So how has my holiday been so far? Let me put it this way, I just woke up and noticed it snowed a little bit here in New York City. Last thing I remember was shouting "who are you to judge body types, Santa, you thyroid-forsaken, godless, Mason!" and then falling face-first into the glass door leading to my rooftop view. As my crushed left cheek squeegeed down the glass, I gave into sleep. A phone call from my Amex Obsidian rep woke me up to ask if I had tried to order any endangered species over the phone. Seems like that fell within the realm of holiday possibility, so I told her everything was fine.
That's when I realized the bright whiteness filling my vision wasn't the interrogation lamp of a rendition hideout, but snow. Finally gathered my wits enough to look out across the city and take in the snowfall that had covered the city like a down comforter. I'm sure something similar happens in other cities, but I'm still always shocked by how quiet and still New York becomes after a snowfall, as peaceful as standing in a tranquil wood. And for just those few days, every ding and dent in the city's topography gets covered with beauty.
I'm not sure why this always stuck with me, but one of my first memories as a kid involves a snowstorm here in the city. I'm with my father, brother, and sister sitting in a small restaurant or cafe in the West Village. It's dark outside and the snowfall has just begun. We brush what little stuck to our coats off as we sit. Being the youngest, I whine, insisting on the window seat and everyone capitulates just to quiet me down. My seat almost presses against the wall, and to my left is a bay window with a forced hot water radiator under it. On the window's sill sleeps the most contented cat I've ever seen, oblivious to the restaurant's bustle around it. As I contemplate petting the cat, I take a moment to look out the window and notice the evenly spaced cones of orange light pouring out from the sodium vapor street lamps. In those cones, I see large snow flakes falling at an alarming rate, but once I get to the hard edge of light, darkness like any other night. It's as if not even weather dare exist outside the scope of a New York street post.
Of course my Mother wasn't there. She called anyone who lived south of Central Park "them" or "they" like she was talking about how she wouldn't clean up the mess of a dog belonging to someone else. The only good people south of the park were those who actually lived uptown but had to travel to the financial district as an "occupational hazard." She would often make vague comparisons to Beirut. In fact, the whole reason I picked Soho was a cheap passive-aggressive shot at my mother. I figured she couldn't resist visiting her youngest offspring indefinitely, but we're still waiting to see who wins that game of chicken.
I think back to that little boy, contentedly watching that contented cat. Then I think about the man he became, blacking out face-first against a sliding glass door that luckily didn't break, sparing me from dying of exposure. Drunk-dialing Nigerian black marketers hoping to score some crazy endangered pet and probably shouting my credit card number at them... I don't think that's who that little boy in the West Village alcove would choose to be.
You know, I didn't expect to end up here when I poured my medicinal good-morning scotch and sat down to recount my holiday glory. I didn't expect to question myself the way I now am, and maybe that's the first real lesson I've learned about writing since I started this process. Maybe I should go all the way back and question the motivation for this entire journey. I started by saying I wanted to write in order to meet scores of women, but maybe the truth is I wanted to write in order to meet just that one.
A safe and happy 2011 to all.
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