In the Arms of Your Significant Being: Mother’s Day Ball

I’m feeling restless today. It’s Mother’s Day and I’ve been at my Mom’s place for the last three days looking after her as she recuperates from her surgery. I’m also feeling somewhat sluggish and tired with all of the travel and crisis we had with Mom the last few days.

But I’m also anxious and bored. No errands to run. No movies to watch. Only endless chatter from the Japanese channel playing on satellite T.V.

There’s also this ongoing thought in my mind that I can’t stop. It’s about Grey. For some reason I haven’t been able to get Grey out of my mind recently. I switch the channel to the Food Network and there’s some show about a weekend in New York which makes me think of Grey even more.

I decide to go for a walk hoping it’ll take my mind off things.

I wander onto a lakeside trail at the college down the street from my Mom’s. It’s a bright day and the campus is deserted. I walk briskly for about 20 minutes and feel better as my mind empties and wanders about. New York is still on my mind. I reminisce about nothing in particular but my mind settles on Velma and the time we went for drinks. It was summer and the Met had a champagne happy hour event on their rooftop. It was a beautiful, warm early evening, and there was quite a large turnout. Velma looked particularly beautiful that evening in her simple white summer dress. She always had the most beautiful shoulders.

I also thought about the gathering I had just before I left. We had also met at some rooftop place somewhere midtown just off of Park in the lower 30’s. It was the first gathering of the Group of 5. I got there pretty early and had a few rum tonics before the rest showed up. It was warm and we were all having a great time. I remember the sun setting over the rooftops and thinking how I’d be leaving all of this behind in a matter of a few weeks. I vaguely recall that we had dinner later on but I can’t remember where. Maybe that tiny Italian joint on 3rd or Lex and 40th just down the street from that Italian steakhouse. Oh yeah that steakhouse—I think it was the Tuscan Steakhouse. I can’t remember the name for sure but I do remember the dinners Mark and I had there. A round of cocktails, a magnum of a nice Super Tuscan and a veal chop.

Regarding the magnum, Mark’s theory was since \we’d polish a bottle in no time; why not order a magnum to begin with? There would be no need to fuss or deliberate about ordering the second bottle and it showed upfront commitment. Funny, I never questioned his logic. I think something about him being a philosophy major made whatever he said always convincing. And then there was that time where we invited Rich after the McGraw-Hill pitch. It was for the whole account...not just McGraw-Hill but for Standard and Poor’s plus their educational divisions. I remember how great it felt, as we nailed the pitch. And by the time Rich joined us, he had gotten the preliminary kudos’ from his insider at McGraw-Hill.

Of course we did the magnum thing again.

I veered off the trail and made my way to the campus track field. As I circled around the field I landed upon the subject of celebrities. In a city [Los Angeles] where celebrity sightings are commonplace, I hold the distinction of spotting nobody--celebrity challenged, I believe is the official term. Even around my neighborhood where apparently there are hordes of people who work in “the industry” [a convoluted term which drips of self-importance if there ever was one]. And while she’s not part of “the industry” someone recently told me that she spotted Betsey Johnson at one of the neighborhood joints. Now that’s pretty odd—Betsy Johnson in Toluca Lake? Besides, would you really recognize her? I can’t even recall what she looks like—doesn’t she look like Bette Midler’s younger, thinner crazy half sister? I think I can actually recognize her dresses more readily.

Ok, back to New York.

However celebrity-challenged I am, there have been two occasions where I have recognized someone. Ok, not quite your typical celebrities: Charlie Rose and Malcolm Gladwell. The two sightings were on different occasions, but in similar settings—small neighborhood eateries and both individuals alone, busily writing away.

I was in an English pub in Chelsea that had been getting some recent press when I noted Charlie Rose sitting alone in booth in the back. I was having one of their renowned burgers and a pint. The bartender told me that the booth was Charlie’s “spot” and I shouldn’t bother him. I was a little annoyed that the bartender would actually think I would bug the man. But I let it pass. And of course, I still think highly of Charlie as I’ve always been enamored with journalism. Of course the highlight of chance meetings was the time when an older gentleman asked I wanted his table just off the bar at Kuleto’s in San Francisco. [Bars are getting to become a recurrent theme here—have you noticed?]. I thanked him as I was meeting another party and it was such a nice spot. As he put on his jacket he asked me what I did for a living. I replied and he mentioned that it was a good profession. We said our goodbyes and later the waitress asked if I knew that the gentleman I was talking to was Walter Cronkite.

The spotting of Malcolm Gladwell was at a small, cute place just off Mott Street. I stopped for a glass of wine and saw an intense looking, wild haired man sitting alone at a table piled with books and paper. I confirmed my suspicion with the bartender and mentioned to him that I might go to his table. The bartender, amused, asked whatever might I have in mind to talk with Sir Malcolm. I responded to the bartender that I happened to have a few theories of my own which I’d like to pass by him. Perhaps another glass of wine might be a better alternative suggested the bartender. Point well taken and I signaled for another round.

I later reflected on the bartender’s comment and was slightly offended. What made him think that I wouldn’t have much to converse with Malcolm? After all, my IQ has been tested at 140 [well, ok I cheated just a little bit as I took an extra 10 minutes on the test], which may not be quite MENSA material, but certainly qualifies for fringe status, right?

I’m feeling better as I make my way around the lake. Half running up the incline I spotted a golf ball. A Top-Flight. I grabbed it and threw it against the asphalt walkway. I’ve forgotten how high these golf balls bounce. Pretty soon I’m running across the walkway playing catch by myself. I slam the ball and as it shoots upward, I run towards the ball as it reaches the pinnacle against the bright sky and falls downward.

I can easily make a game out of this.

Memories of solitary ball games flashed forward. I remember playing endlessly with a rubber baseball throwing it against the kitchen cabinets. In my mind I was the pitcher and the goal was to catch the ball as it bounced off the cabinet and re-throw as if I the ball was being fielded to first. If I caught the ball, the runner was out. If I fumbled, or if the ball went astray and knocked into the kitchen table or the wall, the runner was safe. It was a combination of handball and baseball—my game of solitary.

I run across the parking lot chasing the white golf ball. Thoughts of Grey have settled somewhere in the back of my mind and even my New York musings are long gone. The only thing that occupies me is the warmth of the mid afternoon sun, the bright cloudless sky and the empty campus parking lot. And of course that small white, brilliant spot high up in the sky.