25 feb 2014 It was Thanksgiving Day, 2009 and I was crashing at my best friends apartment in Hamilton Heights, the neighborhood that borders Harlem to the north. Days earlier, I had begun feeling deathly ill and had gone to my doctor who prescribed Tamiflu; suspecting H1N1 the new influenza bug that was prevalent. Zak had gone out to a friends Thanksgiving get together, and I stayed behind; thinking a relaxing hot bath was the ticket. I had left my boyfriends Staten Island condominium in September, unable to any longer tolerate a seemingly unchanging situation. I loved him very much, but could no longer do it. Our cultural differences alone were as vexing as they were alluring; he being of Italian and Puerto Rican decent, I am English and German. On Halloween night, a month before Thanksgiving, I had encountered the perfect storm. My straight co-worker, who I had propositioned with a foot massage a few weeks before, found ourselves alone in the Meatpacking District, when the girls who had brought us were invited to a private party that had no use for us. I was experiencing total anonymity, insanely howling with scotch-infused passion inside my rubber werewolf mask. Jasper, my adorable co-worker, was dressed as Johnny Castle, Patrick Swayzes character in Dirty Dancin; or an adaptation thereof. Jasper had beautiful legs, and knew how to use them to best advantage. Over the months that I had been working at the greeting card factorys main office in Perth Amboy, I had managed to develop an intense crush on him. He would do what he could to discourage me, but he clearly enjoyed the attention and was outmatched by my decades of experience in such matters. None of this, none of it should be construed as a condemnation of him. People will think what they like. I am merely recording the events that would land me in a coma for six weeks. After my bath at Zaks on Thanksgiving Day, I felt no better. At that moment I would make a choice that saved my life. Walking myself to the Subway, or hailing a cab (I cant remember which) I walked myself into St. Vincents Hospital in Greenwich Village. It was the last time I would walk.
Posted on: Tue, 18 Mar 2014 18:35:03 +0000
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