage of Charlie Miller. These achievements I had and had given up so I never made it to college on that track scholarship that had been a given had I stayed on the team ; nor I made it to Scotland to the tutelage of Mr. Miller had I not walked of the job in a hissy fit. I know if the mindset I can attain that dream of celebrated author if I just believe in myself.

  I write these words without really knowing if anyone shall read them outside of friends or family and dreams of that successful career as celebrated writer are just that dreams. I know of no one to send my writings to or how even to go about it. I would rather sit in my own prison and wait for an early death brought on by bad living whether by my own hand or overdose if I truly fall back into my old lifestyle. I have no peanut gallery rooting for that book deal or lead onto where to go next as far as my writing goes. I post on social networks to stay among the living even if it is over high speed internet access. My Patsy Stone barroom antics have been replaced by the retelling of those antics to a different set of ears and guffaws . I have become a caricature of myself and even I wince at how pathetic I have become. I wonder if the masses will ever read my words in prose or will these words just remain unread.

  I lost my Mother this past January and the drive in me has all but gone. I have such a deep pang in my heart that seems will never heal and I feel myself slipping away. I was with my Mother when she took her last breath and found myself afraid to look up from her bed because real life would of hit me over the head like an atomic blast. I spent many an evening just holding her hand for what I thought was her assurance but really was the grip I was losing on myself. I remember one evening she took my hand and with her beautiful hazel eyes she knew my pain and she asked " What about NYC ? ". I shrugged and she told me it could still happen and with that Irish twinkle in her eye she told me it will if she had anything to do with it. She is gone now and her passing has left me in a abyss that seems unable to escape from . If I know my Mothers love she has made you come across this page and it will stay with you after you have read this and you will look me up and give me that lead or better yet that opportunity to be reading that review of my book and with this chance I know the hole in my heart will heal . What about NYC ?