Friday, June 17, 2016

Falling, Part One


It’s obvious we are all so damn sick of the news. I can barely endure looking at a screen in fact for fear as to what catastrophe might pop up. 

But while many people occasionally now find themselves thinking about the horrible mischance of being caught up in a random terrorist act- even as they ride the bus, stand in a rumbling subway car, casually peruse a museum exhibit or shop a favorite department store sale- I have yet been harboring another kind of terrifying thought, an image that beseeches my sense of security daily with recurring doubts. It is the absolute terror of being knocked off my feet, not by something so wonderfully amazing that it fells me with awe, but literally. You see, several individuals already have dropped to the ground within inches of my toes and I have found this series of unhappy events to be increasingly unnerving. They say New Yorkers are tough, but like everyone else, we have our Achilles heel. In short, one does not wish to find oneself in an unsightly, awkward position flat on the pavement for the world to see, particularly in Gotham. 

The first woman to have performed this most unseemly falling action within sight- a happenstance that eventually would alter my view of the universe- seemed to have tumbled onto the floor of the Metropolitan Opera a short time before I found her. I was on my way to the ballet and she was reposing rather uncomfortably right outside of box number eleven.  My friend Garrett and I had just been escorted to the third tier left by the usher, and as soon as we stepped into the tiny hallway leading to the velvet chairs we discovered this rather unfortunate dose of virtual reality lying there in a small, cashmere heap.  I have to be honest-- my first reaction was annoyance. 

 A month before, I had endured waiting on line for forty-five minutes and then haggling politely with the box office for another quarter of an hour in order to get these seats. I considered the outcome of my tenacity a real coup; the tickets were under a hundred and I was pleasantly looking forward to a wonderful afternoon of Sleeping Beauty. The production had been written up as "extraordinary," the dancers "exceptional."  Both Garrett and I each had made doubly sure to get to Lincoln Center at least half an hour early, so as to avoid any possibility whatsoever of being shunted to the T-V lounge for the first act with the other tardy and chagrined deportees.

Having arrived with some time to spare, we passed the minutes before curtain in the usual way, sipping overpriced, watery coffee from styrofoam cups and complaining.  I whined about how frustrating it was to arrive five seconds late and find oneself exiled to Siberia until the first intermission just because they took themselves so, so seriously at the Met.  Garrett derided the thin swill passing itself off as authentic java. While we stood casually near the railing chatting and trying to look flawlessly cool, ballet-lovers and tourists of every kind and manner wafted through the lobby in various shades of black and charcoal, trying extremely hard not to show their cultural and social insecurities.  All was basically as it should be: clothing rustled, the women’s bathroom line was exceptionally long, children felt and looked important and the house was packed. The last thing I expected to find right before the show began was a reserved and dignified sixtiesh lady in a Chanel suit dumped on her side like a crumpled Lord & Taylor bag- and just as we were making our way to our seats. . . .



2 comments:

  1. I love " like a crumpled Lord & Taylor bag". Certainly a fall from grace! But what happened? Did you bring her into your box and nurse her back to consciousness? And how did you get box seats for under a $100?

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  2. The natives were surely those in shades of black and charcoal; the tourists most likely were in sneaks and sweat suits.

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