The Bloody Doors Off

I wanted to come up with a witty title.

I really did.

But this is what my blog is about. Blowing more than the doors off. (Thanks Kate (who I was today years old when she confirmed that she reads these posts) for reminding me of the exact quote this is based on.)

‘Cuz that was what I set out to do back in 2013. After my crisis.

I’m not gonna call it a suicide attempt, because it wasn’t. I recognized I wanted to self-harm and I had my friend Scott escort me to Michael Garron Hospital because I was in crisis.

But I digress.

This is about my first crush. The first girl I ever thought I’d loved.

Allison Harmer.

I had a crush on her the first day of school.

I used to ride my bike several blocks, past the school, and drop a rose off on her doorstep.

(I realize now this would be considered stalking, and I accept that it is wrong. And I apologize.)

I’m not sure if she ever knew that was me, though. Nor did her adopted parents.

When high school came, she went to Woburn and I to Cedarbrae. I wouldn’t see Allison again for close to a decade.

And that was entirely by accident.

Or maybe it was fate. I couldn’t really say.

But I was walking south from McCowan Station through the grassy field (long since developed into condos) and she was walking toward it.

We became fast friends.

But the crush was still there.

It was unrequited and never acted upon.

I’m not sure she ever knew.

Even the night I had her and other friends over to the apartment I shared with my brother Kevin (who wasn’t home that night). My friend Paul Rocchi was showing serious interest in Allison and my friends, who knew my feelings, gave me a gentle push to sweep in and dance with her to Bonnie Raitt singing Baby Mine.

That was the closest I ever came to telling her I loved her.

I remember once, she was so excited to tell me the news: she was “in love… with your brother!”

That was a joke.

But she was in love with my friend Hal, who was more than twice our age. (He helped me once pull off a practical joke in Union Station on my friend Barb. That’s another story.)

(Yes, it dawns on me this may be why I named my despair Harold.

Dude doesn’t deserve that.

But I’m not changing the name.)

A year or two later, I was working at Bank of Montreal, in their Credit Card Department. (These random memories are random.) I don’t remember the entirety of the fight we had, but I called her out on a relationship she’d never copped to. One I’d suspected, and sadly, let it bother me.

I was at fault.

I was insulting.

I was wrong.

Years later, I got to apologize.

I was producing an improv show at the Rivoli, Main Event Improv. The Illustrated Men were competing against The Stand-Ins. (These were two very well known troupes. The Men still occasionally perform.) Walking along Queen Street West, who should I run into?

Allison.

I apologized. We caught up.

I invited her to the show that night. Told her I’d put her on the comp list.

The show sold out.

She showed up.

We didn’t talk.

She could tell I was in my element.

She left.

I said goodbye.

And got closure.

A psychic once told me.

Let me back up.

I don’t believe all psychics are psychic. I think a lot are more intuitive-based and can ask leading questions and/or offer platitudes people want to hear.

But I met one. She was the real deal.

The moment I met her.

Without me saying a word.

“You have such interesting stories to tell. Why aren’t you telling them?”

No one knew that I wasn’t writing. Not even the girl I had a crush on, Alison, who took me to meet Christmas.

Yes. That was her name. She didn’t shorten it to Chris or Chrissy. She didn’t choose to go by her middle name.

She was. Christmas. And Christmas was fucking psychic.

She’d given me a book of poems by Longfellow. (She worked out of a basement of what used to be a used bookstore at Danforth Avenue and Victoria Park. (Fuck gentrification.)) Christmas said she wasn’t sure why she was supposed to give me the book. (For free, btw.) Just that I was supposed to have it.

But I knew why.

I gave it to Alison without hesitation.

Neither Christmas nor I knew Longfellow was her favourite poet.

Not that it got me out of the friend zone.

And I was there a long time.

But that’s another story.

For another time.

I’m telling my stories, Christmas. I wish I could tell you.

Something tells me, you already know.

That song.

In my head.

That, of course, you can’t hear.

It won’t stop.

It’s on a loop.

Only I don’t really remember the words. Just the first line of the chorus.

This one.

I’m 54 years old. (I had to do the math.)

I’m an adult now.

I mean sure, when I was in my 20s I felt great because I was legal. Which I mistook for being an adult.

In my 30s, well I was just starting to come into my own. I’d been painfully shy when it came to meeting women. Fear of rejection, maybe.

That changed in my 30s.

Thanks to Suzi.

I don’t think I’d ever told her. The night before the Christmas party? I knew we were gonna hook up. I think that gave me the cojones to act on my attraction to you and make that ridiculous suggestion in that room under the O’Keefe Centre.

I’ll never forget that kiss.

We made it two years. I went into a major depressive episode that ended up pushing her away. By the time I’d found my way home, she’d moved on.

From my mid-ish thirties to my late forties, I was a teenager again. I was dating (thanks for the reminders Facebook Memories), in a couple of brief, though satisfying, relationships.

Now I’m in my 50s.

I’ll never forget Marlo’s and my first kiss.

We’re coming up on our (oh shit, think, Koster) 4 year anniversary.

And I’m a father to a very much 13-year old. (I don’t believe in the ‘step’ part, I’m just not the bio-dad).

I had a work conversation today with a new potential client that could get me more work each month.

I’m thinking about the future.

The future.

Like I really hadn’t. Before.

Which can’t be right.

Even if it feels like it is.

Oh yeah. I’m also in the middle of rehearsals for Last Call. I’m directing. I’m directing my peers. I feel such a responsibility, it nearly paralyzes me.

I’ve asked all the actors what their vision of the characters were.

I need to shape my vision of how it’s gonna look.

And all of this just says to me:

I’m an adult now.

Sixty to minus ten in five minutes.

A new record.

But I’m bouncing back.

Or I will.

No, I am.

Food and sleep.

That’s what I need.

In that particular order.

Glad I picked up a lasagne at St. Lawrence Market today.

I was today years old when I learned (through spell check) that it’s not spelled “lasagna”.

They say you should learn a new thing every day.

I think that counts.

(This was the post I’d thought was eaten a few nights ago. This does not reflect my current state of mind. I’m choosing to post it because I’ve got nothing to hide.)

Knock. Knock.

Ahem.

Knock. Knock.

Who’s there?

Me.

Me who?

It’s me.

Harold.

Oh. Fuck.

You’re not welcome tonight, Harold.

I’m always welcome. Otherwise you wouldn’t have space for me in your head.

Hope also resides there.

I don’t see her right now, do you?

She’ll be back.

Don’t plagiarize your wife, dude.

I’m not.

That was her story to tell.

I know that. I’m not.

But now you’re thinking it. Can’t resist it, can you? Like if I told you not to think of pink elephants, you’d be doing nothing but that.

Baseball’s on in the background. That’ll distract me from you.

You’re welcome to try. I’m that itch you can’t ignore. Yeah, the one on your ankle right now. Just like that. You’d have to stop typing in order to scratch it. So instead you think of pink elephants.

I can scratch it with my other foot.

Oh, look who just thought logically? I guess those gummies weren’t so strong after all. So. Go ahead.

What?

Go ahead. Scratch the itch. Scratch me. See what happens. Let’s scrape out —

Why’d you stop? Did I make you stop?

Hello?

Knock knock?

Anyone there?

You know what I miss?

Movie theatre hot dogs. With mustard.

Random, I know.

We’re in our third Covid “lockdown” (loosely speaking). Theatres haven’t been open since last year. God, I miss going to the movie, getting a hot dog and a giant diet coke, and sitting down to a blockbuster film.

I totally would’ve shelled out $13 for Godzilla vs Kong. I’ve been waiting for Black Widow for forever, it feels like. Yes, I know the latter is coming to Disney +, and I’m aware that we have that streaming platform (WandaVision = primo television storytelling), but it’s not the same.

I mean, I hate when people talk during a film. But I miss telling them to ‘shut the fuck up’.

I miss people.

I love my people.

But I need crowds.

In small doses. I’m not a masochist.

Is that weird?

I’ve started increasing the dosage.

So far, little effect.

It’s been a day.

Sheesh.

Give it a chance.

Granted, I dragged myself out for the second day in a row to walk Auggie at a consistent time. I think that’s what I need to do. Law and Order at 5pm (don’t judge me) and walk the pooch at 6pm. Not like I’m gonna sit down to eat any time soon.

Jerry Orbach’s Lenny Briscoe is peak detective in the Law and Order universe. Fight me if you believe otherwise.

I need something to write. Not just pedantic plot posts. Something substantive.

I haven’t written a short play in a couple of months. Sure, I’ve got rehearsals set for Last Call every Thursday into June but there’s a rush when you’ve come up with a viable idea and can hear the dialogue in your head moments before they appear on the screen.

Fuck, I miss that.

Which reminds me; Kentwood took down the link to State of Independence (their prerogative, they took down the previous show when mine aired) and I should upload the previous version I recorded on Zoom. And oh, the Equity Library Theatre of New York’s Winter Virtual Festival should be wrapping up soon. I try not to care about awards, but I’m hoping for at least an honourable mention for Snow Angels. My cast deserves it. Lucy and Sofia were amazing and I can’t see anyone else in those roles. If it got picked up somewhere else I dunno how I’d react to watching it.

Oh lookie, I can embed a video in my blog after all. Me smart.

I talked with my psychiatrist today about increasing my medication.

Yeah, that was a conversation I’d been dreading. Because there’s that little voice (shut up, Harold) that says you must be failing if you need to up your meds.

It might kill my writing spark. Or it might have the opposite effect.

I’m just tired of Harold’s almost nightly visits.

I just wrote a fucking mind-bending post about Harold coming back.

WordPress ate it.

I can’t recreate it.

I was looking to insert a video. Only WordPress wanted me to upgrade, which. No.

I really felt vulnerable in the post.

Giving Harold voice on the screen, and not just in my head.

And it’s gone.

Fuck.

Yes, Harold, I am aware there is a “save draft” icon next to “publish”.

I am today years old. I’m sure I saw it before. I don’t know why I didn’t take advantage of it.

Knock, knock.

What?

Knock. Knock.

Who’s there?

Me.

Me who?

You’re the one trying to recreate the beginning of the previous post. Maybe it’s not me. There’s a thought I hadn’t considered. “Harold”, as you’ve named me, could just be a construct for you to absolve yourself when despair washes over you. Blame Harold. It’s Harold’s fault. Not yours.

And no, you’re not crazy.

I’m taking over for a minute. Hope you don’t mind.

Damned right I saved a draft right now.

I’m not taking blame for your despair. You can’t put it on me. Accept maybe that your anti-depressant needs an adjustment. Or maybe you should lay off the gummies. ‘Cuz you see me a bit more on those occasions.

I’m sorry. I’m blowing your mind. You can’t handle that I’m driving. That maybe I’ll make more rational decisions. Maybe I’ll unlock a part of you that you didn’t know existed.

Or maybe. Maybe I’m having a break.

Because, like that, Harold’s gone.

I’m gonna watch the Blue Jays play the Astros.