(See what I am saying?)

A-Z

Off Broadway (act II.)

If anyone should ever come to New York City for a weekend and doesn't want to pay or have the time to take in every show in town, all they need to do is walk across the street from the Port Authority Bus terminal. In the apartment building here, you can hear every show currently - or that has ever played - on and off Broadway, all at once, all the time.

Here, my wake up calls are musical numbers sung in full concert pitch by my roommates in the shower. This morning was particularly exciting - a medley of the sound of music, little shop of horrors and Oklahoma. All through the night i hear the culmination of 50 years of broadway acts drift though the heat ducts. The women somewhere above me sound like angels in the air vents late at night and the melodies drift with the heat in the dark. Above me a man plays jazz on a piano at odd hours. No wonder my dreams, - fully choreographed - are filled with technicolor nazis, man eating plants, and lots and lots of blush.

Actors do nothing quiet and without emotion. Conversations with them can be exhausting. My own speech is already starting to rhyme. Soon it will also start to have a rhythm and and eventually a chorus and a refrain. I Listening to them in the shower can be deafening. Tally is in his bedroom now performing his voice exercises, switching between singing the scales in falsetto and doing something with his lips that sounds like a variable speed food processor in the key of C. What i first thought was domestic violence one evening turned out to be script rehearsal for Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. The walls here are thick plaster, but are still no match for the volume and frequency that comes barreling out of the mouths of the tenets here. It a true auditory cornucopia at any given moment. The piano player upstairs has switched to a ragtime number, in the apartment below me the lion king is now showing, and later tonight, as i am serenaded to sleep with the echoes in the walls that sounds like a kaleidoscope looks, i will enjoy my balcony seat right here off Broadway.

Off Broadway:

The rain drops fell heavy and hit my head poking me like my mother waking me up on a school morning. waking me up from my dream. waking me up from inside of me. the marquees on 44th street blinked above me as i walked under them between the exiting audiences leaving make believe stories and walking back onto the street of this make believe world.

In the fluorescent flicker of the phone booth the couple was kissing with her hand on the receiver. I could hear the dial tone hum like slow song on their dance floor. The waitress stood under an awning with her black apron smoking a cigarette. she stared across 8th Ave. like she was on a beach staring into an ocean. The man and his bourbon sat lonely on a barstool in the window watching the women walk down the sidewalk in sunglasses smiling in the dark.

At a lunch yesterday that served 60 people 3 plates each and cost the sum of a yearly salary, I photographed under the chandeliers and doric pillars. I weaved between the black ties with french accents with slow synced shutter speeds. I walked quietly among the sterling and smiles white wine and fine china. In the kitchen under the lamps i had 4 more stops and photographed the food as it was scooped up by the cursing men among rude comments and snide bickering. They argued about pay checks complained about each other and belittled the guests their swore at their jobs. And as they grabbed the fine china like sacks of money at bank heist and walked back out into the low light, they smiled and made believe again. Then made the guest believe they were kind, well mannered, patient and wealthy.

After the lunch everyone asked me why i didn't eat. i didn' t want to taste food that was so expensive, because it would have tasted just like food. served by people who tried to make me believe it was something else, and that they liked me, and each other, and the chandeliers, and white wine and fine china.

The rain began to fall harder like it was shaking me, trying to wake me up like i was late for the school bus. waking me up like i slept through the alarm. waking me up like it was too late.

I walked home from the show and realized there are make believe beauties and there are make believe beasts. And that I don't need a stage and velvet seats to see them. They are carrying brief cases, and behind big desks, and on fashion show runways and they are in the photographs on album covers and behind the camera that took them. They are kissing to the dial tone in the phone-booth. they are standing in the doorway staring off into their ocean. they are walking down the sidewalk in sunglasses and they are drinking beside empty barstools. they are everyone as soon as they leave their little shithole apartments and penthouse parlors and brownstone bunkers. They are anyone who doesn't consider the notion that there is anything else under the clothes or at the bottom of the glass or after the corporate board room meeting or behind the kitchen doors.

i looked over at the duane reade pharmancy. i wondered if there was a pill somewhere on their back shelves i could swallow to make me not to think so much and believe more. i wondered then if would dance to the dial tone more. i wondered then if i wouldn't think about what i love so much and would just love it. i wondered then if i would stare off into my ocean more.i wondered then if i wouldn't think so much about what i hate and would just hate it. i wondered then if i could just sit and look at the girls in the sunglasses more. i wondered then if i would stop searching for the beast in the beauty and let the beasts be beasts.

The rain began to pour down in the dark. i stood on my stage at the corner of 42nd and 8th. I began to sing. and wished the rain would wake me up and make me believe in making believe.

How to get in the door:

I only opened the door a foot or two, and i saw the meeting table full of contact sheets, C prints, and stacks of photographs. There was a man on each side of the table.

"Can I help you?" the one sitting down said. He looked up at me inquisitively from behind his black framed glasses.

"Looks like i am interrupting," i said as my head hung into the studio. "Give this to who needs to see it." I said. " and i will call back later." I handed him my portfolio from the threshold.

i nodded in apology and began to close the door.

"Are you Irish?" the man standing up asked me. All the photographs on the table were laid out facing him.

It was one of those yes or no questions that are asked genuine inquisition and without any indication to what is the right or wrong answer. I had no idea if yes or no was the answer he was looking for. So i said neither. and told him the truth.

"My mother is." i said still leaning in the studio from the threshold.

Now the meeting was over. Now i was in the back of the studio by the tall white windows with a camera in my face. My name is Marc Yankus. "Can you take your hat off for me?" he asked. Now i was taking my hat off.

i watched the aperture dilate in the lens and asked him what it was that i was doing.

"i have been searching the coffee shops in the west village for someone that looks like the main character of a novel i am photographing the cover for. You would be great." he said. as the shutter blinked behind the aperture.

"can i photograph you this weekend?" he asked.

i immediately saw my face airbrushed on an embossed paperback novel that my mom reads while she is sun bathing. Probably a ship wreck scene where my white blouse is unbuttoned and my pants are too tight and torn off just below the knees.

"ok." I said. the sex scenes will take on a whole new meaning to my mom in this book, i thought.

There were about 12 people in this studio working diligently until i stuck my head into the threshold of the studio. Now i was standing up in the back by the big white windows and they were all now looking at me picturing myself on the next Danielle Steele cover as the camera clicked away.

The man in the black framed glasses sitting down at the table walked back and offered me a seat.

"well, now lets take a look at your work." he said and put the CD in the computer in the back by the big white windows.

"okay, see you saturday then." Marc said me as he left me in the back of the studio and walked up to the front and out the door i had just stuck my head in. The very same head i couldn't help seeing in soft focus and pastel hues and feathered hair (which i have been known to do) staring off the rack at barnes & nobles, deep into my mother's eyes as she shops for reading material for this summer's vacation.

"okay. see you then." i said, and he walked out the door.

Living Free (lance)

"This rounds on me." the bartender pushed the pints across the varnished maple grain with his nova Scotia accent.

I had lost count on this particular night. I never was one for keeping track. I sat on the bar stool like john wayne sat on his steed. My holsters were the brass foot rail and outside the skyline stood stoic like the mesas that silhouette the purple skyline on the wide open range in south hollywood sets. inside this black and white movie ryan beyni and i sat like cowboys talking about the lonesome life on the open range. The range we were talking about, however was anywhere the internet reaches, or the the lighting kits can be driven to, or where you can prop a laptop on an armrest and find an airport connection, or wherever the extension cord can reach the to the strobes and battery packs, or as far as you can reach when you spread yourself too thin for your own reasons across the wide open range of a freelance career.

We sat in our saddles in the low light and wood grain just under street level and i listened to him remind me that you either do it your way or someone else's. you either do it for your own reasons or someone else's. you can work hard between rush hour commutes to make someone else more money than they pay you in return, or you can work hard all the time to make yourself less money and watch yourself spend every cent of it. he reminded me that you can fall in love with things other than people. he reminded me you can be passionate without apologizing, but you have to be passionate without always being understood.

but most of all he reminded me of all the middlemen in this life. all the voicemail machines that relay my messages for me and all the managers who do the talking for me and all the secretaries who do the listening for me and all the bank tellers who put my checks in the drawer for me and all the salesman who make promises for me and all the systems that turn a straight line into a circle.

it thought about 401K's and paid holidays and $15 co-pays and stacked them up like coins and weighed them against the intangible satisfaction living life in a straight line and the thrill of having nothing guaranteed and no one else to blame for it. i thought about doing all of my own listening and my own talking while making and keeping all of my promises.

my brained vibrated in the low light. outside the skyline stood stoic like the mesas that silhouette the purple skyline as ryan and i sat like lonesome cowboys in the dark bar on our open range. i thought about all the possibilities and approaches there are in this life, all the people and ideas one can fall in love with - so much so that they live their life according to them - and tried to remember all my thoughts and money sitting their respective banks that have never seemed to go as far i would have liked them to.

but I had lost count on this particular night. I never was one for keeping track.

Cover Art

Everybody is their own magazine. and as the fashion week crowd flowed in the door like it was their own personal runway, i got to watch the parade and browse the covers like a drugstore magazine rack. i leaned against the mirrored wall. they sat on the barstools like pedestals in the store windows. like a jr. high dance when the slow song comes on. like everyone does because they want to be seen, they want to be read, they want to be picked up off the rack.

I double fisted from the open bar as flashbulbs burned in my eyes like stars. I waded through the mink fur flaunted with apple martinis, mesh back hats, and spilled gin and tonic. 6 decades ago americans dropped bombs to show their power. today we drop names. and carry expensive handbags.

The music beat down as we drank up, and i got smiles from the same side of the rack. i was the straightest man there - and i was wearing pink striped french cuffs. (under a hooded sweatshirt)- but felt like my soul might be the most bent. We celebrated the beautiful clothes, if not the beautiful people, and champagne glasses broke on the ground and compliments were passed around and the d.j. played the soundtrack like a jr. high dance. the men behind the masks who paid for my drinks watched from somewhere like chaperones at the slumber party as they cashed in on the beautiful clothes, if not the beautiful people.

i leaned crooked against the mirrored wall and talked to my friends and looked at the shiny magazine covers spinning to the music on turn-style racks. Under the d.j. beat the man in the dark rimmed glasses and 3 piece suit whispered in my ear.

"Are you gay?" I heard him say.

"Am I gay?" I said.

"No, silly, are you okay?" he replied in his thick Brazilian accent.

"Oh," I smiled. "Well either way, the answer is no."

In the Audience

We shared the ride up the press gate elevator at Madison square garden with 3 women in their brown blazers. We were heading to the Knicks pre-game shooting practice to see how well the top dollar contracts can run around their court. they were headed to the Westmisnter Abbey dog show one floor below, to see how well the top dollar pedigrees can run around their floor.

When Dekembe Mutumbo shook my hand at the prayer before the game his index finger touched my elbow. mine touched his knuckle.

We managed our way from the press box seats down to the 7th row behind the backboard. From that vantage point Madison Square garden is seen through a fish-eye lens, vignetting into space with no corners. The sparkling scoreboard hung down into the bowl like a fishing lure dangles below the water. Thanks to Mr. Marbury's 42 points, the bright lights told us the Knicks came out on top by the end of the fourth quarter.

It was grammy night, and i imagined much of the courtside clan had prior obligations on the opposite coast. But among the yellow mustard and folding seats the rest of us cheered the game, applauded athleticism and tapped our feet the kid dancers at half-time.

As we sat in our bowl with the bright lights with no corners, the pedigrees or our species showed their stuff on the court, and below us the finest of the four legged variety showed theirs. Somewhere palm trees were swaying in the breeze and snow was falling on sleeping street lights. Somewhere bread was baking movie stars were smiling. Somewhere garbage was rotting and buildings were burning. There is amazement in everything. Nothing is ugly. and what i see before me at any given time as mundane or fantastic as is was meant to does not go unnoticed. Dog shows and soft pretzles and stuck chewing gum and basketball stars were my life that night.

After the game we walked back down the hallways under the stadium. She took a cookie off the chrome platter in the kid dancers locker room. We walked past the photographs of the past performers of Madison Square Garden. Hendrix, Simon and Garfunkle, and Ali all hung there as a guest book.

"This is awesome..." she said.

It was. The grainy black and white guestbook was written all the way down the hall into the darkness. Above us the sweat on the hardwood court of Madison square garden was being wiped down like boxer in sittingin his corner waitng for another fight. Below us dogs full of ribbons and bos and hair care products were struttting thier stuff.

"...this cookie is so good." she said smiling as she, chocolate chip cookies, - and the dog shows and soft pretzles and stuck chewing gum and basketball stars filled my life with mudane, fanastic, beautiful, and tasty things that did not go unnoticed.

Under Amtrak Upholstery

The lights flickered and the momentum rolled to a slow and lonely halt like a baseball does in tall grass when you are playing home run derby with no outfielders.

The conductor crackled through the intercom and broke the quiet and woke up the sleeping grandmothers, long lost big brothers, husbands and daughters . The announcement was to inform us we were somewhere in delaware, but it was a reminder to me that i was still awake and alive on earth.

But she didn't move. She sighed softly at best. Her hair fell like ivy across my shoulder as she tried to sleep among the grandmothers and brothers and all the misplaced and out of place people.

I turned up the music. the pedal steel guitar and the voice of jay farrar played in my left ear and in her right. The white wire twisted through her black hair down my shoulder and disappeared somewhere into the space between the seats with ticket stubs, used crossword puzzles, spare change and cellophane food wrappers. We began to move again the lights flickered and I wished all the things that are hard to deal with and think about could fall between the seats and disappear.

The intercom continued to crackle as we began to roll farther down the eastern seaboard towards baltimore. The conversation behind us was in french. the music in my left ear swayed like the ocean and world on the other side of the window was as black and filthy and used as the bottom of an ashtray.

I told myself to breath and I looked out the window at the dirty world everything i couldn't see. I leaned back in the amtrak upholstery, and wished she could fall asleep and leave this dirty world until baltimore. And i tried my best to keep my eyes closed and not think about what was between the space in the seats.

Commuter Flight

The propellor blades blurred like butterfly wings in the dark above the power grid over youngstown. The Beechcraft 1900D sat 18. Five were on board. in the front two seats we sat and leaned into the walkway to hear each other talk. Outside our windows the perimeter building on the county roads and sub-developments looked like silicon circuitry on on a motherboard. The houses and porch-lights reminded me children are growing up, and men are growing old and everyone in every house knows what will happen after they do.

I will never forget the curve of her spine and look in her eyes as she held the phone to her head and listened to the news and told me. Her eyes hurt like santa clause isn't real, like the world is not fair, like happy endings are only in books. Like finding out time never stops and the oceans always move and stars always burn and we can never change any of it. What everyone in every house knows but never understands.

And now we sat in the darkness above ohio between the blur and moan of the propellors and I thought about the vanity and small mindedness of youth and how it can never outlast time and never stop the ocean and never outlive the stars. I will never make or spend enough money to change that. Every person at one time or another puts their life on the auction block. it is almost always before they are ready.

She said she was afraid the propellors would stop and we would fall straight out of the sky. I looked down. The snow in the fields glowed like ghosts under the moonlight. She was smiling. It was the first time i had seen that in a while. Add aircraft engine failure to list of things i cannot control. and add making her smile to the things i wish i could.

As we began our decent, my mind blurred like butterfly wings and my heart hurt like it's engine stopped and it fell straight out of the sky. I thought about time going and oceans moving and stars burning. I thought about engines failing and hearts breaking and her smiling in the dark. growing up and growing old and everything i cannot control.

Life and the flight between Pittsburgh and Cleveland is short and bumpy. And everyone is always thinking and planning on where they are going and what will happen when the flight is over. We looked out the windshield between the pilots and watched the runway scroll underneath us as we landed.

"Welcome to Cleveland." the automated tape played. We walked down the stairs onto the tarmac.

" We hope you enjoyed the flight. We wish you a pleasant arrival here or wherever your final destination may be."

She put her bag over her shoulder and we headed into the airport to look for our next flight.