- A prosetry/short story recall of motivations we employ at different times in our lives to better understand ourselves. Unfortunately, “better” sometimes arrives late in life.
Image by Odin Roark)
“Last Call”
by Odin Roark
Today’s Manhattan sunrise comes early on the 4th floor.
Attic exposure,
arresting deathly slumber,
aroused like the turret of an empty Sherman Tank.
whirling away eyelids,
ammo-less,
defenseless,
a casualty of last night’s “last call.
”Oh, God,” goes unheard by celestial relay to the big guy,
even as hands clasp both sides of his head,
a mere mortal’s plea for relief. “God, you there?”
Outside, answers vibrate,
pigeon cooing,
scratching.
Oh, that sound so annoying most mornings.
Ravel inspired Boleros,
an out-of-tune abstract Pollock rendered Greek chorus,
angel voices of another kind,
these feathered friends.
Pull out the loose brick,
three grays and a white this morning.
Prancing, gliding, pecking any and all the leftovers
from this top-floor window-less, “take it leave it” slumlord controlled escape I call home.
Well, temporary home for in-between relationships,
of wanna be artists like me.
Respite.
Yeah, respite,
Hands? Lift out a cigarette.
Take them away from my exploding head
and extract my first Gauloises of the day.
Tobacco from Syria and Turkey-rationed luxury.
Escape with a drag…deep.
Gleason got it right, “How sweet it is.”
Below me, 3rd floor dance and body movement classes
gear up to start in an hour.
Below that, 2nd floor circular stage rehearsal of “Zoo Story” just beginning.
Even further, 1st floor entrance,
flanked by The White Horse Bar and Jenny’s Coffee House.
Ah, the decisions on Sunday mornings.
To the right, Jenny’s stack of dollar shaped pancakes, ninety-cents
To the left, condiments fresh at 10 A.M. every day,
the beer drinker’s banquet.
Mustard pickle, little white onions, carrots, celery, olives, plain pickles for the plebs.
Free, BTW. Nurse a fifty-cent beer, snack-indulge all you want.
But…
I’ve got to get there first. Navigating three flights of stairs,
while kettle drums continue tuning up in my head,
making for a Blitzkrieg redux.
Swinging legs over edge of bed
begins this formidable mission.
Where’s my socks, my shoes, my jeans, my one t-shirt (working on the rips)
for no actor worth his salt wears a hole-less t-shirt,
especially with an Actor’s Studio audition coming up on Monday.
Step at a time. Both hands glued to the temples.
3rd flight stairs,
the narrow ones, demand I use the wall to keep from falling.
Damn, that was some “last call” last night.
“Hi Sara,” I mumble passing the mirrored 3rd floor dance hall.
A nod.
All I ever get from her is a nod.
Damn, such a grind. All she does is dance and teach,
dance and murder her feet.
2nd Floor stairs wider.
Wobbly still,
hands unsteady, bracing against the linoleum faced wall,
bannister about two drunk pulls from going.
Houston street special,
Stage work-lights illuminate Zoo Story,
mid-act scene. Park bench with Jerry and Peter, iconic figures of Manhattan conflicts. Early morning and already immersed in the hell of Albee’s classic tragedy.
Sunday mornings.
So many tragedies still happening around the city.
Well, what better place to be for twenty-something thespian aspirants in the ‘60s to focus on.
Concentrate. Make it to the entrance.
Decide.
My head.
Oh, shit, my head.
Okay, what would Marlon do?
Place hands in pockets?
No.
Light another cigarette first.
Yeah.
Cool.
Pancakes, here I come.
Whoa, as I step across the threshold,
Preacher Joe, atop his soap box,
hands out his version of Sunday’s communion,
Vanilla wafers from a box,
an eager group of street people await consumption as the un-confessed.
Refuel.
Bide time.
Patience.
Read.
Sabrett hotdog for lunch.
Recite.
Project. (Kazan doesn’t really like mumbled dialogue, save Brando.)
Dream.
God, don’t forget to dream.
Regardless…
There’s always another last call coming up.
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Love ya!
Jane
Fortunately, I didn't drink my way through college like most of my contemporaries, so I can't relate except through your fine rendition of what it was like to try to be an actor in the, perhaps, toughest city in the world to do it. Beautifully rendered. You made me feel like I was going through the motions you described.
In fact, based on my remembrance of old buildings like that, I found myself imagining your circumstances far beyond your description--as though I was there.
Ron