Adjacency to all the Things

from A Tale of Jobs not Well Done, a memoir in progress

“What hurts so bad about youth isn’t the actual butt whippings the world delivers. It’s the stupid hopes playacting like certainties.”

~ Mary Karr, Lit

I kept glancing at the large David Hockney collage as I walked back and forth from the living room to the bedroom.

Later in life I’d learn this mosaic of photographs was called a ‘joiner’ as he famously took multiple photographs of the same image, and overlapped them to create a single, larger image of his subject. The one I was passing seemed to be one of a series of the Grand Canyon.

But right now I was too busy to ponder the nuances of a David Hockney joiner, because I had to wrap dozens of empty boxes up to look like Christmas presents.

It was August.

The home or loft or whatever this class of people called such a dwelling was in the heart of SoHo, on Crosby Street. It even came with an outdoor terrace. In about six months Matt Dillon would stand on that terrace with his smokey eyes, luring potential customers to buy the Sketchers shoes he was wearing. You would have surely seen it if you happened to pick up any lifestyle magazine in the early 2000s.

For now though, the terrace was only used for smoke breaks as outdoors in August in NYC did not reveal the requisite coziness of Christmas morning we were manufacturing inside.

I was working as a second assistant for the guy who was known for being the Creative Director on Alexander McQueen’s Spring 1999 fashion show. It was the one with Shalom Harlow and a fucking robot.

I don’t remember who the client was that day or even much more about the people or the models.

I just remember the things I couldn’t yet afford in the apartment.

It was the first time I had ever seen a flat screen TV. And because the space was lined with gigantic windows, it sure as shit wasn’t on the wall where, in a decade or so, the rest of us savages will be forced to mount them simply because there’s no other option in a reasonably sized home.

The TV was expertly placed in the living room on a metal pole that went from floor to ceiling and built in a way that could swivel so the finance bro owner could turn it to watch Squawk Box on CNBC as he poured an espresso in the kitchen.

His bedroom was equally impressive not only because it was larger than my newish apartment on St. Mark’s place, or that he had a king bed, but for the light fixtures on the floor. They were fascinating to me.

On either side of the low platform bed were two over-sized light bulbs.

Just resting on the floor.

They seemed to be encased in glass, and at the threaded end where one would assume to screw into a light socket, a cord extended that went right into the wall. While inspecting such a marvel of electricity, I would find out that the glass came in two separate pieces, a top and a bottom that would come apart if, say, you happened to get too nosy and accidentally nudged it with your foot.

In my defense I had been trudging back and forth dozens of times, past the David Hockney art from the living room to this bedroom where all the props and models’ clothes were stored.

I soon realized that ALL the art was noteworthy although I couldn’t pick the artists out, they had to be expensive- I mean this guy had a sisal rug in the living room inlaid in the perfectly poured and polished cement flooring. It wasn’t just resting on top of the floor, the cement was cut out so the rug fit perfectly inside the recess- making for a seamless surface so one’s perfectly manicured toes wouldn’t catch in the morning while Mark Haines was pontificating on the TV about Nasdaq’s stagnation.

Christmas in August also meant the fire was on. So was the air conditioning (I could only dream of having), but the heat was relentless in spite of the thermostat on low.

The boxes were wrapped and then given to the first assistant who would add an assortment of ribbons or bows to each ‘gift. Or Ribbons AND bows, maybe just a bow or perhaps the larger one goes in back, less adornment, yes put that one in back.

The trees were fake, but large enough and majestic enough to accommodate the high ceilings of such a home, They were also more realistic than my middle class Northern Virginia upbringing had ever seen. (For the record, we were a natural tree family, something I’m proud of and stubbornly sticking to even in middle age)

Being a second assistant just meant a pay day, my responsibilities were just to do what the first assistant was told to tell me- a low stress easy $150 day. I didn’t mind these ‘setback’ days in my career because I needed the money. I always needed the money and working for a day was better than not working and spending money.

The day wrapped with no dramatic moments which was a rarity in the business. I took the elevator down and was quickly unleashed onto the hot cobblestone streets of the art galleries, fashion boutiques and bars in this historic and storied ‘South of Houston’ neighborhood. Too rich for my alcohol deprived blood. I needed to get Souther.

This neighborhood was just work for me, streets filled with places to play dress up, an environment that paid me pennies to create illusions of wealth and clear skin and desire and happiness and, and, and.

I had to get back to the reality of my life, a cheaper one that I still couldn’t afford.

A stop at Eight Mile Creek around the corner on Mulberry would bring me closer to my demographic. A downstairs Aussie bar, Eight Mile was good for a single drink before going deeper south into Nolita to Spring Street Lounge. That’s where I could really hold court.

Each bar became a snapshot in my memory of alcohol and unattainable dreams.

NoLita in that era was pretending as much as I was- it had proximity to SoHo and the establishments popping up were banking on that cache, future- promising themselves that this would be the next ‘it’ neighborhood. Boy was I in my element here.

It is not lost on me that Spring Street lounge, a divey pub by any standard, was mere steps from Keith McNally’s now ubiquitous Balthazar Restaurant. Fruit de Mere and Ruinart Blanc de Blanc right down the street from my Yankees games and pints of Sierra Nevada, where every fourth beer got you a buyback.. Yes, four beers to get to five. I leveraged that every single time I was in there like it wasn’t a giant red flag problem.

If food was in the cards, a quick walk east to the corner of Spring and Mott to Lombardi’s Pizza would do the trick. You could bring the pie right back to the bar, no questions asked. I treated this place like my living room.

This neighborhood and I were full of hope. Success and wealth was all around us, and certainly just like catching a cold in winter, the math of proximity would also spread to us.

Right?

The last two years of my time in New York found me living further south, in Chinatown. NoLita was catching something. I recalled first the opening of Bread, then Barrio Chino, then the lines at Cafe Habana seemed to be getting longer and longer. Things were changing, but I was not.

Not in a good way at least.

I still had twenty years of finding the next Spring Street Lounge, on another coast, in another city I could almost afford.

Only then could I begin to honestly examine the snapshots of memory I had made.

I’ve been building new memories through a brighter and softer lens of sobriety. I can’t forget the early ones though, that would require denying the pain I endured. Without that, I couldn’t have finally said enough and put down the alcohol.

I feel these memories all belong on the same wall, a before and after set.

And I think Mr. Hockney would approve.